Page 7 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Five

Sydney

I’m still processing Rhodes’ words— pretend we’re going to spend forever right here —when the hostess leads us through the warm glow of On the Veranda. His request lingers between us, creating an intimacy that makes even this simple walk to our table feel charged.

“Right this way,” the hostess says, leading us to a table in the center of the restaurant.

Booths line the walls, offering more privacy, and Rhodes points to an empty spot at the back of the restaurant.

“Can we take one of those?”

“Those are reserved,” the hostess answers with distracted ambivalence. The young girl in a flowered romper and clogs can’t be over seventeen.

“Can you check? Or may I speak to your manager?”

The romantic spell broken, I give the hostess an understanding smile, grateful for the distraction. His flirty request caught me off guard, but now I’m grounded again, focused.

If this were an actual date, I’d intervene and insist the table is fine. Given I’m uncertain how a CEO like Rhodes would react to someone questioning his viewpoint, even on something as mundane as table selection, I clasp my hands together, politely observing.

“He’s over there,” the hostess says, pointing at a middle-aged man with a plaid shirt, dark jeans, and pointed dress shoes. There’s something about him, maybe the high waist of his jeans or the tapered hem, or those pointy, shiny leather shoes, that makes me suspect he’s European.

H-1 Visas are popular with hotels throughout the Highlands, according to the bartender at the pool this afternoon, a college-aged guy from Australia, but while the Aussie works in the Highlands, he lives in Georgia in a more affordable area that’s commuting distance.

Rhodes heads in the manager’s direction. There’s something deliberate about the way Rhodes approaches this—not entitled, exactly, but confident he’ll get what he wants.

It’s chilly in the restaurant, so I put the gifted cardigan on and mouth, “I’m sorry,” to the girl.

She shrugs and responds loud enough that the man and woman sitting at a nearby table hear her say, “I only have two more weeks here. I don’t care.”

Rhodes and her boss shake hands, chat, and a minute later, Rhodes follows the restaurant manager to the booth he requested. He hangs his jacket on a hook on the booth’s post, and I slide onto the bench closest to his coat.

He bends, and says in my ear, “I’ll be right back.”

I watch him as he retreats to the restroom, and only then do I allow myself to breathe. His request outside—to pretend we could spend forever here—is exactly the kind of thing that makes this job challenging. Objectivity is a requirement.

My gaze falls to his overcoat hanging on the booth’s post, the slim phone visible in the gaping pocket.

This is why I’m here. Not for romantic fantasies, but for this—the intelligence that will either clear him or gather enough evidence to ensure that no one can halt an official investigation.

I scan the room methodically. The gray-haired woman entering the restroom hallway.

The group approaching the hostess stand.

The hunched man exiting the restrooms. No direct eyes on me.

I retrieve the phone with practiced efficiency, my hands steady despite the adrenaline.

This is almost too easy.

He uses an iPhone, which is difficult to hack.

I set my iPhone next to it, exchange contact information, which he’ll see, but that’s easily explainable.

Pushy and bad date etiquette, but my goal isn’t marriage.

Then I pull out a custom device Quinn provided.

I set it over the phone and wait for the small button to flash green.

Part of me hopes we’ll find nothing incriminating.

The woman with gray hair and a long, swishy skirt exits the restroom hallway. At the front of the restaurant, a group of four middle-aged women enter and approach the hostess stand. An older man in a plaid short-sleeve shirt on the opposite side of the restaurant walks toward the restroom.

Quinn said this thing works fast.

I should’ve tested it.

Our server approaches. “Good evening. Welcome to On the Veranda.”

“Would you mind coming back? My date’s?—”

“Oh. Sure thing, sugar. Have you had a chance to look over our cocktails?”

“I’ll wait for my date. He may prefer wine.”

The green light flashes in my lap and my gaze darts to the restroom hallway.

Rhodes exits, gaze locked on me.

Fuck .

“Take your time,” she says, stepping away with half her focus on the order pad.

The device drops into my pocketbook and my thigh shifts over Rhode’s phone, so I’m basically sitting on it, just as Rhodes slides into the opposite bench.

My heart hammers against my ribs. One wrong move and everything unravels.

“Did you order?” he asks.

“No, I said I’d wait for you.”

I keep my breathing calm in spite of the adrenaline coursing through my veins like liquid fire.

He lifts the menu. “I should’ve told you what to order for me.” His brow crinkles as he takes in the menu.

I edge forward, placing one finger on the cocktail section as distraction while my other hand delivers his phone to his coat pocket.

“You want a cocktail?” he asks.

“I thought some of them looked interesting.” I scan the menu, hoping the cocktails are indeed interesting and not standard fare.

“Do you like sweet drinks?”

I crinkle my nose. “No. Can’t stand them.”

“Same,” he says.

“Wine’s fine,” I’m quick to say, as the custom cocktails listed all include simple syrup.

“Can you hand me my coat?”

Oh, shit.

“Don’t laugh, but I need my glasses. Or maybe I need light.” He scans the ceiling as if the lighting might be to blame for his inability to decipher the menu.

Relieved, I laugh, and feel in his pockets, first the pocket with the phone, before locating a glasses case in his other pocket.

I pass him his glasses and watch as he transforms from frat boy handsome to geeky sexy with black, boxy frames.

My college self sighs wistfully. With one set of glasses, he transformed into every crush I had from the ages of seventeen to twenty-one.

