"And what might that be?"
"Something that pays better than small talk."
That's all the confirmation I need. He's here for a job too. "You don't strike me as the type who needs to get paid to enjoy a conversation."
He arches a brow at me. "You don't strike me as the type who needs to force one."
He's got the most fascinating shade of gray-green eyes. It's like they're a blend of both, but one is more dominant than the other.
"Maybe I'm just bored," I say with a shrug.
"Not my problem."
The bartender slides another glass in front of me. I reach for it but don't take a drink, watching the mystery guy in the amber reflection of the liquor bottles as he stares at my targets.
He's grinding his jaw, and I wonder if he's a control freak with a touch of anger when he doesn't get his way.
"You're not very subtle, are you?"
He sighs, then finally looks at me. "I don't follow."
He lifts his drink but doesn't take a sip. Just lets it hover near his mouth like a prop.
Interesting.
In my world, staying busy is camouflage. You look relaxed, unthreatening, while your attention splits in a dozen directions—faces, exits, who's watching who, transactions, interactions. It's how you keep someone talking without ending up dead.
I don't work for governments or badges. I work in the spaces between. Criminal intelligence, contract jobs—the kind of work thebad guys pay for when they need something handled quietly and without their name attached.
And I know this guy is in the same line of work.
"You seem like the type who's all about power and control."
His eyes slide to mine, and my skin prickles instantly. "And you're the type who talks too much."
Ouch.
Was that supposed to insult me? Because I find his bluntness amusing. It's been so long since someone has talked to me like that. Most people shrink from my independence, from the edges I've sharpened deliberately in this line of work. I let them think whatever they want because it's easier and keeps me effective.
But this guy doesn't give a shit, and I kind of like it.
"Would you rather I sit here quietly while you stare at the two men about to exchange an envelope near the back exit?"
His eyes cut to mine, and every muscle in his body locks into place.
Fighting mode engaged.
His features turn neutral, and my heart picks up the pace because I was stupid enough to give myself away.
Bloody hell.
He leans in close, and the scent hits me first. Teakwood and something golden underneath, clean and uncomfortably addictive.
"Careful," he murmurs, and I feel it more than hear it. "That kind of guesswork can get you killed."
"It wasn't a guess."
Oh, do shut up.
