A beat passes. “Mine is more of a specialist.”

I’m leaning sideways to look at Tobias now, beside Gabe’s shoulder. “You said it was routine.”

Suddenly we’re in a stare-off across the stalled cable car. Banks shifts to face Tobias, an eyebrow arched in curiosity and there’s a speculative rumble in Gabe’s chest. My first impression of Tobias was fairly simple. He’s a cocky idiot who doesn’t know when to shut up. But over the course of a few breaths, that impression begins to change and it has everything to do with the sudden tension bracketing his mouth and drawing up his shoulders. The playful twinkle is gone from his eye—briefly—before he’s laying it on thicker than ever.

“You caught me,” Tobias drawls, smoothing his collar. “I was conducting an affair.”

Banks and I trade a skeptical look. An identical one. One that surprises me. I can count on one hand the people in my life with whom I’ve shared this kind of intuition and it was developed over the course of years. With Banks, there’s a weird sense that we’re on the same page. Though…that can’t be possible when we’ve known each other a matter of minutes.

“If you were having an affair, you definitely would have told us immediately. Bragged, even,” Banks says, his incredibly rich brown eyes still fastened on mine, like he’s reading the words right out of my head. “But since none of us want our ears to bleed when we’re unable to call for medical attention, let’s move on. Gabe, I assume you were here working on the housing development?”

Gabe grunts in affirmation.

“Who put you in charge of interrogating everyone?” Tobias wants to know. “I have a lot of experience playing a cop and wouldn’t mind putting it to use.”

“It’s not an interrogation,” Banks clips. “But if we’re going to be here for a while, we might as well know who we’re sharing air with.”

Tobias laughs. “Don’t act like you give two shits about our explanations for being on Roosevelt Island. You’re only asking as a formality, so it won’t seem odd when you ask Elise about hers. Be a little less obvious, mate.” The Brit is sharper than we’ve given him credit for, even if his charmingly affable expression is back in place. “On second thought, stare at her with a little more psychotic intensity. Maybe you’ll kickstart the engine and we can all go home.”

“No, thank you,” Gabe mutters.

My head tilts back so fast to observe his face that my neck gets a crick. In the last few minutes, the construction worker has become this silent monument of comfort, but with the low utterance of those three words, he becomes the focal point of the tram car. When he realizes he’s turned himself into the center of attention, the tips of his ears turn a dark shade of red, starkly obvious on his Irish-looking skin. “Never mind. I’d just…rather not go home.”

“Why?” I ask, my attention drawn to the strong column of his neck where a tattoo peeks out from his hoodie, stretching up toward his ear. It looks like a wing of some kind. There’s some lettering on the other side, as well. How far down those neck tattoos stretch? There’s so much ground to cover. “Why don’t you want to go home?”