“Stop staring at me like that.” Betsy’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
I blinked and looked away, embarrassed at being caught. “Like what?” Yes, okay, maybe I’d studied her longer than manners allowed, but it hadn’t beenlikeanything. I was supposed to pay attention, after all. How could I do that and not look at her?
“Like”—she waved her hand up and down the space in front of my body like a metal detector—“how you were.”
I wanted to press and see if she’d straight-out accuse me of something this time. Instead, I took a step back. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
She blinked, but not before I witnessed surprise flash across her eyes.
The customer in front of us moved down the counter. It was our turn to order. I looked to Betsy. Ladies first.
“I’ll have a medium flat white.”
I opened my mouth to add my order, my eyes on the menu.
“That will be all,” Betsy said, her voice strict and brooking no argument.
I glanced down at her, and she met my gaze head on. Normally, I’d offer to pay for her drink. Because it was the gentlemanly thing to do and also because this was a work-related meeting and I wanted to hire her. All the vibes radiating from her small frame, however, told me to speak or reach for my wallet at my own risk.
Not a risk I was willing to take.
Once Betsy paid and I ordered my own cold foam cold brew, we found a free table off to the side. She sat, spine rigid. She appeared more sentry on duty than potential employee.
“How’s your morning been so far?” Pleasantries were always a good place to start. Maybe they’d help her relax a bit. Let her know that I was completely harmless—and really, why wasn’t that her initial starting place to begin with?
She regarded me warily, her shoulders relaxing not an inch. “So far so good.”
I leaned back in my chair, projecting nonchalance and openness. “I’m glad to hear it.”
The barista called our names and set down two cups on the counter. Betsy made to stand, but I beat her to it.
“I’ll grab them.”
She seemed to deliberate, then lowered herself back to the seat.
It only took a few seconds to retrieve our drinks and return to the table. Betsy accepted her hot coffee and blew across the small hole in the lid before taking a tentative sip.
She set the coffee cup down. Her fingers fiddled with the cardboard sleeve wrapped around the cup.
Was that a hint of vulnerability to her movements?
She looked up. Her eyes glinted.
Okay, maybe not.
“Was the price you are willing to pay that you wrote on the back of your card real, or are you screwing with me and wasting my time?”
I wiped the top of my lip in case the cold foam had left a white Gomez Adams pencil mustache there. “I assure you, I’m not”—I couldn’t sayscrewing. Maybe it was prudish of me, but I couldn’t help but picture my granny clutching her pearls at what she’d deem vulgar language—“messingwith you. True North is in desperate need of a skilled sound engineer, and we’re coming down to the wire to procure one.”
She took another sip of her coffee. “When does the tour start?”
“In a little less than two weeks.”
“Where will you be playing?”
“Fairly local. Just the southwest. A few spots within the southern counties of California along with some venues in Arizona and Nevada.”
“Duration?”
