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As Cole walked to the bar, Mira yanked her phone back out of her purse and typed feverishly.
Mira: Help. I’m dying.
Jen: That smolder of his is fairly fatal.
Mira: What am I doing?
Jen: Hopefully getting laid within an inch of your life.
Mira: JEN! Everyone will know we aren’t actually together tomorrow. You should have seen the look Bud gave me tonight. He knew I was full of shit. I’m a terrible actress.
Jen: Yeah, but something tells me Cole’s not. Terrible. At anything.
Mira: Be serious. I need you to tell me what to do.
Mira chewed on her thumbnail, waiting for dots to turn into words.
Jen: Take a breath. Have a drink. And maybe try to trust him. He’s Madigan’s best friend. He agreed to do this for you when he didn’t have to. His public persona is spotless. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t forget to FUCK HIM!
Mira: I’m not fucking someone I just met. I’m not twenty anymore.
Jen: That’s the hill you’re dying on? In this economy?
Mira: haha
Jen: Besides you didn’t just meet. You’ve been long-distance dating for months, right? Lol.
Mira: FML
Jen: Heads up. He’s on his way back to your table. Live the dream!
Jen’s laughter rang through the bar as Mira turned her phone face down on the table and Cole slid into his seat, placing her drink in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said, grasping her straw and sucking down a sip big enough to give her brain freeze.
“So…” He met her stare.
“So…” She did her best not to look away.
Clasping his hands loosely around his beer while she took another sip, he said, “I think what we need here is an icebreaker. Maybe we should play a game.”
Coughing on vodka was surprisingly painful. “A game?”
She must have looked scandalized, because he raised his hands and said, “A purely PG game, promise. I’ll ask you a question, then you ask me a question. Back and forth, to get to know each other. Quid pro quo.”
“LikeSilence of the Lambs?”
His easy laughter loosened her shoulders. “Exactly.”
“Okay, but only as long as I get to be Hannibal.”
“Mira”—his thumb swept languidly up the side of his glass and back down again—“you can be whatever you want.”
Still staring at his thumb, wondering what it might feel like sweeping along her wrist or her neck or her lips, she said, “Can we pass? If a question is too personal, or the answer is too embarrassing?”
“Of course. You aren’t actually behind bars, Dr. Lecter.” After taking a sip of his beer, he said, “You can even go first.”
“What a gentleman.”
