He found parking two blocks from Brew & Bitter—which was a minor miracle in Manhattan—and walked.
The streets were crowded. They were always crowded, but this time of evening was particularly brutal. Office workers heading home. Dinner crowds heading out. Delivery guys on bikes weaving through traffic like they had a death wish. The city moved around him in waves of noise and motion and that particular smell that was uniquely New York: hot concrete, exhaust fumes, someone's food cart, and underneath it all, the subway breathing up through the grates.
Coy walked with purpose but not urgency. Eyes forward but seeing everything. Exits. Cameras. Potential threats. The guy in the hoodie leaning against the building—homeless or lookout? The woman talking too loudly on her phone—distracted or distraction? The idling car at the corner—waiting or watching?
Old habits. The kind that kept you alive in a city where gang territories shifted like tectonic plates and the wrong block at the wrong time could get you killed.
He'd been doing this for six years. Private security. Bodyguard work. Whatever you wanted to call it. It paid better than the Marines had, and the people shooting at you wore Armani instead of insurgent gear, but the rules were basically the same: stay alert, trust no one, and never let the principal see you sweat.
Brew & Bitter was exactly what he expected.
Exposed brick walls. Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling like they were trying too hard. Reclaimed wood tables that probably cost more than his monthly rent. Baristas with undercuts and tattoos, making drinks that took five minutes to prepare and seven syllables to order.
The place smelled like espresso and entitlement.
He spotted her immediately.
Norah Hanrot sat in the corner booth like she owned it. Designer sunglasses still on despite being indoors—black, oversized, probably cost more than his car payment. One leg crossed over the other, spine straight, phone in her hand. She was scrolling with the kind of casual disinterest that took years to cultivate. The kind that said nothing here is worth my attention, including you.
A half-empty espresso sat on the table beside her. Lipstick stain on the rim. The color was dark. Wine-red. Almost black.
Two large suitcases flanked her like sentries. Expensive leather. Monogrammed. The kind of luggage that screamed I have money and I want you to know it.
She didn't look up when he approached.
Coy stopped three feet from her table. Close enough to be noticed. Far enough to not be threatening. Old habit.
She kept scrolling.
Five seconds passed. Ten. Fifteen.
Finally, without looking up: "You're late."
Her voice was exactly as bored in person as it had been on the phone. Maybe more so.
Coy kept his expression neutral. "You're not at the airport."
That got her attention.
She lowered her sunglasses—just enough to look at him over the rim—and her eyes locked onto his. Brown. Dark brown. The kind of brown that was almost black in certain light. Sharp and assessing, taking him apart piece by piece in the space of two seconds.
Pretty, he'd give her that. Pretty in the way expensive things were pretty: polished, untouchable, probably more trouble than they were worth.
The kind of pretty that knew it was pretty and used it like a weapon.
"And you are?" she asked.
"Coy. Your father sent me."
Something flickered across her face. Fast. Gone before he could properly read it.
Disappointment? Irritation? Recognition? All three?
"Of course he did." She stood in one smooth motion, leaving her espresso on the table like someone else would clean it up. Which someone probably would. "Well?" She gestured vaguely at the luggage, as if the next step was obvious. "I assume you're not just here to stare."
Coy looked at her for one more second. Two.
Then he picked up both suitcases—heavy, Christ, what did she pack, her entire wardrobe?—and headed for the door.
Behind him, he heard her grab her phone and purse and follow.
Neither of them said another word until they reached the car.