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Pushing away from the table, I stand. “I’ll be sure to make a motivational poster of that advice at my next available juncture.”
“Rowan.” Her hard tone freezes me in place. I catch those ice blue eyes of hers and feel a glacier seep into my blood. “Sit down.”
I do as I’m told. Though I don’t—for the life of me—know why.
Once I’m back in the chair, she points her remote at the projector and returns to the title slide. “Between the two of us, who actually wants their parents back?”
My jaw tightens, and I look elsewhere, catching Lace’s distant expression. The woman clenches her fist against the table, easing her grip only when Chip covers her hand with his palm.
Briar continues, “You’re going to have to get past this mental road block of yours that suggests I do anything without purpose.” She points at the PowerPoint. “Answer the question.”
Do Pets Like Parks?
I drag my attention off the fancy script. “No.”
“Have you ever been to a park?”
Lacing my fingers together in my lap, I purse my lips. “…no.”
The next few seconds constitute a brief, but effectively chilling, staring contest. At the end of it, Briar says, “I’m free Tuesday morning. I already have the tickets. Wear something comfortable. Maybe not black. I’m worried you’ll overheat since it’s supposed to be sunny.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Brows lifted, she says, “Would you like a printed copy of the dietary spreadsheet so you may plan your meals in advance?”
Moments pass. My ability to object shrivels. If this is where she’s set up to meet an important contact that will give us valuable information, I’m not going to fuss about it. Defeated, I cover my eyes and mutter, “Ideally.”
Paper rustles, then Chip slides me the sheet. When I drop my hand from my face, I find color-coded lines. Neat. Organized.
They make me feel less stabby.
Hand in hand, Chip and Lace slip out of the meeting room while I’m busy scanning the page for anything that resembles food. Given the additives in what would otherwise be great options, I don’t believe they sell food. Is it against the park rules to bring my own lunch?
…
My shoulders sag as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
I’m the leader of a mafia, for crying out loud. Who gives a flying fish if it’s against the rules?
Before I can reconcile my own thoughts, Briar sits on the table in front of me, crossing her legs in such a way that the short skirt she’s wearing today rides up her thighs to reveal the frilly band of her tights.
She’s always so…coordinated.
Silence permeates as I slowly drag my gaze up to her eyes.
She pushes her hair behind her ear, off her chin, and a strand loosens itself to bounce back against the curve of her jaw. “Tough guy.”
For some odd reason, those two words activate my fight or flight response. It takes every muscle in my body tensing to subdue it.
“I respect you.” She uncrosses her legs to cross them the other way. The motion is effin’ hypnotic. “I like taciturn guys. They’re reliable.” Eyes downcast, she tangles her fingers in her lap. “My mother’s the quiet one between my parents. My father and I are the only ones who can make her smile. It’s important to have those kinds of people in your life. Do you have anyone like that, Rowan?”
No. But I have a feeling she already knows that.
Lifting her hand, she combs her fingers through my hair. Every cell in my body stills as all the tension seeps out, leaving me unprotected against this woman. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “We’re on the same side. If you can’t trust anything else, at least believe that. We care about good people, don’t we?”
All of a sudden I’m so tired it isn’t funny. Bracing myself, I straighten the spreadsheet page against the edge of the table. “Sure.”
“I think you’re a good person.”
