The bartender catches Sebastián's eyes and he gives a subtle nod. Both our glasses are replenished.
“I wasn't planning to have another drink.”
“So don’t.” He picks up his glass and tilts it toward me before putting the edge to lips that are too prone to smiling for my comfort. Sebastián is charming, his manners impeccable.
To me, a scrappy kid raised primarily on the Lower East Side, it’s grating.
I pick up my glass, draining half of it in one searing gulp. “What do you want, Sebastián?”
His brows pull together over the bridge of his aquiline nose. “I want all of the data.”
“You’ve got it,” I reply immediately. “Every conversation that’s triggered by one of the keywords you requested is put into a file accessible by you at any time. Are you having issues retrieving anything in particular?”
“I want all of it, Finley. The raw data. Searchable by me, at any time.”
“I’ll have to talk with Damon.”
“I already did. My six-month trial period is over. I’ve held up my end. I’ve done everything I promised. I’m sick of being kept on a goddamn leash.”
Limiting Sebastián’s access to Reign’s recordings was my idea. I don’t trust him, and nothing about our conversation tonight has changed things.
I manage a nod, although I don’t intend to do anything until I speak with Damon myself. “Fine.”
“Good. Now that that’s done, we can enjoy the rest of the night.”
I practically choke. “Ah, no. I’m leaving.”
He lifts his half-empty glass. “I don't like to drink alone. Does the fact that we work together preclude you from having a drink with me?”
“We don’t work together.”
“How would you describe it then?”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Cut the shit, Sebastián. I work for Damon. You requested this meeting, and now that it’s over, I’m leaving.” Before I can pull back, I catch a whiff of Sebastián's scent. Sandalwood and spice. An exotic, heady mix.
“If you really wanted to leave, you would be gone already.” He turns his head, his eyes locking on to mine. “Come on, what’s the rush? Tell me about yourself.”
A low laugh trickles from my lips as I shake my head, hating that he’s not wrong. ”I don't think so, Sebastián. We are not trading intimacies.” More than I have already.
“Not into sharing, are you?”
“Not even a little.”
“Fair enough.”
Silence settles between us, the air crackling with the energy that has imbued our conversation. The words said. Even more, those left unsaid.
The bartender refills our glasses for the third time. I don't stop him, but I don't reach for my glass either.
“Next week. You. Me. Chicken mole.”
I never attended prom in high school, never had a boyfriend who would pick me up at my door, never had someone to hold hands with as I walk down the street. I’m not a nice, ordinary girl. And I’m sure as hell not interested in finding a nice, ordinary guy.
I glance at Sebastián sideways, feeling sure that there is some degree of sarcasm in his statement. But if there is, I can't see or hear it. “Where … your mother’s?”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I sputter. “I'm not exactly the type of girl men bring home to their mothers.”