“Are you following me?” she demanded.
“Funny, I was about to ask you the very same thing. This is my hangout spot. There are over twenty-five thousand nightlife establishments citywide. What are the odds of you showing up here for the first time in my life right after news of the trial broke?”
“Pretty good, considering we probably live in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, and travel in the same social circles.”
“Got me all figured out?” I stroked my jawline, my eyes skimming her face.
She tilted her chin up. “More or less. Although I will say, you’re a hard man to track, Mr. Miller. Not a whole lot of info available about you on the net.”
My lips twitched. She had bought into my high-flying-millionaire charade. Probably thought we were a part of the same yacht club.
“How far did you get in your research?” I braced an arm over her head, trapping her between me and the restroom wall. She smelled like Arya. Of peachy shampoo mixed with the sweetness of her skin. Of long, lazy summers and spontaneous pool swims and ancient books. Like my impending downfall.
Her eyes met mine. “You finished Harvard Law School. Got pulled straight into the DA’s office. Traurig and Cromwell recruited you after you nailed a huge case even though you were the small fry. Lured you to the white-shoe dark side. Now you’re known as the shark who gets his clients fat settlements.”
“Where’s the mystery, then?” I leaned forward an inch, breathing more of her. “Sounds like I’m an open book. Need my Social Security number and full medical history to complete the picture?”
“Were you born eighteen?” She cocked her head sideways.
“Fortunately for my mother, no.”
“There’s no information about you prior to your time in Harvard.”
A bitter laugh escaped my throat. “My accomplishments before eighteen include winning beer pong games and getting lucky in the bed of my truck.”
She eyed me skeptically, her delicate brows furrowing. I spoke before she could ask more questions.
“I’ll give you one thing: you make that bag of trash who sired you look like a real angel in the media.”
“That’s an easy task. He is innocent.” Her lips were inches from mine, but I was in complete control of the situation.
“That’s not for you to decide. If you continue tampering with the narrative before the trial, I’ll be inclined to move for a gag order on the case. The temptation of shutting your mouth up is already too much.”
“Are outspoken women an inconvenience to you?” she purred, her eyes sparkling. It felt so much like our banter from a decade and a half ago that I almost laughed.
“No, but whiny little girls are.”
That made her pull away. She twisted her mouth in annoyance. “Did you come here for anything other than to rub your small, insignificant win in my face?”
Would you rather I rubbed something else in it?
“Yes, actually.” I pushed off the wall, giving her—and myself—some space. “First things first—the Brewtherhood is my domain. My territory. Find a girly cocktail bar that hosts trivia nights. Better yet—read a book or two before you try it next time. Your general knowledge could use a few tweaks.” I used the word she’d used for my media-management skills.
She opened her mouth, no doubt to tell me to go shove my self-importance up my rear in five different languages, but I proceeded before she could cut into my words.
“Second—I think I deserve one piece of information in return for this.” I produced the Denny’s voucher Dr. Douchebag had handed me earlier tonight. Her eyes zinged with exhilaration. I knew she didn’t care for the actual voucher. Only about what it represented. About going home with the prize. This was classic Arya. She would catch my foot when we did laps at the pool, playing dirty sometimes. Anything to win.
“You want a piece of information?” she asked. “You’re insufferable. How’s that for a fun fact? Now hand that over. My employees deserve free Denny’s meals.”
She reached to grab the voucher. I raised my hand higher, chuckling. “Sorry, I should’ve specified. I get to ask the question.”
She tossed her arms in the air, unused to being challenged. “Shoot.”
“How shall I address you—Miss or Mrs.?”
I’d made it a point not to check Arya’s marital status, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t curious. There was no ring on her finger. Then again, she didn’t strike me as the type of woman who’d flaunt a statement ring.
Her mouth curled up in a smile. “You are interested.” Her eyes flared.
“You are delusional.” I suppressed the urge to brush away one of her flyaway hairs with my thumb. “I like to know things. Knowledge is power.”
She licked her lips, peering at the voucher I held between my fingers. Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. I could see her resolve crumbling. She wanted to keep the mystery alive but wanted to win even more.