Page 24 of Brutal
She lifts an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”
“It’s accurate.”
She looks at me a bit longer and then returns to her water.
I take a sip of my bourbon. It’s smooth like mother’s milk, smoky like a Cuban cigar, with some subtle caramel and a touch of clove.
Fucking perfection.
I lean forward slightly, trying to close the distance between us.
Her breath shifts, and her pulse quickens at her throat.
But she doesn’t move back.
“What do you do, Delaney?” I ask.
“I’m a freelancer,” she says. “Writing. Research.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “About what?”
Her expression doesn’t change. “Depends.”
“And right now?”
She lifts her glass again. A small sip. “Old disputes. Things that don’t get much attention.”
I keep my gaze on hers. “And you find that interesting?”
She narrows her eyes. “I find what people miss interesting.”
I don’t push. Instead, I reach across the table and close my fingers around her wrist. Her skin is warm, and her pulse jumps hard under my touch. She widens her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away. Not even slightly.
Something deeper shifts between us. Not just awareness. Something more.
“You notice a lot,” I say quietly.
“So do you.” Her voice is lower now.
“Anything specific you’re looking for?” I slide my thumb once along the inside of her wrist.
Her breath catches. Again. And again she holds it together.
But for a fraction of a second I sense a break in her rhythm. It’s fleeting. But it’s there.
She covers it quickly. But it’s too late. I saw it, and she knows I saw it.
I release her wrist. Not because she moved. Because I decide to.
I don’t do anything unless I decide to.
“You didn’t answer me,” I say.
“About what?”
“What you’re looking for.”
A pause. Then, “I didn’t come here looking for anything specific.”
