Page 4 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“You don’t have an accent.”

He smiles. Just barely. “Nope.”

I snort, making a show of scanning his outfit: The Ralph Lauren polo. The peg-leg chinos fitting almost too snugly. “And the New England frat boy situation you’ve got going on?”

“I went to college in Michigan, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Sure you did.” I tilt my head, trying to figure him out.

Hmmm, this is interesting.

I get it now: the speed of that catch. The easy stance. The fact that his hand was already moving before I made contact.

He saw me coming.

I study him with new eyes and realize I might have just tried to pick the pocket… of a pickpocket.

He’s still holding my wrist.

I’m still not pulling away.

He takes one small step closer, and without raising his voice at all, tilts his head so that his mouth is level with my ear and says, just above a whisper: “Crime doesn’t pay.”

The warmth of his breath skims the shell of my ear and travels straight down to my knees, which make a completely unilateral decision to stop cooperating with the rest of my body. I lock them in place through sheer stubbornness. My skin prickles everywhere he isn’t touching, which is most of me, and my brain offers exactly one unuseful thought:

Ay, caramba.

I swallow, and my voice comes out a little too shaky. “Maybe I just wanted your number,” I say.

He pulls back. Looks at me. Something in his expression shifts. Still amused, but a different frequency entirely.

He lets go of my wrist. “Maybe you should have led with that.”

And then he slides his hands into his pockets and turns back to the waterfront, and I’m standing there holding absolutely nothing, my wrist still warm where his fingers were, blinking at the back of his head.

The nerve of him.

I walk back toward Rue with my dignity just a tiny bit smooshed.

She has abandoned the tree entirely and materialized from behind a park bench about fifteen feet away, watching me with an expression I can only describe as forensic.

“Don’t,” I say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking very loudly.”

She falls into step beside me and we walk in silence for a full ten seconds, which for Rue is something close to a spiritual achievement.

I glance back, just once, because I’m a human being with eyeballs, thank you. Watchy El Hottie is by the waterfront again, phone in hand, utterly unbothered. Like the whole thing was a mildly pleasant way to pass three minutes and nothing more.

Unbothered. HA! The absolute nerve.

It’s fine. I’ll never see that man again in my life. I have a job to think about. A crew to assemble. Several weeks of logistics and reconnaissance and very important things that are not brown eyes and warm hands.

We find a bench near the fountain, and I lay out the basics.

“July first,” I say. “We meet back here. I’ll have the full team confirmed by then.”