What the hell was that?
He'd agreed. Looked at me with ten years of history between us and said I'll do it like it was nothing. Like seeing me again hadn't affected him at all. Like I was just another journalist. Just another assignment. Just another face in a long line of people who passed through his life without leaving a mark.
Maybe I was nothing to him now.
The thought stung more than it should have.
I pressed my palms against my eyes. Breathed deep. Tried to find the professional detachment that had served me through death threats and hostile interviews and sources who'd tried to intimidate me into silence.
It wasn't working.
My phone buzzed.
I fumbled for it, expecting Marianne. My editor demanding an update.
It was Garrett.
This is Stone. Meet me at Benchmark on Greenpoint Ave, 7pm. We should discuss the case parameters.
Professional. Businesslike. Not a hint of our history.
I should decline. Insist on meeting at the Times offices, somewhere neutral, somewhere I had control. Establish boundaries now, before this became something I couldn't handle.
Instead, I typed:
I'll be there.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
I changed three times before I left.
It wasn't a date. It was a work meeting. With my ex-fiancé. About arson.
God, my life was strange.
I settled on something professional—black pants, gray silk blouse, a blazer that meant business. Armor, again. I needed all the armor I could get.
Benchmark was a small cafe in Greenpoint—the kind of place that had survived in New York for decades on the strength of its espresso and its discretion. Exposed brick walls. Mismatched wooden tables. The smell of fresh-ground beans and something baking that made my stomach growl despite the knots in it.
Garrett was already there when I arrived.
He stood when I approached the table. Old manners, ingrained.
He was wearing civilian clothes—dark jeans, a plain white t-shirt that did things to his shoulders I refused to think about, the leather jacket I remembered from a decade ago. Still the same jacket. Still worn soft at the elbows. Still slightly too big in the way that meant he'd bought it before he'd filled out completely.
He looked devastatingly good.
I hated myself for noticing.
"Sloane."
"Garrett."
We stood there for a moment, the table between us, neither of us moving to sit. Somewhere in the cafe, someone laughed.
He gestured to the chair across from him. I sat. He sat.
A waitress appeared immediately, setting two cups of coffee on the table.
