“No.”
Silence stretches between us.
I clear my throat. “Briefly observing.”
More silence.
“Professionally,” I add, because apparently I am determined to perish.
His jaw flexes.
There is a pause long enough for me to rethink every decision that led me here, including my birth.
Then he says, “My mother’s in town.”
I blink.
That is not what I expect.
“She is?”
He gives one short nod. His mouth tightens, but there is something almost fond buried underneath it. “Arrived last night. Said she wanted to stay with me instead of the hotel.”
“Oh.”
I try to picture the woman who raised Jordan Richmond. My imagination gives me a retired general with a clipboard, a steel-gray bun, and a voice that can make grown men apologize to furniture.
That feels right.
He stares at me.
“She’s noisy,” he says.
I wait.
“So I left early.”
I press my lips together.
Do not smile.
Do not smile at the terrifying man in gray sweatpants.
Do not make a joke that he ran away from his mother.
He looks like he could break someone with one hand, and he fled his own house because the woman who raised him arrived with luggage and maternal opinions.
My mouth twitches.
His eyes narrow further.
Oh no.
He knows.
My face has betrayed me again.
“Something funny, Miss Mullen?”
