Chapter 2
Lily may be the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. But Quinn's not interested. He's done with that. After Carrie—whatever that was—he has zero interest in falling for someone again. Especially not a woman like Lily. She appears to have her shit together. And he most certainly doesn't.
So, there's no reason to stress over one drink. Or two. Or three. Honestly, he's lost track of how much they've drunk. The bar is practically empty except for them, and Quinn finds himself strangely comfortable. Relaxed, even. Which is fucked up, considering the day they've had.
He avoids confirming he's CIA, even though by now it's obvious—his cryptic answers make it clear enough. He lives in the DC area, just "temporarily" in Berlin. She doesn't press, instead smiling at his evasiveness.
"I live in DC too," she says. "Maybe I'm in the CIA and you just don't know it."
Quinn chuckles. "Seriously?"
"Not the CIA part," she laughs, taking a sip of her drink. "But the DC part, yes."
"Crazy," Quinn murmurs.
"Crazier than a bombing at the S-Bahn?"
"Not crazier than that," he admits with a dry laugh. "So what do you do in DC?"
"What do you do?" she asks, leaning in slightly.
"Consulting," he says, grinning.
"Hmmm." She raises an eyebrow, considering this. "So you're clearly not undercover. At least, not in Berlin. Otherwise, you'd have a better story."
He chuckles. "You've seen too many spy movies."
She grins. "Guilty as charged. But who doesn't love Jason Bourne?"
Quinn smirks. "I promise you, I'm no Jason Bourne." Quinn's life feels more like a twisted version of it. Bourne's life looks pretty fucking good right now.
Lily cocks her head, eyeing him with an intensity he's not sure how to handle. "You're good-looking. In the movies, spies are always good-looking. It's a job requirement."
Quinn laughs, though there's a hint of something self-deprecating in his voice. "Spies don't have to be good-looking."
"Spies don't have to be anything," she replies, laughing at his expense. "But there's something about you."
Quinn laughs again. "Something, huh?"
"Well, for starters, you don't know how to take a compliment."
His eyes widen slightly, betraying just a hint of surprise. "Sorry," he looks down at the table—somewhat sheepishly.
"I'm kidding," she assures him.
His eyes twinkle. "So you don't think I'm good looking?"
"I wasn't kidding about that."
He meets her eyes—he feels inexplicably tongue-tied, like this woman has him under some sort of spell; this isn't the sort of thing that happens to him because he's Peter Quinn and, fuck it, talking to (and flirting with) women comes easily to him. So what is it about this woman that makes him to unsure of himself? He clears his throat and tries again. "Um. What kind of law do you practice?"
"The boring kind," she says casually.
"Is there any other kind?" Quinn grins.
"Not really," she grins back. "I do IP work for YouGo."
He raises an eyebrow. "Wow."
"You use them or you track them?"
"I think they track me," he says with a grin.
"Probably," she says. "They track everyone. Cheers to Big Tech," she raises her wine glass; he laughs and does the same.
The conversation flows easily, and when he looks at his watch, he realizes it's way later than he thought it was. But the world outside doesn't seem to matter to him as much right now. There's something about her—this connection, this chemistry—that is too strong to ignore.
"Can I take you to dinner?" He hears himself say it out loud, like someone else just said this. But he can't take it back now.
"What? Um. Yes? Yes."
He smiles. Genuinely. "Good. I need to get to . . . ."
". . . the CIA station. Got it."
He smiles at her again. "You could probably drive someone pretty crazy."
"Minus the probably. Yes."