Chapter 27

Sinead glanced down at her plate again, then back up at Connor.

“So you’re a cop, huh?” her date asked.

“A detective,” Sinead corrected him. “Like your cousin.”

“Right, right,” he nodded. “So have you ever shot anyone?”

Sinead had dolled herself up. After her phone call with Jules, her best friend and former partner had laid into her on an almost hourly basis to make sure Sinead wouldn’t back out, so she’d decided that if she was going to do this blind date thing she would do it right. She used the tips that the hairdresser Marc had hired had given her. She’d made sure her nails with the sexy silver French tips had been in good condition. She’d tried on a dozen outfits before settling on a green dress that played well with her hair, then matched it with her leather coat and some gold jewellery.

She’d felt wrong when she’d considered wearing the stuff that Marc had bought her. Like she needed to ... not keep it sacred or anything, but separate from this. Whatever this was going to be.

Connor had picked her up in his BMW. He was a surgeon, half-Japanese and sporting a chiselled jaw and wicked smile that likely would have cemented a happy end to their night then and there if she wasn’t thinking of Marc’s fucking smile. Before they made it to the restaurant she got the story on him - he just got out of a three-year relationship with another doctor, and she’d cheated on him with an admin at the hospital, it had been messy but he was trying to move on.

Not exactly the teasing, suave way that Marc directed conversation.

And there was nothing wrong with the Cheesecake Factory for a first, slightly casual first date. In almost any other circumstance, she would have been thrilled for an easy night out of carbs and sugar packed into tasty dishes. Fuck, she loved the Cheesecake Factory and had ordered it on delivery more than once.

But...

That night at George, and the wine, and the food. The smell of each dish even as it was just being walked by her to another table. The ambience, and the glamour. Marc, sitting across the table in his perfectly fitted suit, with that fucking smile, teasing her and encouraging her to eavesdrop on her target.

Fuck Marc.

“I have,” Sinead said, spearing her fork into the mess of delicious, carby noodles on her plate and twirling it to get a nice mouthful. “Is that a problem?”

“Well, no,” Connor said. “I mean, as a surgeon I abhor violence, but I can understand why it’s necessary for the police. I’d rather Canada leaned more towards the British way of things than the Americans, though.”

“You mean we should walk around with billy clubs as our only standard defensive armament? You want us to stop people with knives and guns with sticks?”

He frowned, clearly realising he’d stepped his foot in something he hadn’t seen coming. “I guess that makes sense,” he said. “Still, it’s my job to repair the holes people put in each other. You can’t blame me for wishing it didn’t need to be.”

“Wishes don’t make reality,” Sinead said. What she really wanted to do was point out the time his cousin had gotten jumped by three tweakers while she was a street cop and the only reason she hadn’t gotten beaten bloody, or worse, was that she’d had her gun.

Sinead took a sip of her wine, trying to wash out the memory from her mind, and pursed her lips.

It was ... OK.

Fuck, I’m being such a bitch, she thought to herself. Fuck Marc.

Sinead pivoted the conversation, asking more about Connor’s work and the hospital. She found herself easing into basic interrogation techniques, asking him prompting questions. Smiling to encourage more detail, nodding along as if agreeing. Connor began to smile more, leaning forward in his seat, engaged in the conversation. Talking about himself.