“Originally.”
“And?”
“Vincent showed up.”
“Oh, fuck Vincent. How did he—I don’t even wanna know. Next time, then?”
Since you never do repeats, he’d said, and my body had heated at the wistfulness in his tone.
“I don’t know,” I whispered truthfully, feeling some of that wistfulness myself as Tisha and I took a seat on a couch at the back of the room. “I think that—”
“Never a dull fucking moment,” said a musical voice, and the cushion dipped on my left side. Jay was our favorite lab technician. Or, more accurately, Tisha’s favorite, whom she’d swiftly befriended. By virtue of always being around her, I’d been folded into that relationship. It was the unabridged story of my social life. “I swear to god,” he said, “if they fire all of us and my visa falls through and I have to go back to Portugal and Sana breaks up with me—”
“Love the optimism, babe.” From the other side of me, Tisha leaned forward with a grin. “We researched this whole mess, by the way. We can tell you what a loan assignment is.”
Jay’s eyebrow arched, and the piercings speared through it flickered. “You didn’t know before?”
Tisha shrank back, disappearing behind me. “There, there.” I patted her leg comfortingly. “At least we’ve never pretended to be anything but what we are.”
“Dumbasses?”
“Apparently.”
A waterfall of red curls appeared in the crowd, and the knot of panic in my chest instantly loosened. Florence. Brilliant, resourceful Florence. She was Kline. She’d fought tooth and nail for it, and wasn’t going to allow anyone to take it from her. Certainly not some—
“Who are those four?” Tisha whispered in the sudden hush of the room. Her gaze had drifted past Florence, to the figures standing beside her.
“Someone from Harkness?” Jay guessed.
I had expected slicked-back hair, and suits, and that uniquely off-putting finance bro flair. The Harkness people, however, looked like they might have belonged at Kline in a different timeline. Maybe dressing down was just a power move on their part, but they seemed . . . normal. Approachable. The long-haired woman was at ease in her jeans and seemed pleased with the turnout, and so did the broad-shouldered man who stood just a little too close to her. The tall figure in the well-groomed beard surveyed the room a touch haughtily, but who was I to judge? I’d been told several times I didn’t exactly inspire fuzzy warmth. And the fourth man, the one who joined the group last, gait unhurried and smile confident, he seemed . . .
The blood congealed in my veins.
“I already hate them,” Jay mumbled, making Tisha laugh.
“You hate everybody.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Doesn’t he, Rue?”
I nodded absently, eyes stuck on the fourth Harkness man like a bird caught in an oil spill. My head spun and the room ran out of air, because unlike the others’, his face was familiar.
Unlike the others, I knew exactly who he was.
2
VERY WILLING TO LET HER CONTINUE
ELI
THE PREVIOUS NIGHT
She looked even more beautiful than in her picture.
And she’d looked pretty fucking stunning in that, too, standing in front of a painfully familiar UT Austin sign. Not a selfie—a regular old-school photo, cropped to cut out her companion. All that was left was a slender, dark-skinned arm slung lazily around a shoulder. And, of course, her. Smiling, but only faintly. There, but remote.
Beautiful.
Not that it mattered much. Eli had hooked up with enough people to know that a person’s looks had a little less impact on the quality of casual sex than what that person was looking for. Still, when he arrived at the hotel lobby and spotted her at the bar, sitting straight on the tall stool, he stopped in his tracks. Hesitated, even though his meeting with Hark and the others had run behind, and dropping home to check on Tiny had put him a few minutes late.
She was drinking Sanpellegrino—a relief, since given their plans for the night, anything else would have given him pause. Her jeans and sweater were simple, and her posture was a thing of beauty. Relaxed, yet regal. Spine unbent, but not on edge. She didn’t look nervous, and had the easy air of someone who did this often enough to know exactly what to expect.
Eli remembered her pertinent questions and straight-to-the-point answers. She’d messaged him the day before, and when he’d asked, Where would you like to meet? her response had been,
Not my apartment.
My place doesn’t work either. I can book a hotel and cover the cost.
I’m okay with splitting.
No need.
Works for me, then. FYI, I’ll share my location with a friend who has my login info to the app.
Please do. Would you like my phone number?
We can keep messaging here.
Sounds good. Whatever made her feel safest. The dating app game could be dangerous. Then again, the app they were using wasn’t for dating, not by any correct meaning of the word.
Eli glanced at the woman one last time, and something resembling the anticipation he used to be capable of rose inside him. Good, he told himself. This is going to be good. He started walking again but stopped a few feet away.
When another man approached.
Some poor asshole hitting on her, Eli originally figured, but it quickly became apparent that she already knew him. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in a one-two punch. Her spine locked. She shifted back, seeking more distance.
An ex of some kind, Eli thought as the man spoke urgently. A hushed conversation began, and while the elevator music was too loud for Eli to pick up the words, the tension in her shoulder blades wasn’t a good sign. She shook her head, then ran a hand through her dark, glossy curls, and when they swept to the side, he caught the line of her nape: stiff. Stiffer as the man started talking faster. Inching closer. Gesticulating harder.
Then his hand closed around her upper arm, and Eli intervened.
He was at the bar in seconds, but the woman was already trying to pry herself free. He stopped behind her stool and ordered, “Let her go.”
The man glanced up, glassy-eyed. Drunk, maybe. “This is none of your business, bro.”
Eli stepped closer, bicep brushing against the woman’s back. “Let. Her. Go.”
The man looked, really looked. Had a brief moment of common sense, in which he estimated, correctly, that he had no chance against Eli. Reluctantly, slowly, he unhanded the woman and raised his arms in a peacekeeping gesture, knocking over her glass in the process. “There’s a misunderstanding—”
“Is there?” He glanced at the woman, who was rescuing her phone from a puddle of Sanpellegrino. Her silence was answer enough. “Nope. Get out,” he ordered, at once amiable and menacing. Eli’s entire professional life relied on his ability to find something that would motivate people to successfully do their jobs, and in his expert opinion, this shithead needed to be scared a little.
It worked: shithead glared, ground his jaw, glanced around as though searching for witnesses to join him in denouncing the injustice he was being subjected to. When no one stepped forward, he scuttled angrily toward the entrance of the hotel, and Eli turned toward the woman.