Her honesty surprised me. Most people would have gushed about the city, about the opportunity. But she gave me the truth instead, and I respected that.
"What do you photograph?" I asked.
"Moments," she said. "In-betweens. Things people don't usually notice."
"Like what?"
"Like you," she said, and my pulse kicked.
Before I could respond, before I could ask how long she was staying or if she wanted to grab coffee somewhere quieter, a voice cut through the room from behind me.
"Connor Ward."
I froze.
Fuck.
Every instinct I had screamed threat. My hand moved automatically toward the pistol tucked into my waistband, hidden beneath my sport coat. I ran through scenarios in half a second—exits, cover, how fast I could move Mila out of the line of fire if this went sideways.
But I forced myself to turn slowly. Controlled. Giving nothing away.
And then I saw him.
It took me a second to place the face. Older than I remembered. Harder. But unmistakable.
"Micah Dane," I said, relief flooding through me so fast it almost knocked me off balance.
We shook hands, his grip firm, steady. A warrior's grip.
"Mila," I said, turning back to her. "This is Micah. Old friend."
She smiled, polite, reading the shift in energy. "I can leave you two to talk."
"No," I said, too fast. I didn't want her to leave. Didn't want to lose whatever thread we'd just started pulling.
But Micah's expression stayed serious. "I need a couple of minutes, Connor."
The tone. That's what got me. Not the words. The tone.
I looked at Mila, hating this. "Can I come find you after?"
Micah cut in before she could answer. "Might take longer than a couple of minutes."
Mila's smile didn't falter, but something flickered in her eyes. Disappointment, maybe. Or understanding. "I'll run into you by accident tomorrow," she said, and walked away.
I watched her go, cataloging the sway of her hips, the way she moved through the crowd like water finding its path.
Then I turned back to Micah, shaking my head. "Why the hell did you have to go and do that?"
His expression shifted, humor gone. "We need to talk. In private."
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My awareness expanded, taking in the room—exits, bodies, faces, anyone who didn't belong.
Was this a trap?
Had the art dealer been bought? How could I have been so fucking stupid?
But Micah leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I know you're on the run. And I want to help."
