Doesn’t have to be,the devil suggests.I could make it so easy. So easy.
“Working with your ex must be a nightmare.”
“It has its perks, especially as I’m his dirty little secret.” She slides me a speaking glance. “And I don’t hate seeing the fear on his face when I coast a little close to the C-suite offices.”
“No?” I say with a chuckle.
“Oh, how his flat butt must pucker.”
“There’s a thought I’d like to bleach from my brain. Ex or not, he must be a massive fucknut if he’s not doing anything to stop what’s going on. It’s harassment, plain and simple.”
She makes a careless gesture before her grip tightens on my arm. “Next time, I’ll find somewhere that isn’t run by dinosaurs.”
But her attitude is suspiciously blasé, I decide, as we fall quiet again.
A car honks at a set of lights, and a group of squealing girls piles out of an Uber as, across the street, a guy in hot pants and a sequined T-shirt belts out a song fromWest Side Story.
“He feels pretty, and I feel pretty awful for bringing you into this. But honestly, I don’t need your protection,” she repeats. “I fight my own battles.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I say with a rueful chuckle. The way she accosted me, then hammered me, thinking I was Cuddle Carl. How she pivoted and hung on—come hell or high water, she wasn’t giving up her plan. She’s got buckets of pluck, and I like that about her.
Like not only that about her.
“Good, because it’s true.”
“Back in the pub,” I begin, “when you found out I wasn’t Cuddle Carl, I could’ve been anyone. I mightbeanyone—a murderer for all you know.”
“Do you know what makes a good trader?”
“The ability to make money, I imagine.”
“And how we do that is through instinct. I have excellent instincts.” Twin flames of determination flare in her gaze. “So no, I didn’t choose just anyone. In fact, the point that you are who you are—that you do what you do—kind of proves my point, don’t you think?”
“Chosen,” I repeat flatly. “I feel special.”
“Oh so special?”
“Careful, or you’ll have me borrowing that fella’s sparkly T-shirt.”
“You’re already pretty.”
“Thanks,” I say with a gruff chuckle.
“But a murderer?” She makes a dismissive gesture. “I could see you as a hit man.” Her amused gaze slides my way again, slides over me. Neck. Chest. But not quite brazen enough to dip lower. “An assassin, maybe.”
“I’m more like the victim.” I send her a pointed look, which she’s careful to miss.
“A spy with that James Bond swag.”
I give a soft snort, thinking back to what Fin said. “When you think about it, Bond can’t be much of a spy when he introduces himself to the bad guys at every opportunity.”
“You’d be like him.”
“An idiot?”
“The kind of assassin who only kills bad guys.”
“If you say so.” She’s so willfully oblivious, I’m impressed.
