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“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I say, popping the cork with my teeth. A drink. That’s what I need.

She tosses me a judgmental look that I ignore and mutters something under her breath before she starts her routine sweep of the room. From the efficient way she moves around, I can tell she’s done this a million times. She checks under the leather ottoman, then slides a hand along the edges of the wooden dresser. She even pops the smoke detector open to check for hidden cameras.

I give the room my own once-over. This is a decent spot. Good for privacy. Good whiskey on the bar.

I sniff the air. Smells good too. I follow my nose to a bar cart with an orange candle flickering that reads: Smells Like… Fall Y’all!

I squint at the tiny print underneath. Dried orange peel. Cardamom. Leather. Vanilla. Seems like a whole lot of smell packed into one candle. The whiskey is calling my name, so I pour myself a glass.

“Are you seriously breaking open that whiskey right now?” Sabrina says.

I ignore her and give her my favorite finger. With a roll of her eyes, she lets her hair down from the bun she had on top of her head so it falls in light brown waves past her shoulders. The sharp cheekbones, those stormy eyes, the way her lips look fuller now. I just stare. Until I almost fill the tumbler to the brim with whiskey.

“Dammit.”

“What?” she demands.

“Nothing,” I mutter, about to take a swig, but I can feel Chastain’s condescending gaze burning my cheek.

I slam the tumbler down.

Fine.

No whiskey. I need to be at the top of my game anyway if I’m going to deal with a woman who thinks I have the attention span of a squirrel.

She rummages through a linen closet and eventually pulls out a set of sheets before throwing them at me. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

“Don’t know about that…” I click my tongue. “That bed looks awfully comfortable. What thread count do you think those sheets are?”

She hurls a pillow at my face. “You do realize a gentleman would take the couch, right?”

I salute her with my tumbler. “Lucky for me, I never claimed to be a gentleman.” It takes everything I’ve got not to take a swig, but I manage.

“Well, I’m a sprawler, so I need the bed. And who knows what you’ll do to me in my sleep if we share.”

That sets me off. “What the hell? I’m not about to force myself on a woman. My mom raised me better than that.”

“Did she, though?”

I give her an unimpressed look even though she’s the only woman who remotely holds my attention these days.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about.” I rake my gaze up and down her tight, toned body, and joke’s on me because my throat goes dry. “If I wanted you in my bed like that, you’d be begging.”

“The only thing I’d ever beg for is vintage Chanel,” she retorts, but her chest flushes.

“Not true. Moscow. Four years ago. You begged that oligarch to spare that kid’s life.”

It was the only time I’d ever seen Sabrina close to tears, and that was when I realized she didn’t need a power button to turn on. She pretends like she only cares about purses and pistols, but she’s the only assassin I know who will shoot an oligarch between the eyes, get the kid to an orphanage, and give the cab driver a 50 percent tip. Ma’s a big tipper too.

She waves me off. “He was seven. Of course I did. I’m a murderer, not a monster.”

“Only a monster when it comes to sharing a bed, huh?”

“Fine,” she sighs, then loads her gun. “I’ll give you a choice. You can either sleep on the couch or get a bullet in the kneecap.”

She might as well just pee on it with the way she’s trying to claim the bed. “A kneecap shot? You don’t play around, do you?”

“Not when a California king’s on the line.” She fluffs a pillow.