Page 162 of Crash Course
The restaurant buzzed with guests. A few were men like him in town for business. Most of them dined on a tumbler of amber liquid. A large group of people in business casual, with matching blue lanyards around their necks, sat at the bar, releasing a continual series of ear-grating laughter.
Several couples dotted the dining room, each sharing different levels of longing looks and intimate touches. Except for a twenty-something couple near the fireplace, who seemed more captivated by their electronic devices than each other.
Everyone in the restaurant had a story. Stories that had led them here, to this place and time.
Zeke allowed his curiosity free rein, picking out the loners, the seekers, and the drinkers.
His surveillance snagged on a guy at one of the high tables in the bar. He didn’t know why, exactly. There wasn’t anything particularly interesting about the man’s stocky build, tousled hair, or stubble-cured face, nor did his plain loafers, dark jeans, and pressed polo shirt inspire the imagination.
Then he keyed in on the intensity of the guy’s face. He followed the man’s line of sight until it stopped on one of the bar sitters. A woman.
He stopped short of snorting. It didn’t take a detective to unravel that bit of domestic drama. Unrequited love. The worst, most devastating kind.
What sort of scenario would elicit such visual fervor? Did he fall in love with his childhood friend? Coworker? Boss? Best friend’s wife?
Or maybe the guy just had a hard-on for redheads.
“Here you go,” server Keith said, placing twin glasses on the table. “Two Old Fitzgeralds.”
Zeke glanced at his watch. His jaw clenched.
8:42 p.m.
Would it be so hard for Ash to take a few seconds and send him an update on his status? Or couldn’t G-man be bothered with common courtesy anymore?
“Would you like me to put in an appetizer?” Keith asked.
“No appetizer. Bring out my meal when it’s ready.” An image of his Gram’s narrowed eyes flashed through his mind, and he added, “Please.”
Once the server left, he fired off a text to his brother.
We still on for dinner?
He lifted the glass to his lips and took a healthy swallow. Old Fitz’s headwind smoothed a path down his throat for the crackle of fire that soon followed.
No longer interested in Intense Dude, he focused on the woman. With her back to him, all he could make out was the curve of her slender neck, her long, red ponytail, black pantsuit, narrow waist, long legs—and sensible shoes. Nothing jaw-dropping extraordinary like the hostess, but nice.
He didn’t take her for a seeker. Not with those shoes. Even if she thought leather slip-ons were sexy, she seemed more interested in the booklet spread out on the bar before her than anyone around her.
Too bad for Intense Dude.
A fruity cocktail sat sweating by her left elbow, so not a drinker.
Loner then.
By choice? Or circumstance?
Did she know Intense Dude? Or was she oblivious to her wannabe-lover’s existence?
Broad shoulders wedged into a tailored charcoal-gray business suit snuffed out his view of the woman. Zeke looked into the familiar blue eyes of his brother Ash.
Zeke rose and extended his hand. “About damn time, asshole.”
Energy poured off his brother, despite the late hour. Unlike Zeke’s constant five o’clock shadow, the G-man’s jaw was clean shaven and his silver-striped red tie was still cinched tight at the neck.
Ash gripped his hand. “Sorry, something’s come up.”
A tall, fifty-something black woman, wearing a purple silk blouse and knee-length skirt, materialized next to Ash, along with a blond-haired man carrying a thick, canvas briefcase.
