Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Running shell-company directors. If any name pops with warrants, we’ll use it to pressure local law enforcement. But that takes time.”
Time we may not have. I rub the bridge of my nose. “I’ll shadow Charlotte tonight. She thinks it’s girls-night only; we’ll see.”
“Stick to her like epoxy,” Dean says, echoing his earlier order. “Wade’s leverage crumbles if Charlotte’s off the table. That makes her target #1.”
“Roger that.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Dean adds, softer, “You good?”
My laugh is a humorless puff of air. “Define good.”
“You sound… invested.”
“She’s my client.” Even to my own ears it’s mechanical. The image flashes: Charlotte on the trail, fingers white-knuckled on the reins, and then how her hand fit into mine afterward like it belonged there. I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
Dean doesn’t press, but his final words linger after the line goes dead: “Keep your head, Hawke. Feelings get you killed.”
I stow the evidence envelope in my pocket, then take the back stairwell two flights up, emerging in a staff lobby adjacent to Vintner’s. A carved wooden screen hides me from the main dining area but gives partial sightlines through its lattice. I lean against the wall, one ear on the corridor, eyes tracking the bar.
Charlotte sits at a high-top with Melanie, half-turned toward the room, posture open, legs neatly crossed. Defensive line of sight—good girl. A rosé spritzer glints by her elbow. She’s had maybe two sips. Melanie gestures animatedly, telling some hilarious story if the broad grin is any indication. For a moment Charlotte’s laughter rings out—pure, clear, nothing forced. It spears something in my chest I don’t name.
Threat assessment cycles anyway. Patrons count: twenty-seven visible. Staff: four bartenders, six servers. Potential shooters’ lanes: front door to bar (forty feet, obstructed by wine rack); kitchen swing door (thirty-five feet, partial cover); mezzanine balcony above (seventy feet, downward angle). I map angles, memorize faces, measure distances to nearest exits.
Mid-scan, Charlotte’s gaze skims the room and snags on me. Surprise flickers, then relief, then something that looks dangerously like fondness. She raises her glass an inch in silent salute. I nod—a small, steadying motion. Her shoulders relax another notch. Melanie twists in her chair, spots me, and flashes a grin that’s two parts mischief, one part I-see-you-watching-my-friend.
Ten minutes pass, maybe fifteen. I order club soda from a passing server— tip heavy to stay invisible— and keep vigil. Everything stays mundane until a figure appears in the bar entrance: Wade Sinclair, slate-gray suit tailored within an inch of its life, hair slicked back with boardroom precision. My muscles coil. He scans the lounge, locks onto Charlotte, and his lips curve. Shark scenting blood.
But before he can move three steps, Melanie slides off her stool, intercepting with saccharine enthusiasm— clearly stalling. Charlotte’s eyes widen. She covertly pulls out her phone, typing. A second later my screen vibrates:
C: He’s here.
I push off the wall, ready to intervene, when the bartender swings a new tray of drinks across Wade’s path, forcing him to sidestep. Small delays—a godsend.
Wade frowns, checks his watch, and then vanishes the way he came. I exhale slowly, tension leaking out by a few degrees. Charlotte catches my eye, and I give a short nod—crisis fucking averted. For now.
The women settle their tab. I drift to the corridor outside, so I can fall in with them naturally. When Charlotte rounds the corner, she arches a brow.
“Decided to join us after all?”
“Stakeout was riveting,” I deadpan, and she chuckles despite the long day weighed on her shoulders.
Melanie pats Charlotte’s arm. “Your broody shadow kept his distance, promise. Though next time I expect him at the table—there’s only so much bubbly I can drink alone.” She winks at me.
“Rain check,” I say. My gaze skims the hallway—clear—then back to Charlotte. “Ready?”
We escort Melanie to her suite first—sixth floor—then take the elevator down. Charlotte leans against the mirrored wall, fatigue softening the edges of her posture. Yet when she meets my reflection, her eyes are bright. She doesn’t speak until the doors slide open on four.
“Thank you,” she says quietly as we walk toward our room.
“For what?”
“For being there. For…doing this. Whatever this is.”
I unlock the suite, usher her inside. Only when the door’s bolted do I let my guard drop an inch. “This is me keeping you alive,” I say. “And maybe making sure you can laugh again without looking over your shoulder.”
She slips off her wedges, stands barefoot on the plush carpet, and studies me with a searching kind of gratefulness that twists my insides. “You know, that almost sounded like feelings.”
“It’s professionalism.” I start to turn away, but she steps closer, fingertips brushing my sleeve. Needle-shock of connection. Damn.
“I like your brand of professionalism,” she whispers. Then, mercifully, she heads to the bathroom to change.
I exhale, forehead against the wall. Dean’s warning echoes: Keep your head clear. But as Charlotte hums behind the door—some random jazz melody picked up in the lounge—I find clarity slipping, one note at a time.