I hold his gaze. “Then tell me what it was like, because from where I was standing, that’s exactly what that look on your face said when she walked into the bar.”
He paces once, then turns back to me, jaw tight. “Like I said. Cal reached out a couple days ago. Said his former ward was headed this way, and if she didn’t have theright supervision, she was going to stir up trouble. He wanted Nash involved.”
I let that sit for a second. “That’s it? Does she know who you are?”
He shrugs, but there’s tension in it. “No, she does not know who we are. Nash gave me her GPS and AirTag coordinates and I managed to track her from there.”
A beat passes.
“And it was a good goddamn thing I found her when I did, because she was broke down on the side of the highway when I came up on her,” he adds.
I swear under my breath and drag a hand over my head. “Fucking lamb to the slaughter.”
“I know.”
I didn’t realize until Shiloh’s quietly uttered agreement that I said the words out loud. They’re the truth, though.
Because that’s what she is. Whether she knows it or not.
I didn’t know any of this when she walked in. All I saw was a too-pretty girl with hungry eyes and secrets written all over her, looking for a job in a place that doesn’t need more complications. I made a call based on that and moved on.
Now I have to—somehow—take it back. This isn’t just some random girl trying to push her way into Noir, a fairly frequent happenstance I’ve learned to shut down pretty quickly.
She’s a job, which means we don’t get to ignore her.
Everything just got more complicated.
Shiloh huffs out a breath. “Yeah. It did.”
I realize a second too late that I said that out loud, too. I don’t usually speak my thoughts out loud. I usually keep them buttoned up.
I don’t acknowledge it. No point. Instead, I run the situation through again, adjusting where I need to.
We can’t shut her out. Not without losing track of her. Not without raising questions we don’t want asked.
So we’re going to have to bring her in. Control the environment. Control the variables.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and turn to head back into the bar proper. “You do what I fucking tell you,” I tell Shiloh, pointing a finger at him. He falls into step behind me and then returns to his customary spot, giving the girl a cheeky grin and a chin tip as he goes.
She narrows her eyes, then rolls them.
“Excuse me.”
Cal’s girl snaps her fingers. I twist my head to look at her and blink.
“Did you just snap your fingers at me?”
She swallows but lifts her chin. “I asked you for a Guinness before you just…ran away.”
“Don’t ever fucking snap your fingers at me.”
I grab a glass and pour a Guinness. If she wants to sit at my bar and push, I can meet her halfway.
When I set it in front of her, she takes it like it’s going to bite her, then lifts the glass and takes a sip. There’s a split-second hesitation before she swallows. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Guinness isn’t forgiving if you’re not used to it.
She tries to hide it. Doesn’t quite manage.
I lean my palms on the bar and watch her take another drink, something between irritation and amusement settling in my chest.
