It’s only business, she reminded herself.
“Then forget the wind.” Calya took a step closer, sliding her fingers along the edge of his cloak, but not closely enough that she touched him outright. “You don’t want to be rid of me so easily.” She hummed softly to herself as he stilled. “Not when we seem to have a rapport.”
A ragged puff of laughter escaped through his teeth. “Do we?”
She tapped his chest. “Unruffle your feathers, ranger. What will it take to soothe your bruised ego?”
“My bruised—” He shook his head.
“Let us bargain,” Calya said. “Name your price. But don’t you dare try to cheat me.”
The corner of his mouth curled up, a sly gleam in his eyes. He leaned toward her. “All right. By the end of the day, I want a compliment from you?—”
Calya scoffed.
“—and you have to mean it.”
“Bold of you to presume such a thing exists.”
“You have to mean it. No faking.”
“It’s cute that you think you could tell the difference.” She sidestepped him, fingers fluttering. “Come on, we’ve a dockmaster to?—”
Lowe caught her by the arm, swinging her so she faced him again, and cupped her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his.
“Oh, I know I got the real thing out of you.” He stroked one finger down her cheek. “I felt it.”
A frisson of energy ran from where his fingers held her skin straight to her clit, an involuntary shiver running down her spine. Which, of course, he noticed. The smug bastard.
“Start practicing your delivery, sweetheart.” Lowe released her and strolled onward.
Calya stared after him for a moment, then gave herself a mental slap. Stopped herself from gawking like a godscursed fool. What the fuck was wrong with her, getting all aflutter over some arrogant ranger?
“Going to make you grovel,” she muttered.
The sound of his laugh trailed back to her. “By the end of the day, Lady Heartless.”
Dockmaster Gormund was firmly in Mayor Krowe—and thus Brint’s—pocket, but he couldn’t outright deny Calya access to the shipping manifests for her own damn company. He did, however, insist on accompanying her to review the documents, citing port security.
A bullshit excuse, but Calya determined it wasn’t a battle worth picking. Not yet, at any rate.
“I can only spare a few minutes. Busy day, you understand,” the dockmaster groused. “Be quick, please.”
“I’ll do my best,” Calya said, flashing him a bland smile. She sat on the opposite side of his desk and picked up the sheaf of papers he offered, ignoring the way he consulted his pocket watch.
It didn’t take long to thumb through the shipment receipts. At this point in the season, Helm Naval didn’t have many routes going up the coast, preferring their rivercraft for northern transport. She found the page that matched up to the date Anadae had supplied her wards. And there, added at the bottom, was the line noting the crate as cargo. Not an amendment, but written like it had been an original entry, bearing the logistics manager’s signature—and the initials CH in pointed letters.
Calya stifled a gasp, but her hands shook. Seated next to her, Lowe glanced over. “Find it?”
“Yes,” she replied, forcing herself to slide the papers back across the desk. “It matches what we have back at the Renstown office as well. I’m so sorry for wasting your time, Mr. Gormund.”
“Yes, well, I told you we keep our paperwork in order,” he muttered, showing them out.
Lowe waited until they were halfway back to the inn before asking, “What did you really find?”
“It’s a forgery,” Calya growled, mind flashing back over her logistics manager’s precise lettering. The sharp lines comprising the C and H of her supposed initials. “Or rather, the document is real enough. My sign off is not.” She dragged a hand through her hair, thoughts careening. “I knew Anadae couldn’t have made a mistake. Someone drafted a new manifest after she made her request and sent that with the shipment. With my initials.”
Lowe mulled over her words. “Who has the authority to write up and file a new order?”
