Adorably quick.
"Really? Then why the delay? What were you busy with?"
Long silence. Then: "...I spilled my coffee."
Lying little thing. I could practically see her biting her nails in agitation.
I typed: "Coffee this late? Very dedicated, Miss Reporter."
"You're up too, aren't you?"
Her comeback made me laugh out loud. Smart girls always knew how to deflect.
"I am indeed awake," I replied, "but I'm up waiting for a ballsy little reporter's response. You?"
This time she was quiet longer. I could imagine her expression—flushed, nervous, but unable to resist anticipating my next words.
"I..." She started typing, then deleted it. Started again, deleted again.
I waited patiently, like a leopard watching prey walk into a trap.
Finally: "I can't sleep."
"Why?" Playing dumb.
"You know why." This reply carried a hint of accusation.
My heart skipped. She'd admitted it—subtly, but she'd admitted my effect on her.
"I want to hear you say it."
"Say what?"
"Why you can't sleep. What you're thinking. Whether... you want to see me too."
"Typing..." appeared, then vanished. Appeared again, vanished. I could feel her internal struggle.
"Anna." I sent just her name.
"What?"
"What are you afraid of?"
Quick reply this time: "Afraid of you."
Three simple words that made my chest tighten.
I pulled a cigar from the bedside box and lit it. "Why are you afraid of me?"
"Because you're dangerous."
Perceptive girl.
She was right. I was dangerous. To her, to anyone.
But for her...
"Maybe for you, I'm never dangerous."
