“I am not sitting at your date.”
“You won’t be sitting at it.”
Her brows rise. “That is not better.”
I almost smile. Almost. “You’ll be nearby.”
She shuts the door and turns fully back toward me, one hand on her hip now, the other still clutching the tablet. “Nearby where? Under the table? Behind a potted plant? Should I disguise myself as a sommelier?”
That does it. A quiet laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes widen a fraction, as if she didn’t expect to get that reaction out of me.
“You’re amusing when you’re angry,” I say.
“I’m not trying to be amusing. I’m trying to understand why on earth you need me there while you flirt with another woman.”
The words land between us, hotter than they should.
Flirt with another woman.
There’s something in her tone. Something brittle. Something sharp enough to make my chest tighten.
I step closer, slow enough to give her time to move if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
“Because,” I say quietly, “I don’t trust the situation.”
Her expression shifts. The irritation doesn’t vanish, but something underneath it softens into curiosity. Concern, maybe.
“This is because of what happened last night,” she says. “I overheard bits and pieces of it before I walked in…”
I hold her gaze, deciding not to chide her for that. “Partly.”
Her fingers tighten around the tablet. “You really think it could be dangerous?”
“I think caution keeps people alive.”
She swallows. And then, because she’s Zatanna and apparently incapable of letting silence sit where a dangerous question could go instead, she says, “Do all your dates require a security assessment and a contingency plan?”
“Only the important ones.”
She gives me a look. “That was not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
For a moment neither of us moves.
Then she exhales slowly through her nose, glances toward the door, then back at me. “If I come, what exactly am I doing?”
“Watching.”
“That sounds illegal.”
“It isn’t.”
“It sounds deeply weird.”
