That was answer enough.
His phone rang.
Not his regular phone.
The charter line.
Nate’s expression changed instantly.
He answered. “San Diego.”
I saw it happen.
The joke left his face.
Then his eyes cut to mine.
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
Nate straightened. “Location.”
A pause.
His gaze stayed locked on me.
“Santa Monica. Third Street area. Outside Mariposa Tacos,” he repeated.
My chair scraped back.
Nate listened for one more second.
Then his mouth tightened.
“She said Santa Fe connection. Three men, two women. And…” He paused, eyes flicking briefly away from mine. “She said she doesn’t want Dylan.”
For one second, everything in me went still.
The restaurant noise dimmed.
Steam curled from the plates.
Someone laughed near the bar.
A waitress moved past with curry balanced on one hand.
And all I could hear was Destiny’s voice in my head.
I don’t want Dylan.
Good.
Smart girl.
Too damn bad.
I grabbed my keys off the table.
Nate was already throwing cash down beside our half-finished plates.
