Page 31 of Rogue's Path
Then why won’t you tell me? “And that isn’t an answer.”
“I like you.” There’s a tinge of surprise in his voice.
“You don’t like many people, do you?” Why did I ask a question that I already know the answer to? Because men rarely admit to things like that.
“No. I don’t. Habit of the job.”
Hmmm. Maybe he’s a spy. Nah. A politician? Not slimy enough. Lawyer? Possibly. He’s smart and slick, both of which are essential to lie for a living.
“You’re trying to figure out what I do?”
Impressive. “Guilty as charged.”
“You’ll never know unless you have brunch with me.”
That’s not quite true. Being a mystery author has helped me learn a great many skills that come in handy. Cyberstalking…that word sends a shiver up my spine.
You’re safe. No one could find you at this hotel.
Didn’t you learn anything from last night? Not to mix liquor and stilettos together.
To live a little. There’s a whole world outside of your computer. “Where can I meet you?”
“I’ll send you the details.”
He didn’t push back. Nice. The address pops up. It’s only a mile from here. “I’ll see you in an hour.” Washing the smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer off of me has to happen first.
“See you then.” He clicks off.
I guess we’re doing this.
What to wear? I pull up the address again.
With this guy, it’s going to be fairly fancy. Do I have a dress?
Wait? What? The Hangover Hideaway.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sexy has a sense of humor. I'd better start calling him Taylor before I blurt out his nickname. That would be bad.
Not as bad as running into the bad boy biker and kissing him again.
But there’s always a possibility.
My life turned into a soap opera in one night. How would I start writing it?
***
The sexy suit turned into a sweater and jeans, which do nothing to hide the powerful man that he is.
He stands up as I approach the table. “You made it.”
“Curiosity always wins out. Like, why is there a pole with hooks connected to our table? And why did you ask me out? How many people have you killed? Am I going to kiss you at the end of this?”
“Why don’t we start with the pole? Then you can tell me how you got that bruise on your face.”
My hand goes to my cheek. Why did I even bother trying to cover it? My application skills are limited to moderately not clumpy mascara on my lashes and decent lip gloss. After that, I’m just pretending to know things.
“This place has physicians’ assistants in the back who will prescribe you IV fluids to help get rid of your hangover.” He points to a door in the back corner.
