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“You’ve dated this guy since high school?”
Fuck.
High school sweethearts? I didn’t even know that shit existed anymore.
“No. He’s a couple of years older than me. He was in my sister’s grade and they were friends. He and I didn’t get together until after. Once we were both at UT, I ran into him one day on campus and … we just …”
She trails off, leaving the rest to my imagination. Which unfortunately fills in the gaps.
“So he’s what? Four years older than you?”
Her head whips around. “Yeah. How did you know that?”
“You said he graduated with your sister.”
“So?”
“She’s four years older than you, right?”
“Yeah, but?—”
“You talked about her in the elevator, remember?” I can’t remember exactly what she said about her sister, but I’m pretty sure the age difference didn’t come up, so I’m hoping she doesn’t push for more details. I certainly don’t want to explain how and why I know her sister’s age. Hell, her age, her employment history. Her social security number and bank routing information. I’m pretty sure that if Trinity knew how deeply our lives are intertwined at this point, she’d leap from the car into oncoming traffic.
When she doesn’t question me on why I know so much about her sister, I ask, “So you ran into Trent at UT? What’s he do now?”
“He works for a start-up. They design … chips or something. Microchips. Not corn chips.”
I laugh. “That’s a shame. The world needs a better designed corn chip.”
“Shut your mouth!” she says playfully. “Tortilla chips are perfect just as they are!”
“Of course. I meant potato chips.”
She makes a show of being appeased. “Ah … then I suppose I can live with that. There might be room for improvement there.”
“So he’s an engineer?”
Again she hesitates. “Marketing, actually.” Then abruptly, she twists to face me. “What about you?”
“Oh, I don’t have a boyfriend who markets chips.”
She lets out a bark of laughter that I find oddly satisfying. Then ruins it by adding, “I didn’t know lawyers were allowed to have a sense of humor.”
“We’re not. I bought mine on the black market. If you tell the Bar, they’ll confiscate it.”
“You’re in luck, I am unlikely to be chatting up anyone from the Bar anytime soon. I mean, what even is ‘The Bar’? Do y’all meet there and hang out? Does it have a physical space or is it just a metaphoric construct?”
“Asks the woman who argued the waiter of Le Petit Bistro might be smarter than her.”
She ignores my quip. “I always pictured it like one of the regency-era gentlemen’s clubs.”
“You’ve always pictured it? As in, this is something you’ve thought about before?”
“Only when I’m fantasizing about potential terrorist attacks.”
Since we’re at a light, I slant her a look. She’s got her head tipped back against the headrest. Her eyes are half closed, her lips curved in a semi-smile. She’s fucking-stunning like this. Relaxed, a little buzzed, almost content. Amused.
Okay, to be fair, she’s always fucking stunning—whether she’s scowling with barely tapped fury, perfect ass in the air doing downward dog, or just handing me an egg. She is always stunning.
