No Darkened Dives
Maddox
I hadn't planned to ask her to dinner.
Coffee would've been enough. Simple. Disposable. A way to extend the conversation just long enough to fill in the blanks.
Delaney Sinclair.
That was her name. I'd spotted it on the suitcase, written in bright blue ink on a neon yellow tag. The suitcase was battered. Her clothes were dirty. And she was hungry – like she hadn't eaten all day.
It wasn't only the sound of her stomach that told me so. It was the look in her eyes when I'd mentioned dinner.
Still, she'd tried to deflect. Minimize. Reframe.
I'm not asking for money.
I'm doing fine.
This was only half-true. Sure, she hadn't been asking for cash, but that didn't mean she was fine.
I'd known that at first glance.
And yet, slipping her a few hundred would've been easier than inviting her to dinner. The most valuable thing I had was my time, and I'd already spent more than I'd planned.
When my phone chirped in my pocket, I pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and silenced it without reading the message. My numbers guy. Whatever it was, it could wait.
Most things could.
My delivery couldn't.
I tapped out a quick message to my assistant with the necessary details and the address of this building. Afterward, I slipped the phone back into my pocket and looked toward the elevators, watching the digits tick upward and stop at seven.
Interesting.
But not surprising.
I moved into the seating area and eased into a chair, settling back to consider what I knew.
She hadn't asked my name – which told me one of two things. Either she didn't know the meaning of caution or she'd been too frazzled to think this through.
I could be anyone – maybe someone with a heart of stone and a soul to match. Or at least, that's how I'd been described on the internet last Friday, when some overeager blogger had snapped a photo of me leaving my private club.
But Delaney Sinclair? She hadn't recognized me at all.
This alone was a new experience, at least here in Chicago, where the gossip mill was running hot.
I liked it – being treated like a regular guy.
Maybe that was the reason for dinner.
I frowned. Sure, and the anonymity would last all of five minutes, unless we went to a darkened dive for pizza and beer.
Screw that.
I liked pizza just fine, and beer wasn't half-bad with a deep-dish to-go.
But a darkened dive?
Not my style.
Plus, I was liking the idea of taking Delaney Sinclair someplace where pizza wasn't an option – someplace with pressed linens, discreet service, and a wine list longer than the menu.
I was still weighing my options when the elevator dinged, and I turned to look. When the doors slid open, I saw a middle-aged couple emerge hand-in-hand, followed by Delaney Sinclair holding a white spray bottle and a big roll of paper towels.
When she saw me looking, she called out, "See? I wasn't lying." She paused. "To the woman, I mean. Not to you."
And then, after waiting for the couple to leave the building, she made good on her promise, crouching near the doorway and getting to work, dragging damp paper towels over the scattered dirt and petals with quick, efficient strokes.
She sprayed, wiped, and repeated, methodical in a way that didn't quite match the chaos she'd created.
When she finally straightened, she gave a quick, satisfied nod and smiled, clutching the spray bottle in one hand and the wad of used paper towels in the other, keeping the fresh roll tucked against her side.
A smear of dirt cut across her cheek, her auburn hair was loose around her face, and the damp shirt clung just enough to be distracting.
She looked cute as hell – and so damned earnest, like everything in life was fixable with enough gumption and elbow grease.
But me? I knew better.
And yet, as she disappeared back into the elevator, I discovered I was smiling.
What was that about?