Page 26 of Shadow

Yeah, he’d felt like a hero.

And he’d liked it.

His phone buzzed.

Text from Patterson:

Patterson

Conference Room B. 9am. Don’t be late.

Asher checked the time.

8:47 a.m.

Right.

He slid off the exam table. Grabbed his jacket. The movement pulled at his stitches. Fresh pain lanced up his arm, a reminder it was time to pay attention and leave the woman in the diner behind.

Asher pulled into the FBI office parking lot at 8:52 a.m. and got out of the car. Cold November air hit him as he walked across the parking lot. He badged through security. Took the elevator to the third floor.

He stopped outside Conference Room B and took a breath.

He knocked.

“Come in.”

Female voice. Calm. Controlled.

Asher opened the door.

And froze.

The woman from the diner sat at the conference table.

Auburn hair pulled back in a neat ponytail now, though a few strands had escaped to frame her face. Those striking green eyes sharp and assessing. Strong jawline that spoke to determination, maybe stubbornness. The freckles across her nose and cheeks were more visible now, scattered like someone had flicked a paintbrush across her skin. Athletic build obvious even sitting down—shoulders squared, posture perfect, the kind of presence that filled a room without trying.

Pretty.

The word surfaced before he could stop it.

Not magazine-cover pretty. Something better. The kind of woman who turned heads without trying.

She stood.

Extended her hand. Professional. “Agent Morrison.”

Asher’s brain struggled to catch up, and he emitted an oh so witty “Um…”

“Daphne Cross.”

“Right.” And then he had to know. “Did you know who I was at the diner?”

She nodded.

Asher blinked. So much for first impressions.

He took the seat across from her. Set his coffee on the table. Met her eyes. “That…that wasn’t fair.”