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She looks back.
“What?”
“We have dinner tonight.”
She waits.
“Business,” I add.
“Okay.”
“Black tie.”
Right there something changes.
Barely.
If I hadn't spent years making a fortune by noticing the smallest shifts in people, I might miss it.
Her shoulders lose a fraction of their confidence. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag.
“Oh.”
One word. Soft. Then she recovers.
“Um. Okay.”
But not quickly enough.
I frown.
What the hell was that?
This is a woman who walked into my office and handed me a negotiated contract like she was challenging me to find a loophole. A woman who looked me straight in the eye and called my vetting process creepy. A journalist who sits across from powerful people for a living and asks questions everyone else is too intimidated to ask.
But mention a black-tie dinner and, for one second, she looks—uncertain.
It bothers me immediately. More than it should.
“Is that a problem?”
“No.”
Too fast.
“Miss Hawthorne?”
“I said it's fine.”
Her chin lifts. Armor back in place. I should leave it alone.
I don't.
“You have something appropriate?”
Her eyes flash.
“Yes, Mr. Knight. I own clothing.”
