I blush. "You clean up okay yourself."
One eyebrow arches. "Just 'okay'?"
"Don't fish for compliments, Simon. It's unbecoming."
"I would never," he laughs. "Ready to go?"
I grab my purse and lock the door behind me. As we walk toward the stairs, his hand finds the small of my back.
It's frightening how quickly I've come to rely on that touch to steady me.
"So," I say as we step outside into the February cold, "are you going to tell me where we're going?"
"Nope."
"Not even a hint?"
"Where's the fun in that?"
"This is how every true crime documentary starts," I muse sadly. "With a silly girl who doesn't ask enough questions, following a handsome man who doesn't give enough answers."
"So now, I'm handsome?" he teases. "I thought I was just 'okay.'"
I sigh and shake my head. "Completely missing the point."
He opens the door to the car and helps me in, then walks around to his side.
