The bar was dim the way Steven liked it—low amber lights, soft music humming through speakers and the smell of liquor
Evening had already melted into night.
Steven pushed the door open and stepped inside, loosening the collar of his shirt as he scanned the room out of habit. This place had become routine for him since arriving in France. A drink. Silence. A few minutes away from Calhoun’s constant intensity.
He slid onto an empty stool at the counter and raised two fingers at the bartender.
“pure margarita.” he said.
As the bartender turned away, Steven leaned back slightly—and that was when he noticed her.
She sat two seats away.
Her posture was loose, careless. One elbow rested on the counter while her fingers lazily circled the rim of her glass. Her hair fell around her shoulder
