Bingo. Charlie Winters. Whom I had assumed was a man. The engineer whose innovations had brought me to L.A. in the first place. And she had absolutely no idea who I was.
It did occur to me to just tell her, but I was running a business, and this was a big move for me.
“Impressive,” I said, keeping my expression neutral. “Small world.”
“You know it?” Her eyebrows lifted.
“I’ve heard of it.” Understatement of the century. “I’m in construction myself.”
“Really?” She leaned forward slightly, her interest visibly piqued. “What kind of construction?”
“All kinds,” I said, deliberately vague. “But I’ve been looking into marine projects recently. The engineering challenges are ... unique.”
“That’s one word for it,” she said with a small laugh. “Most people don’t realize how complex underwater construction is. We work where humans weren’t meant to survive. Every minute a diver spends down there, they’re fighting time, pressure, and the limits of their own bodies. I want to make sure they win that fight.”
Her hands moved when she talked about it—cutting through the air, shaping the invisible architecture of whatever she was building in her head. She had no idea she was doing it. I couldn’t stop watching.
“Someone you know?” I asked, my voice quiet.
She blinked, as if surprised by her own revelation. “My brother. Navy diver.”
I nodded, understanding. “That explains the dedication.”
“What about you?” she asked, clearly wanting to shift the focus. “What drives someone to build things that scrape the sky or reshape coastlines?”
“Who says that’s what I build?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Your watch costs more than my car, your suit was definitely made for you, and I’m pretty sureyou’re drinking a cognac that costs more per bottle than my rent. You’re not building garden sheds.”
I laughed, genuinely amused by her assessment. “Fair enough. But I started small.”
“Humble beginnings?” She tilted her head, studying me. “Let me guess—military?”
It was my turn to be surprised. “How did you know that?”
“You have a look.” She gestured vaguely. “Like someone who earned it, not someone who inherited it.”
“And you can tell that by looking at me?”
“I’m good at reading people too.” She took a sip of her drink, watching me over the rim with those intelligent eyes.
“Well, Charlie the mind-reader, what else can you tell about me?”
She set down her glass and leaned in slightly, accepting the challenge. “You’re successful, obviously. But not satisfied.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You work too much, sleep too little. You’re used to being the smartest person in the room, and it makes you impatient sometimes.”
I felt oddly exposed. “You got all that from a fifteen-minute conversation?”
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” I admitted, finding myself leaning toward her. “What else?”
Her eyes met mine, unwavering. “You’re lonely.”
The word landed somewhere I wasn’t guarding. Her laugh was easy and warm, but her eyes didn’t fully match it—there was something tired underneath, something she probably thought she was hiding. Before I could respond, a voice cut through the moment.
“Charlie! I thought that was you!”
A man approached our corner of the bar, sandy-haired and affable, with the easy confidence of someone who was well-likedwithout trying too hard. His eyes lit up when they landed on Charlie, but dimmed slightly when they shifted to me.
