My brow lifts slightly. “Your parking lot?”
“Technically Wayne’s,” she says. “But I’ve been working that bar since I was sixteen, so I feel like I’ve earned partial custody.”
There’s a beat of silence between us as I take that in. Sixteen? Jesus. That explains the way she moved behind the bar earlier like she owned every inch of it. “You followed me out here,” I point out.
She shrugs again, completely unapologetic. “Call it curiosity.” Her eyes slide over me again, slower this time, and there’s no attempt to hide the fact that she’s looking. “And maybe a little quality control,” she adds. “Those guys have been coming around bothering Wayne.” The faintest hint of irritation creepsinto her voice when she says that, and suddenly the whole situation makes a little more sense.
“You’re protective of the place,” I say.
Her expression changes slightly at that, the sarcasm fading just enough for something more serious to show through. “That bar kept me alive when I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” she says. “So yeah. I’m a little protective.” The quiet conviction in her voice lands somewhere in the middle of my chest in a way I wasn’t expecting.
For a moment neither of us says anything. Then she tips her head again and studies me like she’s returned to the original question she’s been asking herself since I walked into the bar earlier.
“So,” she says, her voice slipping back toward playful. “Are you going to tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you Pest Control?”
What the fuck am I doing?
That thought runs through my head about half a second before my mouth opens, but it doesn’t stop the word from coming out anyway.
“Ghost.”
I don’t usually tell people that. Most of the time I don’t tell them anything at all. If someone asks my name, they get a shrug or silence or a look that makes them decide the question wasn’t that important after all. But standing here in a gravel parking lot under a flickering streetlight with this woman staring up at me like she already knows more about me than she should, the answer slips out before I can stop it.
She doesn’t laugh at it. Doesn’t question it either.
Instead, she just nods once like it makes perfect sense, like she’s filing the information away for later. Then she tips her head slightly to the side, studying me for another second like she’s deciding something.
“Ghost,” she repeats, testing the word quietly.
Her mouth curves again.
“Yeah,” she says. “That tracks.”
I raise an eyebrow slightly. “Does it?”
She gestures vaguely in my direction, taking in the cut, the boots, the general shape of me standing there in the parking lot.
“You walk like you don’t want people noticing you,” she says casually. “Except you’re about six foot something and built like you bench press pickup trucks, so that plan is already questionable.”
I don’t answer that.
Mostly because she’s not wrong.
She uncrosses her arms then, pushing away from the wall of the building like she’s finished inspecting me. When she straightens up fully she still has to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes, but there’s no hesitation in the movement.
“Let me buy you a drink,” she says.
The offer is casual, almost offhand, but there’s something underneath it that catches my attention. Gratitude, maybe. Or curiosity. Possibly both.
“To say thanks,” she adds. “For the free pest control service.”
My first instinct is to say no.
That’s the smart answer. The practical one. I already handled the job I came here to do, and lingering around small-town bars talking to interesting women isn’t exactly part of the plan Mason had in mind when he sent me out here tonight.
But the problem is I’m still standing here and she’s still looking at me.
The bar door behind her glows faintly with warm light leaking out through the cracks, and I can hear the muffled thump of music from inside. She smells faintly like citrus and beer and something softer underneath that I can’t quite place.
