Page 2 of Crimson Sin
“What drives you?”
His question catches me off guard. It's not what I expected. Not the polite interest or gentle dismissal I usually get when discussing my work.
“Ex-excuse me?” I stammer.
He doesn't repeat it. He just waits.
I swallow, suddenly feeling exposed under his scrutiny. “Justice, I guess. Not the courtroom variety. The kind that means truth gets told. Those stories don't get erased because the people wholived them weren't rich or powerful. I want kids to walk into a museum and see themselves on the walls, in the stories. I want my dad's life, all the sacrifices he made, to mean something.”
His eyes narrow like he sees straight through me and isn’t surprised by what’s there. “What happened to your father?”
The question is quiet, but it stops me short. Most people don't ask follow-up questions about Dad. They offer condolences and change the subject, uncomfortable with grief that's still raw after three years.
“He passed. Three years ago. Heart attack. He raised me alone.”
The words come out flat and clinical. It's the version I've learned to recite, the one that doesn't invite pity or uncomfortable silences. But something in this stranger's expression tells me he hears what I'm not revealing. The sudden phone call that changed everything, the funeral I planned alone, the crushing ache of being the only one left to remember James Carter's stories.
His jaw shifts, but he doesn't speak.
I glance down at the bar, my nerves fluttering. The vulnerability of the moment makes me desperate for something to do with my hands. I spot the glass of white wine, and in a moment of misplaced confidence, I lift it.
“Mind if I...?” I ask, already halfway to sipping.
He arches a brow but gives a small nod.
The wine touches my lips just as a woman steps up to the bar, looking directly at the bartender. “Hi, I ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio about ten minutes ago?”
I freeze mid-sip. The stem of the glass slips slightly in my grasp.
The man beside me remains silent, but I can feel his gaze on me, warm and amused.
I lower the glass like it burns. “Oh my God. I thought this was mine. I thought… I assumed…”
He doesn't interrupt. He just watches, the corner of his mouth curving ever so slightly.
“I'm so sorry,” I whisper, clutching the folder tighter. I don't dare look at the woman, who is now being handed a new glass with a confused smile.
“You have a very forward pitch strategy,” he murmurs softly, lifting his whiskey.
My cheeks flush scarlet. I nod, flustered. “I'm not usually like this.”
“No?” His smile is faint but real. “Shame. I find it refreshing.”
Before I can think of a reply, a voice interrupts.
“Naomi?”
I turn. A different man approaches, tall and slightly overdressed in a dark blue blazer and scarf, glancing between me and the stranger with clear confusion. “Sorry I'm late. You must be Naomi.”
My stomach drops. Oh no. This...this is Adam. Which means the man I've just been passionately pitching my life's work to isn't my date at all.
I look up at the stranger again, eyes wide with horror. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn't even look smug. Just quietly amused, asif the world often drops unexpected things in his path and he's learned to enjoy the view.
“I'm so sorry,” I blurt, stepping back. “I thought you were someone else. I didn't mean to...”
“No harm done,” he responds coolly.
Adam gives me a hesitant smile. “Should we go in? I got us a table inside.”
