I hoped he would make a fool of himself by falling on his ass or slamming into a wall so hard he lost his memory of the detective. But with one last flick of the wrist wave, he turned and followed the other two out.
I moved my death glare from his retreating back, expecting to find Lo’s eyes on him. I’d seen him get enough attention to know women liked what they saw. But when I turned my head, she was watching me. For a beat, my brain and my dick teamed upto insist it was because she wanted to look at me rather than the good-looking kid who was far closer to her age.
My luck wasn’t that good. She was nothing but business. “I know this is a fake interview for appearances only, but do you have any questions?”
Shit. What did it say about me that I hadn’t even thought about that?
There were important things I should ask so I could plan, but when I opened my mouth, none of those questions came out. “Your name actually Lo, or is that an alias?”
“My initials are L.O. Lo is a nickname only my family uses, so no one will make the connection. Plus, it’s something easy that I’ll remember to answer to.”
“What’s your first name?”
“I thought we were back to last names,” she said with the barest hint of a smile, referencing my muttered comment from the police station.
“You call me Mr. Walker, might as well hang your badge around your neck.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure to call you Rhys, and you can call me Lo.”
Like when she’d given me shit about my shrunken tee, her ball-busting took me by surprise.
My mouth curved. “It’s like that, is it?”
“Yup.”
It would’ve been far too easy to sink into that back-and-forth if I let myself. I didn’t.
Time to move on.
“Do you have any bartending or serving experience?” I asked.
“I have both.”
“Good. You got any normal clothes?”
That time, she didn’t look like she was about to roll her eyes. She did it, making it slow and extra dramatic. “These are normal clothes.”
“Not for Rye.”
“Like I said, they’re interview clothes. I dressed the part in case someone is watching the building.”
“If they are, they probably pegged you as a cop. Or they think someone sent me a naughty geriatric stripper-gram.”
The insinuation she was a stripper didn’t seem to bother her. The dig at her style did.
Shoulders back, she put her hands on her hips. “I donotlook geriatric.”
“Your clothes do.”
“They’re professional.”
“Professionally old as shit.”
She let out a muffled groan, and it would’ve been enough to make me hard if not for the twist of her mouth. She was fighting a smile. Withholding it from me.
I wanted it.
No.
