She clacked heels across the gold-flecked marble floor and studied the people milling through the lobby. Business folks talking on phones. Tourists with fanny packs and maps. Nothing noteworthy, but then again, that was always the point.

As she entered the elevator, Nic saw a man pick up his pace, intent on making the elevator before the door closed. She threw him a smile that said, “come on I’ll hold the doors,” but reached for the close door button and held it. As the doors slid shut, she shrugged faux confusion and mouthed apologetically. There was no way that man was her blind date. He was too obvious.

Not wanting the doors to open again, Nicola hit the RB button. Rooftop balcony. She had no idea where to meet her blind date, but thought she might as well start where the view was the best. Classical music played overhead and—lucky her—the elevator didn’t stop on her ride up. The doors opened into the sunset light, and she stepped out into a warm summer evening, surrounded by impressive buildings. Yes, this is a magnificent view.

A few people looked over the rail at Pennsylvania Avenue, taking in the downtown DC vibe. A man leaned on the railing. He was as large as Roman and Cash, but he looked meaner. His aura growled, and he hadn’t even said a word. Oh, fun.

She walked up to him, offered her hand and waited. They stared each other down. Who would break first? Him or her? Him or her? Well, sure as the sun was setting over this swamp town, she wasn’t dropping her extended hand if he remained standing there. He could be the asshole who moved away.

“Nicola.” He spoke as if perhaps expecting a round of applause. Men and their egos. This man in particular looked impressed with his I-can-kill-you-with-a-paperclip attitude. He shook her hand, and though she expected him to wrench it off, he didn’t. Just a firm shake. A little anti-climactic.

“And you are?” she asked.

“Jared Westin.” Oh, JW. He must’ve seen the connection in her eyes. “Yeah, I like fuckin’ with you CIA types. You play your games, and I poke fun at them.”

All righty then, a jackass with a sense of humor. If he only knew how little she liked the Farm’s games. “Right. I’m exhausted. Rough couple of days. You mind telling me what this all about so I can go?”

“You got somewhere more important to be at than—”

“Your secret game of mess-with-the-CIA? Yeah, I do. It’s called home, where I have a nice bottle of wine waiting for me.”

“You want to order a glass of wine?”

“No, I don’t. You’re missing my point. I’m exhausted and bitchy, and I want to know—”

“I might as well be talking to Roman right now. Jesus H. Christ.” The man ran his hand over his close-cropped hair, looking none too pleased that his big tough guy attitude hadn’t fazed her. But dropping the likes of her big brother into the conversation would get her attention.