“Right. Well, you don’t seem like the type who stays in one place for too long,” Kross said.
“Neither do you. And let me guess, you’re not here on vacation.”
The silence that had followed had stretched for a minute or two, but not in an awkward way. It was she who had broken it.
“You’re not going to tell me your name, are you?” she asked him, her fingers tracing the rim of her wineglass.
“I was wondering the same about you.”
She laughed at that. “Mia,” she said, offering her hand.
He kissed the top of her hand, and said, “Max.”
“Mister Max,” she said, testing the sound of it as if it was a note on the piano. “Let me guess ... you’re not a reporter, and your shoes tell me you’re not a banker either.”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“Make my day, Mister Max. Tell me you’re a talent agent that will help me fill the biggest auditoriums.”
He smirked at that. “Sorry to disappoint. I just drink whiskey and watch beautiful women play piano.”
“Oh? And that’s a full-time job?”
“Lately, yeah.”
She laughed again. “I hope you’ve enjoyed tonight’s assignment?”
“How could I not?”
“Do you always flirt this much with women you’ve just met?”
“Only the ones who make it impossible not to.”
Mia’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what happens when the music stops?”
“Honestly, it’s up to you,” he replied. “I’m headed up.”
She’d held his gaze for a moment, then picked up her wineglass and took the last sip before she’d stepped away from the bar and followed him to the elevator.
The elegant dress she’d been wearing the night before, which Kross had removed hurriedly, almost violently, as they had undressed each other, had been replaced by one of his white dress shirts, the sleeves casually rolled up to her elbows and the top three buttons left undone. He could see a gold necklace glisten as it caught the sunlight each time she moved.
Since neither of them had felt like leaving the room, Kross had ordered an impossibly large breakfast, selecting pretty much the entire menu.
Another notification appeared on his phone.
“Seriously, who is it?” Mia asked again, dipping a piece of avocado into Greek yogurt.
Kross looked at his screen, then said, “My parents.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Kross wondered why he had told Mia, a woman he barely knew, the truth. Lying should have come easily to him; it always had before. Yet something about Mia disarmed him and made him want to be truthful. The realization unsettled him.
Mia leaned in and asked, “Then why the death stare at your phone?”
Kross considered the question. The truth was, though he loved his parents very much, he regretted sharing his personal phone number with them. Every time he turned it on—no more than once a week for operational security—there were at least half a dozen messages from them. He had made them promise they would contact him only in case of emergency. But it was now clear to him that his definition of what consisted of a strict emergency wasn’t the same as it was for his parents, who had both turned seventy in the last six months.
“How often do you check in with your folks?” he asked, curious but uncomfortable with the idea that he genuinely wanted to know the answer.
“Coffee every other morning, dinner every Sunday,” she replied. “When I’m not traveling, of course.”
