Chapter 8

• Whatever happens, I absolutely cannot afford to let my guard down.
• She’s walking right past the target, a middle-aged woman with a bob haircut, and a pinched expression sitting three tables away.
• But my eyes are on Izzy and the way her blonde hair catches the sunlight. Her skin looks golden, and she’s wearing a pale-yellow dress that accents her curves and hangs just below her knees.
• She spots me, and her stride falters slightly, but she manages a warm smile as she sits and leans forward. “Carlton Stanford owns this restaurant, doesn’t he?”
• A smile twitches on my lips. I should have guessed she’d know that. “He does.”
• She nods slightly and takes a sip from her water glass. “And that’s why you choose here? Are you hoping to see him?”
• I shake my head and keep my voice low. “No, I’m hoping to find out more about his staff.”
• My eyes drift to the thug leering at Izzy behind the bar, and Isabel follows my gaze. She toys with a fork as she returns her gaze to me. “And that’s why you’re here? To see if you can get his staff to talk to you?”
• I keep my voice level but look over the menu, more to keep my eyes off Isabel than hunger.
• “It’s an important element of it.”
• She sighs heavily. “Let me guess? You’re not telling me unless I need to know?”
• I shrug lightly. “Pretty much. Are you eating? The waitress is on her way over.”
• I can feel her eyes on me, but I ignore the impulse to look up until the moment the waitress is standing beside me.
• “Are you ready to order?”
• I look up and find a blonde-haired woman of around thirty peering at me with her pen poised over her pad. Her name tag reads Sandy.
• “I’ll have the seafood platter and a Miller Lite.”
• She nods and then turns to Isabel, who’s still looking at the menu. “Cheeseburger, onion rings, and fries thanks.”
• “Anything to drink?”
• Isabel screws up her face. “Coke, thanks.”
• I bite my tongue until Sandy is out of earshot. “Do you always eat like that?”
• Her eyes narrow. “Like what?”
• I shake my head. “Never mind.”
• A flash of irritation appears on her face. “You started this conversation.”
• This is what I wanted, so I pull out my cell. “And I’m finishing it.”
• I can almost feel the anger reaching across me, but she’s not saying a word. I risk a glance and see her fingers tapping on the tabletop.
• Her face is twisted into a scowl, and she looks about as pissed as I’d expect her to. “You take offense way too easily.”
• Her eyes narrow. “Maybe. But you’re deliberately trying to provoke me, and I’d like to know why.”
• I hide my surprise she’s seen through me, but then the first time we met, she had an uncanny knack for seeing through my bullshit.
• I should have given her more credit.
• I make sure no one is interested in our conversation before I reply. “This isn’t the place to be discussing this. So, I’m going to change the subject before anyone overhears, okay?”
• Her lips purse, but at the sight of the waitress returning with our drinks, she stays silent until the waitress has moved away again.
• There’s a hint of a challenge in her voice when she speaks. “Don’t most private investigators spend most of their time trying to catch cheating spouses and insurance scammers?”
• My lip curls in distaste before I can think of a response. “I don’t do that sort of work. Not anymore.”
• “It’s beneath you, is it?”
• “I’ve outgrown it.”
• “So, you did use to do those sorts of cases then?”
• “Everyone does until they make a name for themselves.”
• “And that’s what you’ve been doing for the last eight years? Making a name for yourself? Getting a better reputation than what you had before? Better friends?”
• I know where this is heading, so I cut her off before it can escalate. “Keep your voice down.”
• Her cheeks flush, but she pulls her shoulders back a little, and an alarmingly sweet smile appears. “Sure. I can do that.”
• It’s such an abrupt change it takes me a few beats to recognize she noticed before I did that the couple next to us were starting to send looks our way.
• Shit. I’m distracted. She’s distracting me.
• I force a smile and take a large swig of beer. “Great, thanks, babe.”
• She smiles wider, but she kicks me hard under the table and narrows her eyes. “Don’t push it,” she mutters under her breath.
• Despite myself, and my now aching shin bone, I find myself smiling in earnest when the waitress delivers our food.
• ***
• ISABEL
• As I bite back my irritation, three words are running on a loop.
• I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
• I thought I was over it. I did. I thought I could do this. I thought I could work alongside him, gain some much-needed experience, be the bigger person, admit the past is in the past, and leave it at that.
• But my anger isn’t subsiding as it should be. With every minute I spend in his presence, the desire to slap him grows.
• I hated him so much for leaving me, and just when I finally thought I’d gotten him out of my system, here he is.
• Sitting eating his stupid healthy meal, in all his judgmental, arrogant, cocky, glory.
• Asshole.
• My mom would be appalled if I’m thinking about another person that way. And if he weren’t such a prick, maybe I’d feel ashamed of myself.
• I ignore him and pick up a fry and concentrate on the greasy food in front of me.
• I don’t know what happened to him to turn him into such an asshat. And I’m no longer interested in getting an apology.
• Mike wouldn’t give me the details when I finally made it to work. All I know is that Grayson worked a case in New York, and through a series of favors, Mike owes a guy enough to make sure Grayson gets all the help he needs while he’s here.