She didn’t see him walking up to the booth, and she didn’t feel the gust of the wind on her face from the front door opening. The same rowdy college kids are still crowding the front entrance.
He must have come in a different way, through the back door, or maybe through the kitchen.
Her heart is pounding, and her palms are sweaty, and reflexively she sticks out her hand, but he makes no move to shake it. Instead, he signals the waitress, who comes over with a clean mug and the coffee pot.
“The usual, Bets,” he says, and she nods.
So her name really is Bets, and it’s clear they know each other. If he uses a back entrance, he probably comes here a lot. Marin tucks her hands into her lap, so he won’t see them shaking.
Is she really doing this?
She’s having trouble making eye contact with him, but he doesn’t appear to be feeling any awkwardness whatsoever. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a packet of Wet Wipes, and extracts one from the plastic packaging. She watches as he wipes his hands meticulously, getting every finger, and when he finishes, he balls up the used wipe and wraps it in a napkin. He leaves the napkin on the corner of the table.
He stares at her, taking her all in, his gaze moving over her face, her hair, her necklace, her blouse, the wedding rings on her left hand, the bracelet on her right wrist. He isn’t smiling, but his face is naturally pleasant. What did Sal tell him? She wonders if she looks the way he was expecting.
She wonders how many times he’s done this.
Finally, he speaks. “I’m Julian. Don’t be nervous, Marin. We’re only talking.”
She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she exhales.
“Hello,” she says. “Thanks for coming.”
Julian—if that’s his real name—is about her age, maybe a few years older. Dark eyes, thick brows, strong nose, head shaved down to the skull. Scuffed black motorcycle jacket over a black V-neck T-shirt. Extremely muscular build, from what she can see. Strong hands, no watch, and no wedding ring, though she supposes it would be weird if he were wearing one in this scenario. He doesn’t look like a guy who has a nine-to-five desk job, but neither does he look like a—what was Sal’s word?—fixer.
Not that she has any clue what a professional fixer is supposed to look like. She’s never seen Ray Donovan.
He’s watching her watch him, and another moment passes before he says, “So, you’re the one who broke Sal’s heart?”
She blinks. This isn’t how she expected the conversation to start.
“I mean … sort of.” She doesn’t know what Sal told him exactly, so she doesn’t know how to explain it, how much detail he expects. “We dated in college. A long time ago.”
“And you dumped him for the guy you ended up marrying?” Julian asks, and it’s more a statement than a question.
Jesus, Sal, what did you tell this guy? “Not … exactly.”
“Sal’s a good guy,” he says. “You ever regret it? Choosing your husband over him?”
“I…” Wow. She has no idea how to answer that. She was not prepared for these types of questions, especially right off the bat, but the man seems incapable of small talk. Or even hello. “I mean, of course I don’t. Sal knows that. We’re good.”
“I’m just trying to confirm how you know each other.” Julian’s eyes crinkle, and it occurs to her that he’s smiling. Or attempting to. “See if your story matches up with Sal’s. Because obviously you and I have never met before, and I need to make sure you’re the person he says you are.”
“Sal’s my best friend.” It’s the simplest explanation, and the one that’s most accurate. “We go back a long way. I can show you my ID if you need to confirm my name.”
Shit. That was stupid. She doesn’t want to show him her ID; then he’d know everything about her, including her address, and somehow that seems … dangerous.
He shakes his head. “Nah, no need. We’re good.”
“How do you know Sal?” she asks.
He raises an eyebrow, bemused. “What did he tell you?”
“He said you’ve worked for him. Once or twice.”
“That’s true.” There’s a glint in Julian’s dark eyes. “But that’s not how we met. Once upon a time, we were both residents at MCC.”
Marin stares at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. And then she understands. MCC is Monroe Correctional Complex. It’s a prison. Jesus Christ.