Page 23 of Keller

"You're late."

She smiles, small and unbothered. She checks her phone. "Three minutes isn't late."

"Okay, I see how you are."

"I'm serious. It took me three minutes, at least, to park and walk in."

Simone appears, eyebrow raised in question. Quinn orders a gin martini, dirty, no garnish. Simone nods and moves to make it. The silence between us is a tiny bit more awkward than the other night, but it isn't insurmountable. I watch the way she bites her bottom lip.

Simone sets the martini down and Quinn lifts it to take a sip, eyes still on me. She uncrosses one leg and then crosses the other, turning more toward me.

"She swirls her martini once before asking, “So what do you do when you’re not rescuing damsels in distress?”

I don’t hesitate, giving the answer I always do when someone I hardly know asks what I do. “I’m in finance.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just the version that doesn’t require a footnote.

She nods once, accepting it without digging. “The suit should have given it away.”

I smile slightly. “You don't like the suit?”

“I didn’t say that. I'm just saying you look like a guy in finance. It suits you. No pun intended.”

"And you?"

She takes a sip before answering. “I do financial audits. So we have more in common than we realized.”

“So you’re the one who makes people nervous. Financial audits, like a consultant?”

“Sort of. I work for the federal government,” she says casually. “Mostly compliance and audit work. It’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds.”

"No offense, but it doesn't sound exciting at all, actually."

That makes her laugh, which makes me smile. I like the way her throat bobs slightly when she laughs. She bites her bottom lip again.

"I like order and identifying anomalies. I know, I'm weird."

"Not weird. Order has its place,” I say. “Someone has to find what everyone else misses." Quinn's smile sharpens. "I guess so."

Quinn studies me for a second, then shifts the subject. She tells me about growing up in the city, about her family's charity.

I tell her what I remember about coming to Magazine Street as a kid with my mother before the galleries replaced half the hardware stores. Somewhere in the middle of that, Simone replaces our glasses without either of us asking.

The conversation loosens. She’s not guarded the way she was at the gala. No silk, no senator at her elbow. Just denim and bare shoulders and a sharp mind that keeps pace without trying to prove anything.

She laughs easily, but she doesn’t overshare. She asks about my favorite part of the city and then listens to the answer instead of waiting to talk.

I check the time once out of habit and realize we’ve been here nearly an hour and a half. The bar has cycled through a crowd. The couple who took the table after we arrived just left. The music has changed twice.

At some point, she shifts closer so we don’t have to raise our voices, and the space between our knees disappears.

There’s a moment when she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at me a little longer than a casual acquaintance.

That’s when I know this isn’t ending at the bar.

The bar thins around us as the hour creeps toward eleven. Simone wipes down the far end of the counter and stacks cleanglasses in slow, practiced movements. Quinn glances toward the clock behind the liquor shelves and exhales lightly.

“I should probably head out,” she says, rummaging through her purse.