Maggie stands out front of the club with one hand stuck in the air like she’s hailing a cab that doesn’t exist. A guy in a dress shirt that’s not quite buttoned right steps out behind her, same problem, no luck. They trade that half-laugh people give when they’re both stranded and Kyle blurts out he ships out in the morning, six-month tour, last night of freedom. Maggie tilts her head, buys it for half a heartbeat, then feels heat roll right up between them. She flags a cab like she owns the sidewalk and leans in, voice low. "Want company?" They’re barely inside her loft before Kyle’s mouth is on hers, hands already sliding under her dress like he’s on a deadline. She gives it right back, fast and hungry, riding him on the couch until the leather squeaks. Next morning she rolls over and finds an empty pillow. Typical soldier, she figures. Weeks later a latte almost drops from her fingers when he strolls into the same café. Maggie corners him by the condiments. Kyle offers the dumbest excuse he’s ever tried and she doesn’t blink, so he caves: tax auditor, weekend cosplay. To his shock, she just smiles wider. "Best night I’ve had in months," she says. Tension snaps back like it never left. She suggests his place this time, and Kyle’s eyes light up like Christmas came early. They crash through his front door with clothes half-off again. Then she pushes him onto the bed, slips a hand to the nightstand drawer he never noticed her open, and pulls out a glossy badge that says IRS Criminal Investigations. His face drains white. Turns out Maggie really is an auditor—and she’s auditing him.
Maggie stands out front of the club with one hand stuck in the air like she’s hailing a cab that doesn’t exist. A guy in a dress shirt that’s not quite buttoned right steps out behind her, same problem, no luck. They trade that half-laugh people give when they’re both stranded and Kyle blurts out he ships out in the morning, six-month tour, last night of freedom. Maggie tilts her head, buys it for half a heartbeat, then feels heat roll right up between them. She flags a cab like she owns the sidewalk and leans in, voice low. "Want company?" They’re barely inside her loft before Kyle’s mouth is on hers, hands already sliding under her dress like he’s on a deadline. She gives it right back, fast and hungry, riding him on the couch until the leather squeaks. Next morning she rolls over and finds an empty pillow. Typical soldier, she figures. Weeks later a latte almost drops from her fingers when he strolls into the same café. Maggie corners him by the condiments. Kyle offers the dumbest excuse he’s ever tried and she doesn’t blink, so he caves: tax auditor, weekend cosplay. To his shock, she just smiles wider. "Best night I’ve had in months," she says. Tension snaps back like it never left. She suggests his place this time, and Kyle’s eyes light up like Christmas came early. They crash through his front door with clothes half-off again. Then she pushes him onto the bed, slips a hand to the nightstand drawer he never noticed her open, and pulls out a glossy badge that says IRS Criminal Investigations. His face drains white. Turns out Maggie really is an auditor—and she’s auditing him.