A wry little smile touched his features as he studied her with that steady, infuriating focus—the one that made her feel both seen and dangerously close to exposed.
“Relax,” he said lightly. “It’s the only thing I lie about—bar tabs.”
“So you claim.”
Her lips curved.
“Chivalry via expense account. How very modern of you.”
The corner of his smile deepened into something real.
“Or maybe,” he said, “I like having an excuse to see that look on your face when the bourbon hits.”
She went still for half a heartbeat, acutely aware of his eyes tracking the way her mouth tightened and then softened around another sip.
“So,” he said.
She exhaled softly. “So.”
“You took the Mercer case.”
“Yes.”
He leaned an elbow on the bar, turning slightly toward her.
“I thought you wanted the podcasters out of your life. Not jump straight back into the middle of them.”
She turned toward him, the bar light catching the planes of his face.
“Sometimes the only way to deal with vultures,” she murmured, “is to stop running from them.”
Reid watched her carefully.
“You’re sure about this?”
Her stomach tightened.
Images flashed—microphones shoved in her face years ago, headlines dissecting her like she was a puzzle instead of a person.
She lifted her chin.
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly.
“Then I’m on your side.”
The words landed softly between them.
The certainty in his voice eased a knot she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.
“Just like that?” she asked.
“Just like that,” he said. “I’m not in the business of doubting you, Harper. Especially when those icy blue eyes of yours are that sure.”
Heat flickered low in her stomach at the way he said it.
“That’s good to know.”
