Kathleen swallowed. “Like what?”
“Your work, maybe.” Veronica’s tone didn’t shift. “Sometimes, when people feel overwhelmed, going back to a space where they feel in control can help. You could tell me about your research.”
Kathleen’s stomach twisted tighter.
It wasn’t that the suggestion was wrong, it was kind and gentle. But it made her feel small, like she needed babysitting. Like she hadn’t ruined everything.
“No,” she said quickly, the word sharper than she meant. “No, that’s not?—”
She stood abruptly and moved toward the table, collecting the two cups even though they were still half full.
Veronica stayed seated.
“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Kathleen said, her voice flatter now, tighter. “It was a good evening. Thank you for coming.”
Veronica rose slowly. “Kathleen?—”
“I can see you out.”
Veronica didn’t argue, didn’t protest. She simply nodded, took her coat from the hook, and slipped it on without a word.
At the door, Kathleen hesitated. She wanted to say something that would make it right. She wanted to explain that it wasn’t about Veronica. That it was her own body, her own history, her own faulty wiring that kept short-circuiting when things felt close to real.
But the words wouldn’t come. “Goodnight,” she said instead.
Veronica gave her a look that was hard to read—steady, accepting, not unkind. “Goodnight, Kathleen.”
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Kathleen leaned her forehead against it and closed her eyes, the scent of Veronica’s perfume and wine still hanging in the air behind her like the last traces of something almost beautiful.
.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Marise dug her hands in her pockets, having no idea what went wrong. She opened the door of her apartment and lay on her bed, with her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
She replayed the moment over again. The way Kathleen had leaned into her, then the panic. As well as stuffing it up, she’d let the scientist get under her skin.
Damnit. This job was supposed to be straightforward: get her trust to find out what she was working on and how far she was away from finishing the project. Simple. But now, over three weeks, Marise hadn’t made any inroads. And she’d likely lost any chance of another date.
Disgruntled, she went to bed.
Two nights later, she accompanied a client in her late fifties to a play on Broadway. The way Marise was feeling, she needed this date like a hole in the head.
Darlene Hunt was twice-divorced, the kind of woman who treated life like it was made for her pleasure. She’d booked Marise as an accessory—to be seen with her at the theatre, and then she would expect her to warm her bed afterward. She hated this sort of client. The woman’s laugh had an expensive ring toit; low, polished, full of entitlement. She wore diamonds the size of raindrops and called Marisedarlingas they stepped out of the theatre into the cold night air.
When the car reached her hotel, Darlene brushed her arm. “Come up for a nightcap?”
Marise smiled to lessen the refusal. “I appreciate the offer, but not tonight.”
Darlene tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Really?”
“Sorry.” Marise stepped back out of her reach.
