Page 7 of Never Say Yes To A Stranger

She trails her hand in front of the tank, giving me her back again, and the crawfish scoots around like he’s chasing it. “I taught him that. He follows my fingers. He’s super happy in there, I hope, but I’m afraid he gets bored no matter how much enrichment I put in.”

The crawfish has a good tank with a whole bunch of rocks, sand, and all sorts of plants that look real. There’s also a huge castle and rocky arch, and then a sunken ship at the very far end.

“I think he’s probably happy that he’s not being eaten,” I point out.

“Yes. I suppose unless I make the drive, I can’t return him to the river. And if I did, what then? I’d worry endlessly that he would be caught and eaten after all my love. Maybe one day. Maybe if he ever starts not being okay in here. He’s a wild animal, I know that. It’s just…”

She appears genuinely fond of this crawfish, although it could just be for the sake of making people believe she has a good heart. Can someone do terrible things to other people and still like animals? Probably. People are complex.

I once took a job guarding the family of a man who manufactured ammunition. He was the client. He was paying our agency to protect his family against potential threats brought on by working in an unsavory industry. The guy should have been a terrible human being, and maybe he was, but he loved his family. Regardless, it’s still a job I wish I hadn’t taken. I worked the job for four months, and then the family relocated overseas, so our services were no longer required. I don’t have much of a heart left, but I did have some serious qualms about that job. I justified it by the fact that his wife and their two young children were innocent.

So…yes. That’s complexity.

I’ve met very few truly kind people, and I was raised by two of them. They aren’t on this earth any longer, and thinking about them makes my stomach swoop down and up in a big, nauseous swell, so I shut that down.

“I sometimes read to my clients.” A slight hitch in her voice tells me she noticed how I just about spilled my emotional cookies all over the table. She thinks I’m uncomfortable. “I could do that if you like. I have a small library in the other room. I make dresses—that’s my real job. Some of them like to watch me sew.”

“Have you ever had a female customer?”

That question doesn’t surprise her. “I’m not opposed. This isn’t sexual, so it doesn’t matter if my clients are male or female. I shouldn’t disclose more than that, though. I like to keep things confidential.”

I nod and say, “I understand.”

“Do you want cookies and milk while you write the contract? I imagine it’s going to take some time.”

I slide my phone out of my suit jacket pocket. “Nope. I have a good program here. Autofill will make it easy, and we can both sign it electronically.” Also, cookies and milk? Am I five?

She’s back to staring me down. I don’t get unnerved, but I’m also not used to people being able to meet my eyes. I have this thing where my face is frightening, or so I’ve been told. Most people just think that because of what I do for a living. And because I’m stoney and stoic. Zero emotion. That’s what gets the job done.

I do notice that her eyes are beautiful. Far more lovely in person. They’re blue, like the sky out there, and different from the sky in the city. A deeper shade, a different tone. Free. Endless. It’s the kind of sky one could think about instead of just existing under and never noticing it’s there.

Her eyes are not the same blue as mine. Hers are very much alive, and if you guessed that mine are not, you have great powers of deduction.

“I can still get you some cookies. They’re homemade. Chocolate chip and oatmeal.”

“My favorite,” I respond.

“Are they?” she asks with some surprise.

“No. I don’t eat cookies.”

“Right,” she says, laughing softly. “Because you’re a lean, mean, scary-ass machine.”

Shit. My lips are doing something that might be considered a smile. Not that it’s illegal to smile, but…I don’t get a lot of sass. I don’t often get people noticing that I’m a human being and not a robot. I’m not the kind who invites smiles and invitations of flirtation, no matter how moneyed I might look.

I open the contract app, which is dry, straight up, and boring. What I need to do is focus on that.

She goes to the pantry on the far side of the kitchen and pulls it open. Then, she takes out a cookie that looks andsmellsamazing, puts it between her teeth, and slides the bag shut before putting it back and closing the door.

“Mmmm,” she sighs. “Good thing I’m not a lean, mean machine. I’m okay with being just me.”

She most definitely is. She’s the most salt-of-the-earth, honest-to-goodness, okay-with-herself woman I’ve ever met.

It has to be fake. Knowing what I know about her, it doesn’t compute. I’m no engineer, and I certainly don’t possess an engineering brain, but all this has to be for show.

“Do you have a name?” I grunt, forcing myself not to look up. It’s easier to focus on the phone when my face is doing out-of-control things that may or may not be silly and may or may not be giveaways to the feelings I probably don’t have.Probably.

“Yeah, do you?”

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