Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(18)

Swatting her hands away—again—Reagan ignored her remark, grabbing one of the freshly cleaned mugs and a pot of coffee, winding her way to the booth towards the back where he—she still didn’t know his name—was waiting.

Like the first night, he was dressed in black, a stark contrast to his lightly tanned skin, but nearly matching the shade of his hair. It was cut just below his ears, pushed back out of his face though a stubborn strand always fell over his forehead no matter how many times he tried to shove it into place.

His jacket was resting beside him, his bare, muscular arms on full display, and even when he was moving very little, the strength in them was clear to see. Black jeans covered lean legs, hugging his thighs appreciatively, combat boots on his feet, and a T-shirt that stretched across and hugged his chest. She could just see the hint of a necklace hanging around his neck, but whatever hung from it was hidden beneath his shirt.

His gaze was focused on his hands as she approached, his calloused palms clear for her to see. She wondered what he saw when he looked at them.

When she was about a foot away, his gaze lifted, seeking her out, as they always did. They were cold, a light blue that looked like they’d seen too much, and his lips were usually set in a mulish line. Despite his rather sullen disposition, she had begun to enjoy his continued presence.

A corner of his mouth kicked up. She couldn’t help but smile in return, but that smile slipped when his gaze dropped to the ring like mark around her wrist. It sucked that she bruised so easily.

Clearing her throat, she set his mug in front of him, pouring his coffee as she decided to strike up a conversation with him. “You’re in early.”

She slid the cup closer, her fingers brushing his as he reached for it. They briefly made eye contact as she pulled her hand away. His touch was surprisingly warm despite the temperature outside.

He shrugged a shoulder, taking a drink. “I like the view.”

Through the windows of the diner, the Manhattan skyline was clear, lights illuminating the night sky. It really was quite nice.

His gaze was on her when she looked back at him. “City’s shit, love. That’s not the view I meant.”

He made it blatantly obvious that he was talking about her. “You know, you’ve been here three nights in a row and I still don’t know your name…” she said carefully, her voice coming out a little breathier than she had intended.

Resting his elbows on the table, he looked up at her. “You never asked.”

Was it that easy? “What’s your name?”

“Call me Niklaus.” His mouth snapped shut almost immediately after, like he hadn’t meant to share that bit of information.

Reagan didn’t doubt it was his real name—why have that reaction if it wasn’t?—but she did wonder why that would make him react that way. It was just a name after all.

“Want your usual, Niklaus?” When he nodded, she smiled and took a step back. “I’ll get that right out.”

Reagan didn’t go back over to him until his food was ready, refilling his mug as well. She was about to take her leave when Niklaus called her name. It was the first time he had ever used it, and in that gravelly tone, it was everything she could do not to shiver.

“Yeah?”

“You have a minute?”

She glanced back, making sure there weren’t any tables that needed her attention. The diner was mostly deserted, and if she had to guess, he probably already knew that.

“Sure, what’s up?”

She wondered if she sounded as eager as she felt. It wasn’t like her to be shy around a guy, but with Niklaus? She was definitely that.

“You seeing anyone?”

Well that was extremely…forward and unexpected. “Um, no.”

“Why’s that?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you single?”

Not sure what to say to that, she said, “It’s a long story.”

He gestured down at his steak as he lifted his knife and fork. “I’ve got plenty of time.”

Backtracking, she rubbed the back of her neck, looking away. “There’s really not much to tell. I work a lot, so I don’t have a lot of time to do anything else.”

“No?” He gestured to her arm with a tilt of his head. “Then who did that to your wrist?”

She could tell what he was thinking, that some guy had done it in a fit of rage because of some perceived slight, but that was far from the truth. Yes, it had been a man, but that fit of rage was more of a drunken outburst.

That didn’t mean she wanted to tell him what happened.

“It’s not what you think,” she said instead. Glancing around at her tables to give herself a moment to think, Reagan decided to avoid his question by changing the subject. “Are you single?”

His face shifted, just the slightest change and had she not been looking at him, she would have missed it. But the look was almost akin to…hurt. “Yes.”

“So what brings you to the city?” He seemed to want to talk and she was curious to say the least.

“Work.”

Discreetly looking him over—though she could say with almost perfect certainty what he was wearing—she wondered what kind of work he did when he dressed the way he did.

“How long are you in town for?”