Counterfeit Love

"You're not paying for this," I told him.

"I sure am," he countered.

"No, you're not. I pay. I always pay."

"Funny, that. Because I always pay when I'm having a meal with a woman."

"Well, you are trying something different tonight," I told him.

Free meals were unspoken contracts. They came with expectations. Ones I had absolutely no intention of fulfilling.

Ever.

It wasn't even a remote possibility.

"Want to bet I can make Shirley give me the bill instead of you?" he asked, eyes dancing because he knew he had me there.

When it came to charm, I had none to speak of. He had it in spades.

"Don't look so freaked," he demanded, voice a little softer than his words. "I don't expect shit from you. Except the pleasure of your company," he clarified. "Besides, don't social... what is the word I am looking for?"

"Mores," I supplied. "Social mores."

"Yeah, those things, they say that the person who invited the other out to a meal pays for the meal. So, there. You can't argue with that."

He knew I couldn't either.

Because he was right.

Because there was no arguing with logic.

Unless you were an idiot, of course.

But I doubted anyone would call me that.

So I ate my pancakes.

I answered a couple more benign questions from him. And then I said nothing when the bill was dropped--on my side this time--and he reached to pull it over toward himself.

"We are supposed to be discussing business," I told him as he put a wad of cash into the book, handing it off to Shirley as she passed, then moving to stand.

"I never said that," he shot back, shrugging.

"No, but it was implied."

"Was it implied, or did you assume?" he asked, giving me one of those devilish smirks again because he knew he had me.

I had assumed.

Anything else simply hadn't crossed my mind.

"Come on, dollface," he invited, holding an arm out but not reaching for me. "I need a cigarette. You can grill me outside," he told me as I slid out of the booth. "What?" he asked when we moved outside and away from the front door, and he reached for a cigarette. I guess I must have given him a look. "I thought the issue with smoking was me burning up the money."

"Well, yes. But it is bad for you, you know. Any child knows that."

"You're worried about me, huh?" he asked, pulling out a lighter, flicking it open, gaze slipping away for a short moment as he lit the tip, then sliding over to me as he took a drag. It shouldn't have been fascinating. In fact, it should have been disgusting. Smoking disgusted me as a rule. The way it stunk. The way it would cling to my hair and my shirt, even hours later. Yet I couldn't seem to look away. "Want me to live a long, healthy life?" he added when my brain seemed completely struck dumb. It was an entirely new phenomena, but there was no denying it.

"Yes, I am quite concerned with your health. That is why I am threatening to sic one of this country's most vicious criminals on you."

"Oh, but only if I don't want to work with you, right, darling?"

"Right," I agreed.

"But if I do work with you, you want me to live a long, healthy life, don't you?"

"Only to keep providing seed money for the mission."

"You sure about that?" he asked, lazy smile pulling at his lips.

"Yes," I told him, arms crossing over my chest. A literal physical guard. Why, I wasn't sure. Maybe because this guy whose life I knew next to nothing about seemed to get under my skin like no one had in a long, long time.

"How do you do that?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Lie to yourself like that," he clarified, taking another long drag, causing his scar to catch the light even more. I had the strong, unexpected, wholly absurd urge to reach out and run a finger along it, wanting to feel the smoothness on my fingertip. The urge was so strong that I curled my hand into a tight fist, not trusting myself.

"I'm not lying to myself."

"Come on, now, you know you like me," he said, eyes dancing.

"I don't even know you."

"Still, you're intrigued."

"You have a big ego."

"You're trying not to answer me."

"You didn't ask a question."

"Why don't you admit that you are intrigued by me, dollface?"

"Do you obsessively use pet names because it is impossible for you to remember women's names?" I asked, not sure I could lie convincingly, but also unwilling to admit the truth. I was intrigued. And more than professionally. Even if that made no sense whatsoever.

Finch flicked the cigarette toward the lot, blowing out the smoke, then taking a daring few steps toward me, only pausing for a split second next to my ear, "I know your name, Christienne."

With that, he was gone.