By the time the last plates were cleared and the final drop of Sancerre had slipped down throats, neither girl was the same creature who had walked in. The air between them had molted. No more crackling hostility. Just a charged, unpredictable curiosity, like two scholars studying the same forbidden artifact and pretending they weren't fascinated.
Lea stood slower than usual, flushed and glassy-eyed, the wine smoothing her razor-blade personality into something softer and far more dangerous. I shrugged into my jacket. She rose with me, a little too fluid, like gravity had become a polite suggestion.
Then her fingers—steady despite the alcohol—landed on my lapel with the precision of a surgeon who charged premium rates.
