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He appears satisfied for now. “So, you work alone?”

“Most of the time.” I counter with my own question. “What about you? How long have you been coming here?”

“Long enough.” His hand rests on the table, so close that the thin white scar is visible across his knuckles. “The owner’s a friend.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “That must be nice, having friends in high places.”

“I have friends in all sorts of places.” His eyes drop to my glass, then return to me. “Some higher than others.”

Around us, the crowd has shifted again, the high-tops emptying as more people move toward the small dance floor. The staff navigates the changing space with practiced ease, clearing empty glasses and wiping down tables.

“What about you?” Orien asks, pulling my attention back to him. “Where are your friends?”

“My parents moved a lot when I was growing up,” I say. “Hard to build friendships when you can’t put down roots.”

He doesn’t comment on the deflection, but I catch the slight flare of his nostrils. He rests his arm along the back of my chair, his fingers now only inches away. One lean backward and I’d feel his touch.

“Must have been lonely.”

The observation catches me off-guard.

Because in a family full of Alphas, even with my brother’s unwavering love, yes, it had been lonely.

“I managed.” I push forward with my own line of questioning. “What about you? Have you always lived in Ashford Heights?”

He takes another sip of my drink before answering. “Not always.”

Is his deflection a sign he’s aware of what I’m doing? Worry prickles under my skin, and I take back my drink, needing the burn of whiskey to bring me to my senses.

When I set the glass down, Orien shifts, his knee brushing mine beneath the table, and a spark of recognition sizzles through me.

“The band’s good,” I say, grasping for neutral territory. “They play here often?”

“When they’re not touring,” he answers. “The owner gives them a good rate.”

“That’s nice of him,” I say, resisting the desire to move my leg away. I’m supposed to be seducing this man; sending mixed signals isn’t an option.

“He’s not nice.” The response comes without hesitation. “He’s practical. Good bands draw a crowd.”

I laugh, and the sound feels more genuine than it should. “Practical, then.”

Orien’s mouth curves, warmth in his pale eyes. “That’s one of his better qualities.”

As I reach for my drink, again, Orien’s fingers brush my wrist, the contact lingering a half-second past coincidence.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, which is worse than if he had, because now I’m cataloguing the exact warmth of it, the pressure, storing it away as evidence.

“Favorite music?” he asks over the noise.

“Anything with a good bass line,” I say, a technical truth.

“There’s a blues band on Wednesdays. You’d enjoy them.” He doesn’t ask, he states it. I pivot. “And what do you do when you’re not here, appreciating good bass lines?”

“I read.”

“Anything in particular?” I ask, digging for a crack.

“Whatever I can get my hands on.” His leg settles more firmly alongside mine, and I find myself leaning into the contact rather than away from it.