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And maybe that’s why I say the next thing. Give him more—so much more—than I should. “If you’re a cop . . . you want a tip?”

“A tip?” Both brows lift over the top of his mask. “What kind of tip?”

“Okay.” I bite back on a laugh. “That does kind of sound like a dick joke. But it wasn’t, I promise. I mean . . . okay.” I’m definitely laughing now, but I choke it down to try to find some semblance of seriousness. Why the shit is this guy unraveling me so much? “Okay, dicks aside, I’m like, really good at reading people.”

Does he angle more toward me? “How so?”

Am I actually gonna do this? Let this random—possible law enforcement officer—dude in on my deepest, darkest secrets? It’s dumb, so fucking stupid, but for some reason, standing on this wall, almost close enough to touch, feels right.

Something about this guy, this conversation, this position on the wall, feels . . . right.

Dunno why. It’s one of those things that makes absolutely no sense but you kinda wanna do it anyway. When the world’s whispering in your ear, when there’s that little invisible hook tugging at your belly, when everything’s telling you to defy logic . . . Who am I to question the hand of the universe?

Sometimes, you just follow what feels right. No need to complicate shit.

I lift a finger to point, lean in closer, and for a moment, I think I catch the tang of the desert in my nose. “You see that lady there?”

His gaze follows my finger across the room. “I see her.”

“What do you notice about her?”

He crosses his arms over his chest—and I definitely don’t note the way that suit jacket hugs those biceps—in an almost relaxed gesture. His soft grey eyes study her in quick flicks. “She’s mid-forties, takes care of herself, couldn’t hide a weapon in that dress, not that she has any training—”

I bark out a laugh. “I fucking knew it! I knew you were a weapons guy.”

“Well, I am a cop, right?” Does his mouth quiver with the barest hint of amusement, or is that wishful thinking on my part?

I laugh again. Shit, this guy’s so fun. “What else? Anything?”

I watch him struggle—the flick of eyes, arch of brows, slight twitch of jaw, the tightening of fingertips against his suit jacket—but he comes up empty. “She’s wearing makeup, designer labels? So, she’s . . . rich . . .”

“She’s here. You don’t need all that shit to know she’s rich and fancy.”

“All right, then.” His head tilts toward me, and there’s a definite angle to his mouth that I might almost identify as a challenge. “What do you see, since you’re so good at reading people?”

“She doesn’t have a purse. Or a clutch,” I say, keeping my face serious despite the way I want to grin with the shit I’m about to lay down. “No pockets in her dress. No place for her makeup, her valet tag, her coat check. So, she’s here with someone, someone she trusts, someone a bit whipped. Not her husband, because what self-respecting middle-aged man is prancing around a hoity-toity party like this carrying his wife’s clutch? Nah, I’m betting her escort tonight is her wannabe boy toy.”

I dare a glance toward Blondie. Oh, yeah. He’s impressed. Or at least . . . startled? He’s something. Which makes me work that much harder to bite down on my grin. I am kind of killing it, though, right? Even before I nudge a finger out in the direction of the skinny mid-twenties dude with a bulging back pocket. “Boy toy.”

“Shit.” Blondie almost laughs. Not quite, it’s more of a sort of reluctant huff of air. But damn, for him, I bet that’s about as close to laughter as he gets. I’ll fucking take it. That is, until he keeps talking. “So, why do I care? Where’s the tip—please leave your dick out of this.”

I can’t help it. I tilt my head back and I laugh. Shit, he’s so fun. Like more fun than I’ve had since—no. Not thinking about that. I rein in my amusement. “Okay, that was just proof of my legitimacy. You want a tip?”

And then I do a very, very stupid thing. I lift my finger again. Point. Again. Except this time, I’m not pointing at some harmless middle-aged yoga booty. This time, I’m pointing at the Angry Silverback. You know, the one I’m supposed to be keeping my stupid brown eyeballs on, not spotlighting for any grey-eyed cops.

And yet, here we are.

“What about him?”

“You tell me?”

I watch him watch Silverback. Just like before, his eyes flickering over the frame from top to bottom, probably analyzing all the places he could be packing a weapon. Definitely has more spots than on Yoga Booty.

“Mid-thirties,” Blondie muses, his voice a low hum that somehow still sets my skin tingling. “Light callus on knuckles, can likely handle himself in a fight. Shirt—shirt doesn’t fit, so . . . not his?”

The last almost comes out as a question, and the way his gaze angles back toward me, I realize it is, that it’s something he might not have noticed before now. Or maybe not something he’d have cared about.

Interesting.