My brows lift. She doesn’t blink. That’s two more points in her favor.
“You talk like someone who’s seen messy ports up close.”
“I have.”
“But you’re not from Hamburg.”
“No.”
I let the silence stretch, just long enough to be uncomfortable. She holds.
“Where, then?” I ask.
“Rotterdam. Originally.”
It’s a lie. I don’t know how I know it. I just do. There’s something too precise in her tone. Something too polished in her posture. Riley Quinn is a suit built around a secret, and the secret smells familiar.
But I’m not ready to crack it yet. I want to see what she does under pressure first.
I lean forward, elbows on the desk. My voice drops half a note.
“Do you always stare at men in nightclubs?”
She doesn’t flinch.
“Only when they stare first.”
“Didn’t see you look away.”
“I didn’t plan to.”
Heat curls low in my spine. She’s good. Quick, calm, and she knows exactly what she’s doing. But there’s a current under her words that betrays something else—something hungry. She wants to win this exchange, but she also wants me to feel it.
I do.
“You were at Riot Room on Saturday,” I say.
“You were too,” she answers, tone even.
“Coincidence?”
“You tell me.”
My lips part slightly, not quite a smile. It’s not flirting, but a delicious tension stretches taut between us, quiet and electric. I haven’t felt this alive in a long while, and certainly not around any woman.
“You’ll be working under Mr. O’Driscoll this week,” I say. “He’s dry, inflexible, and likely to test your patience. That’s not a warning. That’s an invitation to impress him.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Good. Because I don’t do second chances.”
She rises from the chair without being dismissed. I don’t stop her. She’s the one who breaks eye contact first—but not before that pulse at her neck kicks again. I catch it. I want her to know I caught it.
She turns to go.
“Ms. Quinn.”
She stops, one hand on the doorframe. “Yes?”
