Page 31 of Under the Lies

“You have to be honest with me.”

Am I missing something here? “I’ve been pretty straight forward with you thus far.”

“But when I ask you a question about where you’re taking me and you don’t answer, it’s hiding something from me.”

Well someone tightened her morality compass this morning.

“That it?” I ask.

“No. I’ve been making a list in my head of all the things we need to iron out that I think we should discuss.”

Of course she has.

Bored with just standing on the street, I tug on her hand and set off for our intended destination. She can talk as she walks.

Sayer digs her heels on the sidewalk. Dig all she wants, the only thing she’s going to achieve by doing that is ruining her shoes.

“Would you just walk for fuck’s sake,” I growl, growing annoyed from dragging her dead weight behind me. “We’re going to a restaurant, nothing scandalous is going to happen.” I give her a look. “Unless you want it to.”

She huffs, falling in step behind me.

When we get to the restaurant, the maître d’ is waiting for us.

“This way, Mr. Kincaid.” She leads us through an empty restaurant until we’re at the best table in the place. Which is always reserved for me.

As Sayer sits down, she watches the maître d’ as she checks me out. But what Sayer doesn’t understand, it’s not in a way that speaks of appreciation, attraction. It’s a look that searches for opportunity. People always want something from me.

I chuckle as she walks away, liking the way Sayer’s so easily riled up. “Jealous, Baby Brooks?”

“No.” She rolls her eyes in an exaggerated flourish. “More annoyed that anything. What if we were on an actual date?”

I grin. “This isn’t an actual date?”

She levels me a flat look. “We both know this is a business arrangement.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.”

“That” —she points at me— “is exactly what I’m talking about. None of that.”

“None of what?”

“That” —the finger is now moving in circles in front of my face— “flirting you’re throwing my way.”

I lean across the table and in a filthy, hushed tone I tell her, “Oh you innocent little thing. This isn’t flirting. I haven’t even gotten started.”

A blush dusts the tops of her cheeks as I move to recline in the seat. Satisfied.

Before Sayer can find words for a retort, our waiter comes over to pour us a glass of their finest wine. He leaves the bottle in an ice bucket on the table.

When he walks away, I raise my glass to Sayer.

Skeptically, she raises hers. “What’re we toasting?”

“Us.”

Her eyes widen.

I add, “And our agreement.”

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