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“No, you don’t.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you accepted a drink from me after Mercy warned you.”

“That means I’m brave.”

“That means you’re reckless.”

“Maybe I’m both.”

His gaze moves over me slowly enough that I feel it in places he ain’t touching. “Maybe.”

I should look away.

I don’t.

“Why are you suspicious of me?” I ask.

His eyebrows lift. “Who says I am?”

“Your whole face.”

“My face says a lot of things.”

“Right now it says you think I’m either stupid, dangerous, or lying.”

He takes a sip from his cup. “Most people are at least two out of three.”

“And me?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“Let me know when you do.”

“I will.”

“I appreciate communication.”

“You always this direct?”

“When I ain’t using my government name, apparently.”

That gets another low laugh out of him.

Goodness, I like that sound.

I wish I didn’t. I wish I was the sort of woman who could see a walking red flag and choose a different parade. But I’ve always had a bad habit of finding beauty in places with warning signs. Old cemeteries. Abandoned houses. Thunderstorms. Men with scars and mean mouths.

Bitter Adams looks like all four.

“So what brings you to the dead side of beauty school?” he asks.

“I like makeup.”

“A lot of people like makeup.”

“I like quiet.”