Page 167 of The Fine Line
Rhett doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes are hard, cautious.
“And,” Roger adds with a grin, “why not bring your lovely wife?”
Rhett’s eyes flick to mine. He hesitates.
“She’s got plans,” he says quietly.
I nod, clearing my throat. “Yeah, I—actually have a meeting.”
Rhett doesn’t know that I really do—with Dave. He thinks I’m just playing along. That I’m taking the out he’s willingly giving me.
Still, something twists in my stomach when he nods, like I’ve just let go of something important.
Maybe it’s the tension radiating off him. The way his father makes him seem… smaller. Or maybe it’s that voice on the phone, echoing in my head again from months ago.
Whatever it is, I feel it. This tight pull to stay. To ask more. To protect what I don’t fully understand.
Instead, I stay still. Silent.
“Shame,” Roger says, a slight frown tilting his lips, faux regret in his voice. He turns back to Rhett. “Empire Bar. Ninth and Thirty-Fifth. After the game.”
Rhett nods once, jaw clenched. “Alright.”
“Looking forward to it.” Roger claps him on the shoulder—more like a coach than a father.
Bryan’s voice suddenly crackles in my ear, reminding me of the reason I’m in the tunnel in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back. “I need to find Ronan. It was… nice to meet you, Mr. Sutton.”
He shifts his weight, slow and deliberate, eyes following me as I move. I’m halfway turned when he replies.
“Likewise, Mrs. Sutton.”
I stop in place. Almost correct him.
But then I see the look on Rhett’s face. The stillness. The fight not to flinch. And I can’t bring myself to say a word.
I turn, walking away, glancing back once to see them still standing there—Rhett rigid, Roger grinning.
Something’s not right.
But I don’t know what.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever find out.
forty
CAROLINE
I find the bar tucked between a bakery and a bistro on Ninth and Thirty-Seventh. Dimly lit and polished, with music just loud enough to offer ambience but low enough to talk—it’s exactly the kind of place a New Yorker would pick to talk shop.
I spot Dave almost instantly—navy blazer, Titans pin on his lapel, seated at a high table with two other men, all nursing drinks that suggest they’ve been here a while.
I smooth my hands down the front of my blouse and don’t give myself a second to hesitate before walking over.
“Caroline,” Dave says, rising to greet me. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for the invitation,” I say, smiling as I shake his hand.
