Page 4 of Wild Card
“Three,” he says proudly. “Two and a half if you don’t count the coffee break.”
I can’t help it—I snort. “Impressive. You must be a hit at parties.”
He grins wider. “Depends on who’s there. You might even have fun.”
“Doubtful,” I shoot back, leaning over one of the maps. “This one’s wrong, by the way. That corridor was sealed off last year after a flood in the mechanical room.”
He turns to me, mock-offended. “You sure about that?”
“Positive. Unlike some people, I actually read my maintenance reports.”
He chuckles, low and quiet, and I hate that it sounds good. “Guess that’s why I asked you to meet—so you could correct me.”
I narrow my eyes. “Oh, is that what this is? You playing humble now?”
“Call it… collaboration.” He steps closer, pointing at another path with the marker. “Between your sealed-off hallway and my unbreakable camera coverage, we might actually have something.”
I fold my arms, not missing how close he’s standing now. “Unbreakable cameras? Please. I could hack your feeds blindfolded.”
He laughs outright this time. “There’s the Aria Taylor I know.”
I pretend to study the map again, though my pulse has ticked up. He’s smug, cocky, impossible—and unfortunately, good at this.
“So what’s your theory?” I ask, forcing my voice steady.
He traces a route between the two buildings with the marker. “If I were the thief, I’d move through the Citadel’s underground parking, hit the delivery corridor, then jump to our maintenance tunnel before dawn. Minimal exposure, maximum access.”
I nod despite myself. It’s solid. Too solid. “Not bad,” I admit. “For a guy who still thinks every problem can be solved with red ink.”
“Hey,” he says, capping the marker, “the color’s on brand. Jade Petal green doesn’t pop as well.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile threatens at the corner of my mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says, stepping back with that infuriating calm, “you’re still here.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that he knows it.
I’ve been here almost an hour now and every time I shift to look at a different part of the map, Presley somehow ends up right next to me — elbow brushing mine, voice low, smelling faintly like cedar and espresso. It’s distracting. Maddeningly distracting.
Focus, Aria. Jewels. Thief. Not… him.
I gesture toward one of the printouts. “If they used this access tunnel, they’d have to swipe through the service door on the Citadel side. But there’s no record of a keycard entry between midnight and four a.m.”
“Unless they cloned one,” he says, leaning over my shoulder. His breath ghosts against my neck. “Or walked out with someone who had clearance.”
I straighten, forcing space between us. “So an insider, then.”
He nods, eyes fixed on the diagrams. “Maybe one of yours. Maybe one of mine.”
The way he says it — low, smooth, teasing — almost sounds like a dare.
“Cute,” I mutter. “You think I’d let someone steal from under my nose?”
“Not intentionally,” he says, smirking. “But you’ve got new hires, right? That’s when things slip.”
I shoot him a glare. “You’ve got plenty of turnover yourself, Mr. Perfect Security.”
We trade barbs like this for the next half hour — dissecting routes, cross-checking staff lists, each trying to out-deduce the other. But beneath the professional edge, there’s an undeniable pull. A current under the words.
