She reached across the seat and grabbed her computer bag, then popped the trunk open. He stepped back and watched as she stashed the bag in the trunk between a pair of Banker’s Boxes filled with case files and legal pads. Then she retrieved her purse from the front seat. On impulse, she grabbed a lipstick out of the console so she could sneak away for a minute and freshen up. She locked her car with a chirp and zipped the lipstick and keys into her purse.

“All good?” he asked.

“I think so. Am I okay to park here?”

“You’re fine. Weekends are free.”

“That case, I’m all set.” She glanced around. “Where are we going?”

He gave her a sly smile that sent a ripple of nerves through her. “You’ll see.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Leigh had no trouble keeping up with him as they walked along Congress, and she realized he was shortening his strides. He seemed to do it naturally, the same way he walked closest to traffic and steered her away from street hazards and sketchy-looking people. He scanned the area, his gaze relaxed but alert, as they made their way down the busy strip.

The chilly air seeped through her loose-knit sweater, and she wished she’d worn something warmer. Or at least sexier. If she was going to be cold, she should at least have some cleavage showing. She liked her shoes, though. The heeled black ankle boots did what heels always did for her—projected confidence and gave her ego a tiny boost, which she needed tonight.

Leigh couldn’t help but notice the female heads turning as they walked down the strip. She snuck a glance at Brandon. His black T-shirt fit perfectly over his muscular torso—not too loose, and not too tight like some guy trying to look like the Incredible Hulk. He moved with comfortable athleticism and didn’t seem the slightest bit cold, even without a jacket.

He glanced at her. “What?”

“Where’s your weapon?”

“Come again?” He bent his head closer.

“Your gun. Usually, you wear a leather jacket when you’re off-duty to conceal your Glock.”

“Ankle holster,” he told her.

She looked down, noticing his scuffed brown work boots. He’d had them on the other night, too, when he showed up at the law firm.

“This way,” he said, settling his hand on her lower back and steering her around a line of people waiting outside a burger joint. They turned down a side street and his hand dropped away as they walked toward yet another line, this one outside a plain black door. Above the door was a neon-purple sign: LEONARD’S LOUNGE.

“You like jazz?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He shot her a scowl. “How can you not know?”

“I’ve never really listened to it.” She surveyed the queue, which seemed like an endorsement. “I’m open minded, though.”

“Good.”