Page 73 of Brox Boar

The woman laughs, quick and delighted. “Keys. Options. A little Chicago hospitality.”

I stand beside him, watching the exchange with the same feeling I get when I bite into something too sour.

The woman’s eyes flick to me. Her smile doesn’t falter, yet it changes. She makes a quick assessment.

“Girlfriend?” she asks him, bold.

Brox’s gaze slides to mine, and something in his eyes shifts–silent, private. Not softness. Something steadier.

“She’s with me,” he says.

It isn’t an answer. It’s a claim.

The woman hums as if she likes that. Brox passes his driving license and she types in, her fingers moving fast, then she reaches under the counter and brings out a key fob. She turns it in her hand slowly, prolonging the moment.

“You’ve got yourself a nice ride,” she says.

Brox’s smile is small. “That’s my favorite kind.”

She pushes the fob toward him and lets her fingers brush his knuckles on purpose.

My mouth tightens before I can stop it. He notices. Of course he does.

He takes the key, and his fingers graze hers back–brief, controlled, a courtesy that still reads like flirtation. The woman’s cheeks color, pleased with herself.

I frown at him openly.

Brox’s eyes flash with amusement that doesn’t reach his shoulders. He’s playing. He’s always playing.

Before I can say anything, a commotion pulls my attention to the sliding doors behind us. A man in a dark jacket wheels in a motorbike–sleek, black, polished like it’s been waxed.

Brox steps away from the counter and glances over his shoulder at me.

The woman at the counter still watches him. And now Brox turns to her. “I need a favor.”

Her eyes brighten like she’s being invited into a secret.

“My bags,” he says, gesturing to our luggage. “Deliver them to the Hilton Chicago.”

She blinks. “We don’t–”

Brox’s gaze holds hers. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t threaten. He simply looks at her as if the rules are negotiable and she’s the one who gets to decide whether she wants to disappoint him.

The woman swallows. Smiles again, wider this time. “Hilton Chicago,” she repeats, already typing. “How many?”

“All of them.”

“And your room number?”

Brox pauses just long enough to make it feel intimate, then gives it to her.

She bites her lip as she types, then looks up. “I’ll make sure they arrive.”

“I know you will,” Brox says, and the words sound like praise.

Her shoulders square, proud to be useful.

I stare at him as we step away from the counter.