I stare at him. "My mother is sixty-two and has a bad hip."
"Noted. Weapon of choice?"
"Passive aggression."
He nods like I've just identified a Class Four tactical threat. "Continue."
I write:Primary hostile: Patricia Jenkins, mother. 5'6". Blonde. Weaponized disappointment.
"The groom," Dash says.
Secondary hostile: Todd Bellingham III. 5'11". Sandy hair. Weak chin. Weaponized mediocrity.
"The bride."
My pencil hovers. A splinter of something old and sharp lodges under my ribs. I write:Tertiary hostile: Petunia Jenkins, sister. 5'7". Gorgeous. Knows it.
"Allied forces?"
"None."
The word falls out flat and hard. Dash's amber eyes hold mine for a beat too long. He doesn't push.
"Physical contact parameters," he says, moving on with military efficiency. "Specify permitted actions."
"Hand-holding. Arm around my waist. Maybe a kiss on the forehead for show." I scribble furiously on the blood napkin. "Nothing below the waist, nothing involving tongues, nothing that would get us kicked out of the rehearsal dinner."
"Define 'kicked out.'"
"Escorted from the premises by country club security."
"How many security personnel?"
"I don't... it's a country club, not a fortress."
"Every location is a fortress. Some just have better landscaping." He taps the napkin with one massive finger. "Exit strategies. If the operation goes sideways, what's the extraction plan?"
"We leave."
"Through which exit?"
"The... door?"
"Which door? Front entrance? Service corridor? Kitchen access? Second-floor balcony drop to the east garden?"
"Have you been to Silverleaf Country Club before? "
"No. I'll need blueprints."
"It's acountry club."
"Blueprints, Magnolia."
Something about the way he says my name, all gravel and gravity, like it's a callsign he's committing to memory, makes my stomach do something I'm choosing to ignore.
I finish the napkin. It's covered edge to edge in my cramped handwriting, charcoal smudged around the bloodstain, a contract written on carnage. He picks it up, reads every word, and folds it into a precise square that disappears into his vest.
"Acceptable terms. I accept the contract." He pulls the bag of gold toward him. The coins clink and settle. "We depart Thursday morning. I'll be ready."
