“It’s fine,” I cut in, not looking at her. “It’s part of the job.”
“For her,” he clarified.
I cocked my head to the side before responding. “She’s good at it.”
Bea’s fingers tightened briefly around the edge of her napkin before she forced them to relax, folding it once, twice, aligning it with the table like precision could keep everything else in place.
“You’re deflecting,” Rafael observed. “You’re choosing which parts to answer.”
“That’s how conversations work.”
A beat.
Then—unexpectedly—his mouth curved. “I can see why you’re difficult.”
“I’ve heard that.”
Bea exhaled quietly beside us, the sound controlled but not entirely steady, like she’d been holding it longer than she should have.
“We’re not doing this,” she snapped, stepping in again. “This isn’t an interrogation.”
“No,” her father agreed easily. “It isn’t.” But he didn’t look away from me when he said it.
I didn’t break the eye contact either. Because underneath all of it—under the tone, the phrasing, the careful way he was choosing his words—there was something else there. And I could taste it.
My gaze shifted, slow, deliberate, landing on Bea.
My jaw tightened slightly, the movement small enough to go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it.
She knew.
She had to.
And she was still?—
“We should order,” she sighed suddenly, her hand finally opening the menu like she needed something to hide behind.
I leaned back in my chair, the wood solid against my spine, grounding in a way the rest of this wasn’t.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. My eyes didn’t leave her. “Let’s do that.”
The server came back.
Pen poised. Smile practiced. Timing impeccable. Bea answered before either of us moved.
“Yes,” she began, already scanning the menu like she hadn’t been holding it as a shield for the last three minutes. “We’ll do the?—”
“You recommend anything?” Rafael cut in smoothly, redirecting without raising his voice.
The server shifted toward him immediately, launching into something about seasonal dishes and house specialties.
Bea adjusted without missing a beat, angling her body slightly toward them, inserting herself cleanly back into control of the conversation, asking the right follow-ups, nodding in the right places, guiding it toward something efficient.
Watched the way she threaded herself between questions and answers, redirecting every path that could lead somewhere inconvenient.
My hand rested flat against the table, fingers spread slightly, the wood cool under my palm, grounding in a way the rest of this wasn’t.
The server finished, pen hovering.