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“Flash drive,” he chokes out, “in my left pocket. Her file’s on it.”
“That wasn’t so hard.”
I release my hold on his throat. The man sucks in large breaths, causing the barrel of the gun to press deeper into his ribcage. I retrieve the USB, and once the item is in my possession, I lower the weapon, my grip on it still tight.
“Whatever agreement you had with Miss Green ends today. As of this moment, I’m taking over the investigation. You will not contact her for any reason. If I find that you’ve spoken to her or arranged a meeting of any kind, I will come after you. And that’s when things will get interesting. Nod if you understand what I’m telling you.”
The man’s head bobs up and down, his gaze wide.
“Very good.” I quickly remove the clip from the gun and any bullets resting in the chamber before handing the empty firearm back to him. “Remember what I said. Miss Green is off limits to you.”
And anyone else.
Only until I discover why she affects me in ways I can’t understand.
Or explain.
Chapter4
Calista
Harper gives my fingers a squeeze.“Are you sure you don’t want a cake pop?” When I shake my head again, she sighs and retracts her hand. “Fine.”
The door opens. Out of habit, we swing our gazes in that direction. And my day goes from awful to complete shit.
I narrow my eyes while Harper’s widens. “Who is that?” she asks, her voice near breathless.
“Another asshole in a trench coat.”
The man is dressed in a tailored, navy-blue business suit that’s perfectly fitted to his tall, athletic frame. His crisp white shirt accentuates his broad shoulders, while the silk tie knotted at his throat emphasizes the length of his torso. Over the suit is a wool overcoat that’s dark gray and reaches his knees. Currently, the coat is unbuttoned, allowing a glimpse of the expensive attire underneath and adding a touch of casual sophistication.
None of the elegance he wears compares to the beauty of his face.
He stares straight ahead, giving me a view of his square, clean-shaven jaw and dark hair, styled with a purposeful disarray, a wayward black strand grazing his forehead. The man’s lips are generous, forming a mouth that could easily slope into a smile or thin with disapproval. I’ve never seen the former, but I’ve had plenty of experience with the latter.
Harper grins at me, her gaze never leaving the newcomer. “I’m calling dibs.”
“You can have him,” I mutter.
But she’s already gone, sashaying over to the register. “Good morning, sir. Welcome to the Sugar Cube. What can I get for you?”
“Black coffee. Large.”
His voice fills the room like his presence. Commanding yet smooth, like silk on skin. I force myself to stare out the window despite my body urging me to look at him.
“And the name for your order?”
The man lifts a dark brow as if to tell Harper she’s ridiculous for asking since he’s the only one in line. Little does he know she has the fortitude of a Spartan. In terms of boldness, if anyone could give Gerard Butler a run for his money, it’d be her. I can easily imagine her shouting “this is Sugar Cube” in a customer’s face.
My friend merely waits, her stare no less daunting, her smile losing none of its impishness.
“Bennett,” he says, the syllables clipped.
My co-worker grins at him, the green of her eyes close to emeralds, alight with her small victory. “I’ve got you, Mr. Bennett.” She whips out her Sharpie with the flourish of a showman and scribbles on the cup as though gifting him with her autograph. “Anything else?”
He shakes his head and a lock of his hair sways against his forehead. From the corner of my eye, I catch Harper’s fingers straightening. She wants nothing more than to brush back the errant strand, to remove his devil-may-care appearance.
And his clothes.
