Carey leaned over and pointed to the screen. “You have to double jump there. That’s why you keep dying.” He walked back to his chair and sat, but instead of doing anything on his laptop, he scrubbed a hand through his short hair.
“You couldn’t have said that five minutes ago?” Kennedy stretched and laced his fingers behind his head.
“I was trying to let you beat it without my help. Make you a better gamer. You could use the experience.” Carey grinned.
While I enjoyed any comeuppance that came Kennedy’s way, we needed to focus. I cleared my throat again. “Do you think we could look in any other spots for information on the breach?”
“Yeah, I’ll try.” Carey’s tone did not inspire confidence.
“Look, Carey, I know we’ve been over this, what, I don’t know”—Kennedy waved his hand in the air in a dismissive motion—“fifty times so far today, but could you reconsider your stance on Fluffy? The only way I get paid is to file suit and shake down Greenwood. The only way the stuffy assholes at this firm will let me file suit is if they have some sort of proof Greenwood did it. Help me out here.”
I didn’t want to gang up against Carey, especially since I’d grown fond of him over our short time together, but Kennedy was right. “We need this, Carey. Preferably before the Mardi Gras ball in two days.” Two days. Shit, I’ll have to raid my old debutante closet.
Carey ran a finger along the spider bite piercing in his lower lip and stared at his computer. The corners of his mouth began to turn down in a frown, doubt falling over his eyes like a mask. I was losing him. Then his stomach rumbled.
I stood and plastered a smile on my face. “Let’s go get some dinner.” After a few drinks and some good food, and then maybe a few more drinks, I was certain Carey would be more inclined to pull the trigger on our “find Fluffy” mission.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Kennedy slapped his laptop closed.
I whipped my jacket onto my shoulders. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t ask you. Just Carey.”
“Come on, three’s company, after all.” He grinned and glanced to my breasts as I stretched my arms out into my jacket.
I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes like a teenager. “What do you like, Carey? You can pick.”
He shrugged. “Anything in the Quarter.”
“Whoa, Carey. That’s a mistake.” Kennedy shook his head and walked to the conference room door as Carey and I followed. “We need something good, not some tourist trap. I know just the place.”
“Where?” I knew plenty of great spots, too. Growing up in New Orleans, and being from a prominent family, gave me a distinct feel for the city, one that I doubted Kennedy shared. He’d probably lead us to some Cajun knockoff joint run by Yankee transplants.
Kennedy caught my eye and winked as I walked past him toward the elevator. Ugh, does that work on women? Given his reputation, yes.
“Don’t worry. I think it’ll even be up to your standards, Ms. Carmichael. And I’ll drive.”
“I’ll drive my own car.” There was no need to travel separately, but I didn’t like going along with him just for the sake of getting along.
Carey hit the button for the elevator. “Are we doing this again?” He sighed. “Maybe I should just call it a night.”
No! I couldn’t lose him now. “No, it’s fine. We can all go with Mr. Granade. Not a problem.”
“Right, no problem at all.” Kennedy put his hand at the small of my back and led me onto the elevator. A tingle shot through me at his touch, but I gave him a searing look in the reflective doors. He didn’t remove his hand for the entire ride down to the parking deck, the pressure from his fingertips increasing by the moment, as if he were trying to push through the fabric to my skin.
He smirked at my reflection, daring me to start a row and scare Carey away for the night. Such a dick.
I stayed silent and hurried out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened.
“This way.” Kennedy pulled a key fob from his pocket and pressed a button. A Maserati a few spots down the row lit up.
I turned and glanced at him, unable to hide my surprise. He’d whipped his tie loose and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt as we walked. I stared at the patch of skin visible between the lapels of his shirt. A light dusting of dark hair disappeared beneath the fabric. Glancing away, I licked my lips and silently cursed myself for doing it.
“Maserati?” Carey ran his fingertips along the insignia stamped on the trunk. “This is nice as hell, Kennedy. I thought Scarlett was the big-time attorney.”