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"And what's your read on this one?"

She looks around slowly, taking her time about it, and I take the opportunity to look at her.

The line of her jaw. The way her sweater sits across her shoulders, the softness of her against the bar's hard edges. She turns back and catches me mid-assessment and does not even have the decency to let me pretend I was doing something else.

"Tense," she says. "Whatever's happening at that corner table has been happening for a while. The man by the jukebox has not touched his drink in twenty minutes." She meets my eyes. "And you walked over here for a reason that has nothing to do with ordering a second drink."

"I'm a complicated man."

"I'm sure." The corner of her mouth pulls. "How complicated?"

"Long story."

"I've got time." She looks at my glass, then back up. "Apparently so do you."

She is not wrong.

"Long way from Portland," I say.

"Family." The word carries a half-second of weight she does not elaborate on. "You live here?"

"All my life."

"Is it always like this?" She nods toward the room.

"We've had a difficult month."

"The trafficking arrest." She says it without drama, just information she is placing on the table between us. "You were involved."

"We were."

"And the men in this room are yours."

"Most of them."

She glances at the far wall and then back at me, and the look is so unhurried and perceptive that I feel it land somewhere specific. "The man in the work jacket by the door. His drink hasn't moved either."

I look at her.

"That's not a customer," she says.

There is a warmth in my chest that does something inconvenient.

"You should be more careful," I say, dropping my voice, "about saying things like that out loud in a place like this."

"Probably." She turns to face me more squarely on the stool, and now we are close enough that I could reach out and brush that loose strand of dark hair off her cheek without extending my arm more than a few inches. I keep my arm where it is. "But you're not going to do anything about it."

"You're very sure about that."

"You walked over here to make sure I wasn't in a bad seat." She says it like the conclusion was obvious the moment she reached it. "Not to figure out whether I was a liability."

She is right, and the accuracy of it is mildly irritating.

I lean in a little. Her chin comes up and there is nothing defensive about it. It is a response, pure and simple, and her eyes have gotten warmer in a way that she is not trying to hide.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Leah." She says it easily, like she has been waiting for the question. "You're going to tell me yours, or am I reading the patch?"