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“He surely doesn’t belong here,” I murmur in Rachel’s ear as we slink toward an older couple with particularly pinched expressions. I keep an eye on the waiter in the corner. He’s about six foot and two-fifty, with humped, rounded shoulders and the posture of an angry silverback gorilla.

“They hire the caterers for the night,” Rachel says without pausing her stride. “They don’t work here regularly.”

I mean, all these folks are probably on hire for the night, but you can tell the ones who’ve been to a rodeo like this before. “Mmm.”

But if Angry Silverback worked for the catering company, wouldn’t his shirt at least fit? It’s far too tight around the shoulders, the buttons stretched taut, like it’s borrowed from somebody else—and he keeps looking over his left shoulder like he expects his long-lost ass-beating grandma to show up with a ruler and a harsh critique.

Nah. Pretty sure I got one.

“And this is my dad’s bridge teammate, Anthony . . .” Rachel’s words drag me back from my investigation to the pinch-faced couple in front of us.

“Such a pleasure,” I murmur to the leering white-haired man, giving him my widest grin. He looks right past me like I don’t exist, so I lean close to whisper against Rachel’s ear. “He just took a gander at your boobs, you know that? I mean, you do have great boobs—”

I’m still watching Silverback out of the corner of my eye.

“It was so lovely to see you, Tony.” Rachel drags me on to the next couple wilting against the wall, like I’m an unwilling verbal dance partner. “Jax.”

“Who’s that dude?” I ask instead of answering, tracking a skinny white guy in a powder-blue tux. “He just blatantly checked out my ass. Maybe I’ll go ask for his number.”

“Wishful thinking.” Rachel pinches my side, then drags me on. “Stop paying attention to what everyone else is paying attention to.”

“It’s good to notice what other people notice.”

’Cause where their focus goes, the things that capture their interest or elicit emotion, the things they care about . . . that’s how you herd them. You gotta know what they’re feeling to learn which direction to lead.

Rachel, once again, brings me back. “And this is Mom’s crochet friend.”

“So lovely to meet you, darling.” Right, yeah, and the way Mom’s Crochet Friend is staring at my mouth, I figure after a few more smiles, I could probably straight up ask her for the necklace around her neck. Or, you know, just slip my fingers into her purse.

“Dan Farthington and his daughter, Ella.”

“Having a good time at the party, Ella?” I want to chuckle, ’cause Ella’s eyes are so glazed with boredom, I almost wonder if she’s a little stoned. All I’d have to do is offer her a taste of something remotely interesting, and she’d be mine.

“C’mon, Jax.” Rachel drags me away—

“Ha! This is why you look at other people,” I hiss in her ear. “Your friend Ella just stuck her hand in some old guy’s pocket and nipped his wallet.”

What a fucking champ! My hero for the night. “Nobody ever watches hands.”

“Jax,” Rachel groans.

“I’m serious! Fucking hands, man. How d’you think I’m so good at card games? Everybody’s too busy making eye contact—or doing that forehead trick bullshit—to pay attention.”

They’re looking at forehead wrinkles, and I’m making note of the little scars, stains, the dirt under nails or caught in the creases of knuckles, the flutter of nerves, the tap of distraction, the pat of a pocket.

The sleight of said hands.

“Most people’s brains don’t do as much washing-machine bullshit as yours,” Rachel says, which I guess is a good point. My brain’s always going about a thousand miles an hour. Maybe I’m predisposed for this bullshit. Or I’ve just been doing it so long, I don’t know how to turn it off—

Maybe that’s why my eyes head straight to the waiter off by the door.

“Who’re you staring at this time?” Rachel asks as we pause to collect glasses from a passing waiter. The server passes, but she follows my gaze. “Someone else who doesn’t belong?”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s so obvious!” I nudge behind her to tip half my glass into a potted plant. No drinking for Jax tonight.

This fella’s the opposite of the last—built like a beanpole, with a troll-doll tuft of hair, dark skin, and—“He’s like the most squirrely shifty-lookin’ dude I’ve ever seen.”

“He’s probably just nervous about working at a fancy party.”