In a movie, this would be a long beat. Music swelling. The held look.
Here, in real life, it’s a flick of green eyes over the rim of a water glass, half a second long, and a small, polite tilt of her chin.
“Oh, no apology needed, Mr. Satyrin. Work always wins. Drive safe.”
That’s the full extent of it. But she holds the glass at her mouth a bit too long after I turn away, and I see it in her reflection in the mirror behind the bar as I cross the room. She watches me go, the rim still resting against her lower lip, her throat working once.
I tear my gaze away and I don’t look back.
Coat check. Tip the girl. The valet comes fast. I tip him, too, then slide in, and pull away from the Pierre at a clean, lawful pace, hands at ten and two like a guy who has not, in the last ninety minutes,