“Hazards of a life spent staring at screens,” he says as much to himself as to me.

“I thought we weren’t talking about any of that.”

He grins. “Quite right.” He points a finger at the frames. “These are new. Haven’t gotten used to them yet.”

“Are you one of those people with enormous font on their phones?”

“Can we broaden the untouchable topic list?”

I shrug, grinning. “Why are glasses embarrassing?”

“They’re not, except I never needed them until I turned forty.”

“Ah. You’re on the downhill spiral.”

He looks up from the menu. “As if you know anything about that. How old are you?”

“Thirty-one,” I answer easily, as age isn’t one of my hang-ups.

“Give it ten years,” he says. “Then ask me about my font size.”

He’s forty-one. Five years ago, he made the forty under forty list. I’d ask him what his goals are now that he’s past forty, but I’m not supposed to know about his prior accomplishments and work life is banned conversational material.

“So did you see any houses you liked?”

“Actually, yes. You should’ve joined me. They had chocolate chip cookies and freshly squeezed lemonade set out for the open house.”

“That’s a nice touch.”

“I’d say so. Kept me chatting with the agent for two glasses of lemonade. All of which hit about the second we walked into this restaurant.”

“Is that another side effect of forty?”

He lowers the menu and shoots me a how-dare-you pseudo glower. I smirk and he grins.

“So tell me, Sydney…”

I wait, wondering where he’ll take the conversation. By his own accord, the easy first date work convo is off the table.

“When on vacation, what are your favorite things to do?”

I lift the glass of water and sip to buy time. The upped attraction quota frazzled my focus. He’s beyond handsome, which makes the job easier, but I still have to keep my wits.

Be real. Be yourself.

But I know everything to do with the man across from me, so in the words of the great Bono, I can be exactly what he’s looking for—based on everything that’s been published or shared on social media by his ex and his late mother who passed away four years ago.

His father lives in Florida, and from what I could find, never opened a social media account.

“I don’t take many vacations.”

It’s an honest answer, and one I know he will grasp.

His gaze lifts from the menu. “You good with a cabernet?”

I nod, and he sets the menu down.

“That’s not an answer.” He rests his back firmly against the booth and a slight smile plays across his lips. “What do you like to do? Or let’s play it this way. On your Pinterest board of idyllic vacations, what’s on it?”

“I don’t have a Pinterest board.” His ex did.

She never deleted her wedding board, but she had so much on there I couldn’t derive what she planned.

“But if I did, it would probably be a wish list of locations, not activities.” There’s no way my wish list will match an unknown list, and if he has a Pinterest board, it’s unknown to me because I never found it.

“I do have a private bookmark folder filled with links to activities. Workouts. Weight routines. Hiking trails. Yoga studios.”

“You’re a yogi?” His grin widens.

My nose crinkles reflexively. “Not like that,” I say.

He barks out a laugh. “What’s that ?”

“Granola. That’s what you’re thinking, right? No, I mean, I force myself to do yoga at least once a week for stretching. To avoid injury.” It’s an approach my lacrosse coach drilled into me—the healthy way to remain fit.

“Smart,” he says, lifting his water and taking a sip.

I scratch an itch on my collarbone and add another point I suspect he’ll relate to. “I have a hard time relaxing on vacation.”

“I get that,” he says, nodding.

“When I first got out of college, I hated weekends. Still went into the office.” I hold up a hand. “I know, we said no work talk, but…”

“And now here you are on vacation.”

“Listening to music and hanging out by the pool.”

“What kind of music?”

“Depends on my mood. Today was alternative rock. Foo Fighters, actually.” His eyes light up.

“Seriously?”

“You’re a fan?”

“Dave Grohl’s a legend,” he says with genuine enthusiasm, and once again, I’m grateful I prepped.

His ex shared a photo of them at a concert in Washington state, shaking hands with Dave Grohl himself and the caption, “The Greatest Day of Rhodes’ Life.”

“What about you?”

The server stops by, interrupting us, and Rhodes orders a bottle of wine, and we end up ordering appetizers and entrees all at once, while a sommelier returns with the wine.

As Rhodes tastes and approves it, I study his profile.

The confident way he handles every interaction, from the hostess to the sommelier.

The slight smile that never quite leaves his lips when he looks at me.

When we’re alone again, I lean forward. “Okay, seriously. Favorite vacation activities?”

“Oh, now that’s a loaded question.” His smirk carries a promise that makes my pulse quicken. “You sure you want me to be honest?”

I’d be lying if I didn’t say his confident, at-ease persona didn’t ooze sex appeal. Hell, with those black frames, he’s hot as fuck.

I open my mouth, prepped to probe.

“Sex,” he answers, and the way his dark eyes cut straight, head-on, strikes a match on my starved libido. “Hands down, my favorite activity.”

“Ah.” I lift my glass of water, momentarily speechless, but wise or not, the real Syd slips out. “Sex. Most powerful word in the English language. Makes the world go round.”

His lips purse, and his eyes gleam with amusement, and maybe something else. Anticipation.

I set the glass down. My skin burns. His gaze doesn’t break. With this tiny bit of innuendo, I find myself squeezing my thighs and taking deeper breaths. I swallow.

Focus.

If anyone can crack him, you can.

“I hope I’m not being too forward. Honesty is the best policy, right?”

I swear, the way he’s looking at me, my heart stops beating for a split-second.

Be real. What am I thinking? Work this.

“Not too forward at all. It seems we have something in common.”