Page 27 of Sighs By the Sea

I snort and pull my hand away. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll do something entirely foolish like kiss the soft skin along her wrist. Mentioning my grandfather is the perfect cock block. That old bastard. Not enough that he ruined my marriage, he's turning a great evening into a chore. “I doubt she would. He tried to have her boyfriend killed.”

“Harry suggested maybe she could go and ask about you.”

“Then Harry should speak to Tilly.” My voice is clipped and harsh.

Maggie sits up straighter. “Since he knew we were meeting tonight, he asked me to speak with you about it first.”

“Your seventy-year-old boss knew we were meeting?”

She laughs, her entire face shifting into something entirely irresistible. I find myself smiling, though I don’t know where her amusement has come from. “For one thing, Harry isn’t seventy or my boss. And he’s my best friend.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“Oh yes. Harry has been great to me since my own parents are out of the picture.”

“I can ask, but don’t expect much. Tilly is…” I have to stop myself from saying a harsh word. “Independent and doesn’t have any love lost for our grandfather.”

Maggie nods before sipping on her wine and I’m glad she doesn’t push the subject more.

The food arrives, and Maggie shifts excitedly in her seat before digging in. For a moment, I’m content to watch her enjoy the dish. But when her mouth wraps around the fork and she moans, I have to look away. It’s far too easy to imagine her lips sliding over something else. I scoop a heap of beans and rice on my fork, digging into the delicious meal.

After a few bites, she looks up. “So, why are we here then?”

“The hitman for Chernobog, I got a name from one of my aunts.”

Maggie nearly chokes on her food. “You did?”

“Phillip Waters. Though I’m not sure if that’s his real name.” Her eyes go unfocused for a second, almost like she has to shut down external input while she calculates. A small crinkle appears right above her nose, and I have to take a bite to keep from laughing at the expression.

“I’ll run it through our system and then talk to my CIs if we don’t get any hits.” When my confusion crosses my face, Maggie rolls her eyes. “Confidential informants. I have a few I can ask.”

“Ah, of course.” I slide my plate back, stomach full. When the waiter comes back to ask if we’d like some dessert, I raise a brow.

But Maggie looks at her plate, fiddling with her fork. “I should be going,” she says softly. Disappointment laces through me. We’re having a nice time, but she must not feel the same way. If I had it my way, dessert would be back at her place, preferably eaten from between her thighs. My thoughts are dirty, and when Maggie rises from her chair and reaches for her purse, I know I'm the only one thinking that way.

Almost in a panic, I stand too. Tommy said pay for the meal. “Please, detective. It would be my pleasure.” She shakes her head and pulls out a few twenties.

“Nonsense. This was work; the department will reimburse me.” And just like that, she twists the knife. What I thought was an enjoyable evening was simply work for her. Though I shouldn’t be surprised. A broke, reformed felon trying to take out a successful and vibrantly attractive detective.

Nonsense, indeed.

I rise slowly. “Can I walk you to your car?”

She smiles and puts a hand on my forearm. “I’m fine, thanks. But please call me if you think of anything. I’m up late, so anytime.” She stares at me a moment longer than necessary, and I have trouble reading her expression. But before I can ask or attempt to discern, she pecks me on the cheek. “Night, Grayson.” Her voice turns coy, and she lets her fingers slide off my arm as she walks away.

I'm left standing next to the table, literally scratching my head. She's up late but practically sprinted out of here? Which signal do I take? I look over to the table next to me where a man and woman are smiling. "Dude," the guy says with a chuckle. His wife hits his arm. "What? He just got denied, like spike the ball out of his hands at the rim rejected."

They both snicker at the analogy that's lost on me. I'm not a sports guy. It doesn't sound good, though. But the man isn't done with his teasing. The waiter happens by and he flags him down. "My man here needs a doggy bag."

The man's lips twist up as confusion crosses my face. "For what? My plate's empty."

He rubs at his chest theatrically, a grin on his lips. "For your pride. She kind of stomped it into the floor." They both laugh loudly at that, and I join in half-heartedly. She might be giving me the hot and cold treatment, but damn it all if it still wasn't the most fun I've had in years.

Maggie

Sitting at my desk, I sip my dark coffee. The bitter taste is soothing, and the warmth spreads through me, offering a brief respite from the chaos in my mind. Harry and I have spent the entire morning breaking down my disastrous meeting. The information was fantastic; that’s not why I’m upset. No, it has everything to do with my conflicted feelings. Thankfully, Harry did what he always does—joked around until I felt better, then said he needed to run an errand. The clatter of keyboards and the low hum of voices fill the busy office, a constant reminder that work never stops.

I have a suspicion he’ll return with my favorite donuts. God, Harry is amazing.

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