Chapter 7 Norah #2
Norah summoned a professional smile for the junior analyst who worked on the twenty-fifth floor. “Alyssa. Hey.”
Alyssa’s eyes flicked to Marshall. Appraising, curious. “And you must be . . . ?”
“This is Marshall,” Norah said smoothly, before Alyssa’s mouth could form the word boyfriend or client. “A friend. Marshall, this is Alyssa Ayers. We work together.”
“A friend,” Alyssa repeated, pleased. “Nice to meet you, Marshall.” She giggled and Norah had the distinct desire to splash her coffee on Alyssa’s hot pink sleeve.
Alyssa tucked her blonde hair behind her ear and flashed Marshall another flirtatious smile before turning back to Norah. “Good to finally see you with a life outside spreadsheets. Sorry to interrupt—just wanted to say hi before my next meeting.”
“Of course,” Norah said, the picture of polite dismissal. “Let’s catch up soon.”
Alyssa waggled her fingers and swept away with a flounce. “Have a great weekend!” The moment she was out of earshot, Norah exhaled. Marshall had angled his cup just enough to hide his mouth. His eyes, annoyingly, still said everything.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“I didn’t say a word.” She could see the laughter on his face, a nice departure from the robot super-soldier vibe she’d been getting from him.
“You didn’t have to.”
“She’s like Corporate Barbie. How do you take her seriously?”
Norah bit back her own laughter. She’d had the same exact thought about Alyssa on more than one occasion.
They were quiet until the espresso machine screamed and the room rearranged itself around the sound.
The man behind them started another too-loud greeting.
A couple in damp coats brushed past, bringing a chill of wet wool with them.
The server refilled their water and vanished.
Norah leaned in again, lower than before.
She couldn’t blame Alyssa for flirting. Marshall was every bit as handsome as he’d been at twenty.
What she could blame was the way her pulse reacted to him now, as if it hadn’t learned anything since then.
“Ignore her,” she said lightly. “She flirts with anything over five-foot-eight and capable of forming full sentences.”
Marshall’s gaze dipped to hers, amused . . . and too perceptive. “Good thing I barely meet the second requirement.” He took a slow sip of coffee, eyes never leaving her face, and something in her chest tightened.
She had wanted the years to make him an abstraction. They hadn’t. They’d made him more real. More appealing. The sharpness that used to be all edges and impulse had settled into something steadier. As if time had carved away everything unnecessary and left only purpose.
His shoulders were broader now, his movements more controlled—no restless energy, no teenage swagger.
The sharp boyish angles of his face had settled into something leaner, striking in a quieter way.
Even the faint scar at his hairline, one she didn’t remember, added to the sense that life had shaped him with a firmer hand than she’d realized.
He looked like someone who understood discipline the way other people understood breathing.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, before she could stop the softness from escaping.
He nodded once. “Thank you for asking.”
A ridiculous lump rose in her throat. She chased it with coffee and found the bottom of the cup.
“Okay,” she said briskly, rearranging the pieces of her emotions. “Rules.”
He lifted a brow, his eyes shifting from somewhere behind her back to her face. “Rules?”
“I meet you on neutral ground,” she said. “Not at my office. No digital footprints I can’t explain in an audit. If I ask for distance, you give it to me. If I ask for help, you don’t say ‘I told you so.’”
He almost smiled. “I never say that.”
“You think it very loudly,” she countered with a smile.
“Fine,” he said. “Here’s my rules. You don’t run solo. If something shifts—if your access changes, if you see a new notice, if someone asks you an odd question—you tell me. You don’t keep souvenirs. And if I say out, you step away long enough for me to pull you off the square.”
She met his eyes. “A truce.”
“A partnership,” he said.
Something uncoiled in her chest. She exhaled, feeling the tension that had been seizing her chest for the last week loosen its grip.
“I can get you a list of shell companies I’ve seen by tonight,” she said. “Vendor contracts by morning if I’m careful.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll get Joey started on flagging other potential properties for you. She’s a wizard with tech.”
A vibration hummed on the table—his phone, face down. He ignored it. It buzzed again, longer.
“You can get that,” she said, aiming for casual.
“It can wait.”
Another buzz, this time a staccato pattern that felt different. Marshall swore under his breath and thumbed the screen. Norah heard only half his side and none of the other—but urgency sharpened his posture.
“Say it again,” he murmured. A beat. His gaze lifted, focused past her, somewhere far away. “When?” Another beat. The muscle in his jaw fired. “I’m tied up. Call Connor instead.”
He ended the call and stared at the phone a fraction too long, deciding how much to give her. He chose less. He always chose less.
“Work,” he said.
“Obviously.”
He stood, leaving cash under the saucer. She rose with him, and for an instant they were too close in the narrow aisle. The icy rain at the window blurred the city into impressionist smudges.
He reached for her bag strap before she could, not to hold it—just to steady it so she could shoulder it without fighting the chair. The contact was nothing and everything.
“Walk me out?” she said, because she didn’t want to admit she wanted him to.
He took an umbrella the café kept in a steel stand by the door—one of those oversized black ones that could cover a small army—and snapped it open as the automatic doors sighed. The rain had sharpened, beading on his sleeve as they stepped into the gray.
They paused under the awning. Cabs prowled the curb. She raised a hand and one veered toward them, tires hissing.
“Remember the rules,” he said, voice low under the drum of rain. “Call me if anything so much as twitches.”
“I will,” she said, and found that she meant it.
He moved with her to the curb, angled the umbrella so it covered her completely and left him partially exposed. The cab idled, heater fogging the windows. Norah turned to him, the city muffled, the moment pocketed by rain.
“Thank you,” she said again.
“Be careful,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. It didn’t feel like an order this time. Then his gaze shifted to something behind her.
She nodded and reached for the door handle. “What is it?” she asked, trying for casual, failing.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said, and for once the evasion didn’t sting. She trusted him a little more than she had before.
He held the umbrella until she was inside, then swung it back up as the driver pulled away. Through the rain-smeared window, she watched him turn back toward the restaurant. He was already on the phone, posture coiled.
Norah let the seat swallow her and pressed her palms flat to her knees. Rules, she reminded herself. Distance. Questions, not conclusions. Parcel IDs, not accusations.
Outside, DC blurred by rain and light. Inside, the cab smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and someone else’s cologne. She closed her eyes for one breath and then opened them on purpose.
Numbers don’t lie.
But something else did, and it was bigger than her.
“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing up in the rearview.
“Georgetown,” she said. “And could you take P Street?”