Page 82 of Ricardo

“Convenient. Men love calling things observations when they know they might get in trouble for saying them.”

A laugh moves through me before I can stop it.

Her eyes brighten at the sound, and that is dangerous. Very dangerous territory.

I like that she can make me laugh.

I'm not sure I like that she likes it.

“See?” she says. “You can be less terrifying when properly motivated.”

“I was not aware I was terrifying.”

“Oh, I think you're perfectly aware of it,” she says on a laugh.

I look at her across the table, at the flush still high in her cheeks, the loosened grip on her glass, the mouth I have thought about far too often since a broken carafe and an espresso machine.

“You are staring,” she says.

“Yes.”

The flush in her cheeks deepens. “You’re supposed to deny it.”

“I don’t see the value.”

“In manners?”

“In lying.”

Her lips part slightly, then close again, and I have the unreasonable satisfaction of watching Julia O’Brien lose her next sentence.

Only for a second.

Then she recovers, because she always does.

“You know,” she says, reaching for her Coke with more care than necessary, “most people at least pretend to be subtle.”

“I can be subtle.”

“When?”

“When the situation calls for it.”

“And this situation does not?”

“No.”

Her hand stills on the glass. “Why not?”

Because we are alone in a private dining room with sunlight touching her hair and her temper still warm in the air. Because she is finally looking at me without the full weight of the office between us. Because there are only so many times a man can pretend not to notice the woman in front of him.

Because I am old enough to know better, but apparently not old enough to care.

I do not say any of that.

Instead, I say, “Because you notice anyway.”

Her fingers tighten once around the glass.