Page 21 of Leverage & Obedience

He takes care of his people. A protein bar for me and bourbon for Kevin. The exact right thing, without anyone having to ask. My chest goes tight in a way I’d rather it didn’t, and I reach for my wine.

“Your turn,” he says. “Worst temp job.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

“Fine. I got yelled at because I shredded three years of a partner’s billing files instead of filing them.”

He goes very still. “How.”

“There was a bin I thought was for file copies to shred. It was not.”

“Lily.” He practically chokes on a snort.

“They had to subpoena the originals back from a vendor. It took six weeks. I was on a plane to Atlanta long before then.”

When he laughs loudly, my entire body tingles in pleasure. That’s twice tonight. What am I doing? Keeping count of a man’s laugh is not something the fun temp does, but I want more.

“I also showed up to the wrong office for three days. Same building, but the wrong floor. They had a job for me. I just kept showing up.”

He laughs again, and I tally it up with the rest.

We’re on dessert when the conversation drifts to food. He asks if I have a favorite restaurant, and the question is so first-date-normal that I answer without thinking.

“No. I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to have one. By the time I figure out the good places, I’m packing for the next city. The curse of the eternal temp.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His face tightens for half a second before it smooths out.

I’m ready to apologize for the bad joke when he speaks. “I used to have routines. A bakery that I went to every Thursday for lunch. They knew my order.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Routines used to matter more to me than they do now.”

Used to. Past tense. I don’t ask what changed because I’m pretty sure I know, and once you ask, the answer starts to matter. I’m not ready for that.

“Well,” I say, trying to keep the conversation light. “I think I have a favorite restaurant here now. Does that count?”

He smiles. “That counts.”

Between dessert and the check, he tells me about growing up in a small town outside Raleigh. His mom had a half-acre vegetable garden of zucchini and corn, and he built a fence at ten for her because the deer were eating the corn faster than she could pick it. His dad taught him to drive stick in an empty church parking lot at fourteen. Made him release the clutch fifty times before letting him touch the gas.

I love the tone of his voice. I could listen to his stories all night.

“What about you?” he asks. “Family?”

“No siblings. My mom and dad had me late.” I take a sip of wine. “They sold their house three years ago when they retired, andthey’re somewhere in Portugal right now. Last month, they were in Vietnam. They text me photos occasionally.”

“You don’t talk much?”

I shrug. “They text on birthdays. I text back. They’re not bad parents. They’re just having the best time of their lives in cities I can’t pronounce.”

What I don’t add is that moving often runs in the family.

He nods. He doesn’t push.

When the check comes, I don’t want to be done.

“Your place?” I say.

“If you want.”