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Black irises.

Golden flecks.

“You’re not scared of airplanes, are you?” he asks.

No.

Not airplanes.

I’m scared of five-foot-four Caribbean women with hands as heavy as paddleboards and the aim of an Olympic javelin thrower, especially when she’s got that Jamaican slippers leveled at my head.

I gulp.

“Here.” Brogan takes off his thermal and slips it over me. “You’re shaking.”

The jacket smells like him.

Something clean. Warm. Earthy.

I like it.

Like the smell.

It’s calming.

I inhale deeply.

“That’s it.” He nods. Blue eyes dart over my face. “Better now?”

“Yes.”

He shifts in his seat. Pulls down the window shade so I can’t see the clouds. “You said you wanted to talk rules.”

Rules.

Right.

Laws.

Boundaries.

That’s important.

“There are a few things,” I begin.

“Wait, let me take out my laptop.” He pulls a fancy model from his briefcase and opens the lid.

“Does it need to be that official?”

“I’m a lawyer.” He shrugs. “Everything needs to be written in clear, concise language. Hazard of the trade.”

I stare at him. “You’re a lawyer?”

His lips do that twitching thing again.

“I mean…” My eyes drift away.

He doesn’t look like a lawyer. An assumption I realize now is a little unfair. Lawyers don’t have one type of look. Just because he wears ripped jeans and has a scraggly beard doesn’t mean he couldn’t study for years to pass the bar exam.