“Me?” Her chin jerked back in surprise.
“Mmm.” He nodded once, his green eyes sliding toward Bryan/Ryan/Whoever.
“Right. Uh…Graham Coleburn, this is…” She wrinkled her nose at the guy in the Brioni suit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch it earlier over all this noise. Did you say your name was Bryan or Ryan?”
“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” The guy’s eyes flicked between her and Graham like a man conceding the field.
“Sorry,” she offered, but the apology in her smile was wasted on the back of the guy’s head as he ambled away.
She took a quick swig of beer to drown the butterflies in her belly before her gaze locked back on Graham.
Graham, who was looking way too yummy in jeans that hugged his tree-trunk thighs. Graham, who towered over everyone else. Graham, who was attracting the notice of every single female eye in the room—and some of the male eyes, too—simply by existing.
He’d always had an outsized presence, even back in high school.
“Is this a personal or professional visit?” she asked with a teasing grin.
He didn’t return her easy expression. In fact, he looked as grave as a battlefield. “Can we step outside for a minute?”
The butterflies in her belly grew lead wings and plummeted. Apprehension tickled the hairs at the nape of her neck. But she nodded. “Of course.”
She headed for the front door, but his hand closed around her wrist. It was so big and callused that it made her forget her name for a half-second.
“This way.” He steered her toward the back of the bar. Past the people lined up for the bathrooms. Past the little storage closet. Past the pyramid of empty beer kegs.
Outside, the back alley was dim and close, smelling faintly of spilled liquor and crumbling concrete. The brick walls trapped the thick night air until she felt like wet hands pressed against the back of her neck. And somewhere above, an AC unit rattled like it was about to give up the ghost.
He scanned both ends of the alley, making sure they were alone. Then, he turned back to her. “How ya been?”
She blinked. Small talk? From Graham? “Uh…fine?”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“Fine.” She shook herself. “I’ve been fine. You?”
“Right as rain.”
“Good.”
They stood there for a beat, the silence stretching between the faint thump of the jukebox inside and the wail of a siren a few blocks away.
Eventually, she lifted an eyebrow. “Are we just going to stand here staring at each other all night? Not that I mind. You’re not hard to look at. But I feel like we could do that inside, away from eau de dumpster.”
That got a twitch of his mouth. Then, in a low voice, he told her, “We’d like you to be our eyes and ears inside the West Wing. We want your help uncoverin’ Bishop’s true identity.”
Her breath stuttered. The beer in her stomach turned sour, and she deeply regretted that last sip.
“You think he’s someone in the White House?”
“We think he’s more than that. We think he’s someone very close to the top.”
A cold shiver slid down her spine despite the sticky heat. “My boss?”
A slight pause. Then… “We haven’t ruled him out.”
She pressed a hand to her forehead as her mind raced.
Could Leonard Meadows be Bishop?
