“That’s right.” His lips quirk upward, and I make myself hold his stare. My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting the rubber bands, wanting the sting, wanting anything to bleed off the charge under my skin. Not here. Not in front of him.
Not when he’s watching me with the calm patience of a man who already assumes time is on his side.
“How fancy. Why New Orleans?” he asks, running the words together until they’re one long, drawn-out syllable.
I blink once. The question isn’t what I expected.
I thought he’d start with Noir. With the house. With the questions I’ve been asking. I thought he’d come at me from the side and make me chase the point.
Instead, he goes straight to the geography.
I swallow and give him the version of the truth I built for this. “Far enough away to feel safe. Close enough that I don’t feel stranded.”
“Safe from whom?”
The follow-up is immediate. No pause. No shift in tone.
“An ex.”
I keep my face neutral. Tired, maybe. Wary. Not performative. The runaway script works best when I don’t oversell it.
Nash doesn’t react, other than a small nod. “Why Noir?”
“I heard you were hiring. The money’s good.” I lift one shoulder. “And this is the busiest place in town.”
“Who told you that?”
I almost smile. “Your front door. You had a help wanted sign.”
His expression doesn’t move. The silence stretches just long enough to make my skin tighten.
“Not good enough,” he says finally, voice low and even. “Noir is mine. I know what moves through it. People. Money. Trouble. You don’t end up under my roof by accident.”
There it is. Not an accusation, exactly.
More possession. Territoriality. The statement of a man used to tracking every variable in his orbit.
His eyes are different down here than they were upstairs—darker, deeper blue, less glint and more pressure. Like the room strips away what little warmth he shows in public and leaves only the sharp parts.
I should be careful.
Instead, I hear myself say, “If you already know why I’m here, why ask?”
He leans back a fraction, studying me. “Because I want to hear whatyouchoose to say.”
That answer catches me off guard in a way I don’t letshow. He’s not just collecting facts. He’s collecting my lies.
I lift my chin, and in spite of myself, snap a rubber band.
“Then I choose to tell you I needed a job,” I say. “I needed somewhere people mind their own business if the tips are good enough.”
The corner of his mouth almost moves. Not a smile. Not even close.
“And do they?” It should be a joke. In his voice, it sounds like a warning.
I shift my weight to keep my knees from locking. “Apparently not well enough.”
His gaze drops briefly to my wrist, where the bands sit bright against my skin, then returns to my face.
