Page 17 of His Daughter

Neither am I. Not tonight. Not with you.

"There's a bar I know. It's not far," she continued.

"Lead the way, Ms. Calloway."

She led — six blocks through streets that grew narrower and louder, away from midtown and into her neighborhood. I matched her pace without asking her to slow down.

Willow's. No sign, just a green door tucked below street level. Inside, it was small and loud — exposed brick, warm light, and the works. A bartender with a shaved head and tattooed forearms glanced up when we walked in.

"Thea." He grinned. "Weeks. Weeks, Thea."

"Been busy, Leo."

She slid onto a stool and hooked her clutch under the bar. "Two of the usual." Leo looked at me, then at her. "Leo, this is Declan."

"Declan." He nodded, his eyes studying me intensely. "Nice jacket."

"Thank you."

"Don't break anything." He turned and made the drinks.

I smirked. "He's warm."

She took the drink Leo slid toward her. "You'll grow on him."

"Most people like me immediately."

"Most people don't know you."

I picked up my glass. "Touché, Calloway."

We moved to a corner booth. The seat pushed us together — shoulder to shoulder, my arm along the back behind her, her warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of her dress into my arm. She didn't lean away. She leaned in to speak over the music, her mouth close to my ear. I could smell lavender on her neck — soft, warm, lingering just beneath her ear.

"I'm very good at pushing people away," she said. "You should probably know that upfront."

"I'm very good at leaving, so we're even." I winked at her.

She looked up at me. The smile that came was something I hadn't seen before. I wanted to kiss her so badly my hand tightened around the glass until my knuckles went white.

Leo brought another round. Our hands rested on the table, side by side, pinkies almost touching. She told me about a client who'd just been placed in permanent housing after eighteen months, her whole body angled toward the story.

She turned to say something, and my face was right there — inches away. Her lips parted. The sentence evaporated.

The bar noise faded. The crowd faded. Her mouth. My eyes. The inch of space between us that had been closing all night finally ran out of room.

I pulled back.

"Come on." I dropped a bill on the table and stood, offering my hand. "Let's walk."

She took it. Her fingers were cool, fitting inside my palm.

I shrugged off my jacket and settled it around her shoulders, my hands lingering on the collar, my thumbs brushing the sides of her neck. She looked up at me from inside the jacket. The image of her tiny frame seared itself into my memory so completely that I knew I'd see it behind my closed eyes for weeks.

We walked. She told me about a dating show — a competition she apparently watched with wine, offering, according to her, "passionate editorial commentary" to the screen.

"One contestant picked the investment banker who forgot her name. Twice." She held up two fingers. "And she picked him over the kindergarten teacher who brought her favorite flowers to every ceremony."

"Maybe she liked finance."