We don’t speak again until we’re seated in a booth in the back, and the young-sounding server has brought us two glasses of Chianti.
“You do more than pay the bills,” Evianna says quietly. “Why won’t you admit it?”
“Because I stand out enough as it is. I don’t feel like explaining my skills to every potential client, then hearing the disbelief in their voices when they question me.”
“I’m…just like every other potential client?”
I curse under my breath at the harsh edge to her tone. “Dammit. You know you’re not.”
“Then talk to me.”
After the server takes our order—two spinach lasagnas—I settle back against the vinyl booth. “What do you know about the Special Forces?”
“Um…you’re highly trained? You do things no one else can or will? Like the SEALs or the Army Rangers?”
I fight a smile. “Frogmen don’t have anything on us.”
“Frogmen?” Her light laugh settles me.
“That’s what we call the SEALs.” A sip of wine helps loosen my tongue, and I drape my right arm over the back of the booth. Evianna settles closer to me, and I touch my nose to her hair. I might never be able to get enough of her. “Special Forces training is…different. We’re not always the most capable. A SEAL sniper might beat one of us on the range every day of the week. But we’re the most adaptable. We blend in. We’re trained to assess a situation and diffuse it. To work with the locals. Most members of my—” my voice cracks, “—detachment spoke at least six languages. We study micro-expressions, local customs. We blend in.”
“I had no idea.” Respect infuses her tone, and she shifts—I think to pick up her wine glass. “So…what do you do for Second Sight? Besides paying the bills?”
“I listen.” After another sip of wine, I search for a way to explain how I do what I do. “I was trained to hear the truth in someone’s voice.” Turning towards her, I slide my hand up her arm to her shoulder, finding a thick lock of hair I let slip through my fingers. “When you’re overwhelmed, your voice gets this raspy tremble. When you’re aroused, the tremble turns…husky. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the two. I can.”
“So, what am I feeling now, soldier?” Her breath ghosts over my cheek, and I’m about to answer when her stomach growls.
“Hungry.”
Evianna bumps her shoulder into mine. “Big mystery there. So this listening thing…”
“That’s why I go to all the initial client meetings. We occasionally find people who want to hire us for illegal practices. I can tell. It’s in how they tell their story. The words they use. Someone who’s lying will use the same words over and over again. Their story won’t change. A person telling the truth naturally varies the language when recounting the same facts over and over again. It’s human nature.”
The server delivers our lasagna, and I clench my hands under the table. After six years, I shouldn’t be so fucking embarrassed about asking for help. “Evianna, can you…um…describe my plate?”
Her breath stutters for a moment—and even after a few days, I know this means she’s confused. “It’s…a rectangle of lasagna with two slices of bread and a small dish of olives.”
“Pretend the plate’s a clock,” I manage through clenched teeth.
“Oh. Um…the lasagna’s at nine. The olives are in a tiny bowl at two. And the bread is criss-crossed at…um…they’re diagonal from three to six. Is that…?”
“Fine.” I find my fork without too much trouble and scoop up a piece of pasta so I don’t have to continue this conversation. It’s so hot it burns the roof of my mouth, but I don’t care.
“Dax?” Evianna asks softly. “I’m going to touch you, okay?”
I don’t respond, instead fumbling for a piece of the bread, but my hands aren’t steady and the bread tumbles off the plate. Evianna’s fingers brush the top of my thigh. “Got it. I’m putting it at the top of the plate. Twelve o’clock.”
I nod my thanks, but then she returns her hand to my leg. “Don’t, Evianna. This…this was a bad idea.”
“Dinner? Dax, I know you can’t really see me, but you’ve had your arms around me. You know I’m not…a supermodel. And I haven’t eaten since this morning. Dinner is always a good idea.”
Her self-deprecating laugh hints at her insecurities, and mine fade into the background. “You’re…perfect.”
“Hardly.” With another laugh, this one decidedly sad, she links our fingers. “I’m carrying an extra thirty pounds. At least.”
“Don’t put yourself down, Evianna. Not around me. Not ever.” Sliding my arm around her, I appreciate the generous curve of her hips. “You’re brilliant. And capable. But…that’s not all. You think about other people. About their needs. And you do it effortlessly.”
“You’re a puzzle,” she says quietly. “One I want to solve.”
