And technically? Yeah, I did.
I didn't mean this rooftop bar specifically, but the building it sat on. It was a recent acquisition through a silent partnership – nothing flashy, nothing known. This made it the perfect place to blend in, sip some whiskey, and run a little recon on the sly.
I spotted him instantly.
Evan Carver.
I almost smiled.Jamison hadn't steered me wrong.Sure, he hadn't known he was steering me, but I'd still gotten the goods.
The whole thing had been laughably easy.
After a few casual comments back and forth, Jamison had been all too eager to share that Evan's favorite nighttime haunt was this place.
Myplace, in a roundabout way.
Go figure.
And there Evan was, looking just as full of himself as I remembered from that charity thing in March.
Flanked by an entourage of three, he was sitting center-right, half-sunk into a leather banquette.Yeah, a banquette.If you'd asked me what a banquette was a different lifetime ago, I might've said it was a type of bread you bought in France.
Now, I knew better. Basically, it was a one-sided booth with no table.But in a place like this?It was a throne for peacocks who wanted to preen.
This made it perfect for Evan, and he looked happy as hell to be there. His smile was smug, his posture was loose, and his legs were stretched out long and wide, like he didn't give two shits if he sent a waitress tumbling.
Or maybe, he just wanted the crowd to admire his shoes – shiny butterscotch things with ridiculous tassels. The shoes looked expensive, European, and pampered, like they'd wilt at the sight of gravel.
With a wry smile, I glanced down at my own shoes – also expensive, also European. But they sure as hell weren't butterscotch – or scared of grit and grime.
I knew this firsthand. And hey, just because I no longer swung a hammer, that didn't mean I'd gone soft – or stupid about what could go sideways with the wrong gear.
Tassels on a job site?
Yeah, bad idea.
Taking my sweet time, I wandered toward the long, mahogany bar, where I flagged a bartender and ordered a drink – a simple old fashioned, neat, no cherry.
As I waited, I turned and gave Evan a longer look. He was tall and lean with sharp features and ridiculous hair – carefully messy, like rebellion by appointment. His classic blazer screamed old-money, until you spotted the popped collar of the shirt underneath.East Coast privilege meets frat boy flair.
I gave a slow shake of my head. He looked like an '80s movie villain – the kind who gets punched at prom.
But hell if I'd be the one to tell him.
I smiled.On second thought, who knows, I just might.
In his entourage were two business bros and a beautiful blonde clinging to his arm. All three of them were nodding alonglike Evan was quoting Aristotle instead of whatever nonsense came out of his mouth.
Could I hear him?
Nah.But I'd heard enough before.He wasn't that deep.
He probably thought Aristotle was a type of wine.
With my drink in-hand, I finally made my move, sliding into a leather chair within eyesight of Evan and his cronies.
Evan noticed.
Because, of course he did.
