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Not attraction.

Not curiosity.

Vesper doesn't choose words carelessly.

Especially not these.

My chest tightens.

Why hate?

We've fought.

Competed.

Provoked each other.

But hate?

No.

This is something else.

I close the book.

Then immediately reopen it.

Same line.

Same impact.

My espresso sits forgotten.

I look toward the entrance.

She's somewhere nearby.

Maybe.

Or she left the book with the kid an hour ago.

A day ago.

She plans farther ahead than most intelligence services.

I reach for NULL.

Stop.

Something isn't right.

The book.

Not emotionally.

Logistically.

I never told Vesper where I was having this meeting.