Rafe glances at me, giving me a once-over. “A little early to be drinking, isn’t it, Trishara?” he asks, eyeing the delicate glass perched in my hand. Pinning him with a defiant stare, I drain the rest of the contents in one gulp. I might regret that later. “It’s five p.m. in London.” “We aren’t in London.” I place the glass on the low table between us. “You’re almost as smart as everyone pretends you are, Rafe.”
