“Occupational hazard.” She took another sip. “I work for a federal agency. It’s not exciting. I sit at a desk and analyze data and write reports that may or may not be read by people who may or may not care.”
“And yet you love it.”
She paused, the glass halfway to her lips. “What makes you say that?”
“Your profile. You mentioned wanting your work to matter. People who don’t love what they do talk about their hobbies. People who do talk about purpose.”
A beat. She set down her glass, studying him with those quick analyst’s eyes. “That’s... perceptive.”
“I have my moments.”
“Clearly.”
The waiter brought bread—warm, olive oil on the side, rosemary baked into the crust. The smell filled the space between them. She tore off a piece and dipped it, and the gesture was so simple, so unguarded, that it caught him off balance.
Timea used to do that. Tear bread instead of slicing it.
Stop.
He reached for his own piece and tore it.
“Okay, my turn,” Sophia said. “Private security. That covers a lot of territory. Bodyguard? Cybersecurity? Corporate espionage?”
“Mostly risk assessment. Companies hire me to evaluate their vulnerabilities—physical infrastructure, personnel protocols, travel security. I tell them where they’re exposed, and they pretend to listen.”
“And then something goes wrong and they call you back.”
“That’s the business model.”
She grinned. “Cynical.”
“Realistic.”
“Same thing in this town.”
They ordered. She chose the cacio e pepe without hesitation—a dish that was either perfect or terrible, no middle ground, which told him something else about her. She didn’t hedge. He went with the branzino because he didn’t actually care about the food.
The conversation moved easily. She talked about growing up in Seattle—the rain, the coffee snobbery, a father who rebuilt old radios on the weekends and a mother who ran the local library book club. She’d wanted to be a journalist first, then a diplomat, then realized she was better at finding patterns in data than patterns in prose.
She asked about his travels. He gave her the sanitized version—Europe, the Middle East, Southeast Asia. Business, mostly. She asked what countries had surprised him most, and he said Hungary, which was true, and the word almost stuck in his throat.
“Hungary? Really?” She leaned forward. “Why Hungary?”
Because a woman in Budapest taught me her language and then taught me how to be human again. Because for two years I had a home that wasn’t a hotel room or a safe house. Because I was going to be a father.
“The architecture,” he said. “And the food. Best goulash in the world.”
She laughed. “That’s a very safe answer.”
“I’m a very safe man.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
Dinner arrived. The cacio e pepe was clearly perfect, based on the small, involuntary sound she made on the first bite. He filed that away—not for the op, just... because.
Stopit.
“Can I ask you something?” She twirled her fork. “And you can absolutely tell me it’s none of my business.”