Page 9 of The Thief
"What's your name?" I ask.
"You asked me that yesterday."
"And you didn't answer yesterday."
"Still not answering today."
"Stubborn."
"Careful."
"Same thing, sometimes."
She wipes down the bar with more force than necessary. "What do you want, Freddie?"
"Conversation."
"Get a therapist."
"Tried that. They charge too much."
"And I don't charge at all?"
"You pour better drinks."
That gets me another almost-smile. Christ, she's beautiful when she lets her guard down. Even for a second.
"You married?" I ask.
"Are you?"
"No."
"Good for you."
"That a yes or a no?"
"That's a none of your business."
Fair enough. Though the lack of rings on her fingers tells me what I need to know. No man's stupid enough to let this one get away if he's got any sense.
"Boyfriend?"
"Jesus, you're persistent."
"It's been mentioned."
"By who? Your therapist?"
"My mother. Before she died."
The words slip out before I can stop them. It’s a truth I don't usually share with strangers, especially not ones I'm supposed to be manipulating. But something about her makes me want to be honest. A dangerous impulse.
Her expression softens slightly. "I'm sorry."
"Long time ago."
"Doesn't make it hurt less."
