Chelsea felt the air change the moment he said it.
I can only assume what you’re after.
It landed heavier than she expected. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just… flat. Clinical. Like he’d already filed her away in a drawer labeled useful problem instead of woman standing in his kitchen. And for the first time in a long time, Chelsea Clayton didn’t quite know what to do with that.
Her fingers rose without thinking, tugging her sweater a little higher over her shoulder where it had slipped. The movement was small, almost nervous, followed by the faintest inching of her skirt down her thighs as if she could quietly undo the first impression she’d walked in with. Heat crept into her cheeks, soft and unwelcome, and she hated that he could probably see it. Hated more that she couldn’t charm her way out of it.
“No one sent me,” she said gently, and the usual sparkle in her tone had dulled to something honest, almost careful. “Not Black Widow. Not your team. Not Cain.” His name was offered without hesitation, like she had nothing to hide there even if she, arguably, did. “I don’t exactly have a handler, Riley. Not even my Dad.”
Her arms folded loosely across her middle—not defensive, just… containing herself. She leaned her hip against the island but didn’t claim it like she normally would’ve. Didn’t drape. Didn’t pose.
“I know what it looks like,” she admitted, eyes flicking briefly to the counter before lifting back to his. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I just… came. Just forget it.”
And that, embarrassingly, was the truth.
Chelsea exhaled through her nose, steadying herself, letting the flirtation bleed out of the room like it had never belonged there to begin with. If this was the lane he needed, she could walk it.
“I heard something tonight,” she continued, tone shifting into something more grounded. “Couple of guys talking too loud after a few drinks. Not regulars. Mentioned a junkyard off County Road 18. Said something about a trade getting moved before sunrise. Sounded rushed and nervous.” Her head tilted slightly. “Didn’t feel like small talk.”
Her head tilted slightly as she searched her memory.
“They kept mentioning street racers. Said the place would look like some late-night car meet if anyone drove by. Engines running, headlights on, music up. A lot of noise to make it look like kids being stupid instead of… something getting traded hands.” Her eyes narrowed just a touch. “That's more the speed of this... right?”