Well. I’m Not a Poet, I’m Just a Woman.

He know is he hasn’t missed them. It’s not possible.

His sightlines on every entry point into this piazza are pristine, plus he'd arrived nearly an hour early, desperately in need of a coffee.

No one's approached him. No one's even sat down since he arrived.

Not that he knows who he's looking for.

It's unusual, to not know a single detail about a contact, but Moony had vouched; the intel and its source is solid, he'd promised.

It's the only reason James soldiers on, really.

Tapping an anxious rhythm on the table, he squints again at the lackluster street. Uselessly, but it's better than thinking about the obnoxious chair digging into his back.

Coming up empty, he swings back to the only good thing about this afternoon: the stunning redhead a few tables over.

She is so pretty it's bloody distracting. All deep auburn hair twisted up gracefully, sun-freckled shoulders — the Italian sun agrees with every bit of her.

Perched casually in her own yellow monstrosity, she ponders over whatever she's writing between sips from a pristine white cup, like the heroine in the art films Sirius tortures them with.

She is poised and perfectly unbothered, effortlessly chic, so exactly James' type he's pretty sure she's an act of God.

A karmic reward for waking up today.

He can't stop staring, between cursory scans of the piazza.

She hasn’t blinked his way once.

James' phone buzzes against the table, distracting from how when she twirls her pen, no rings wink at him.

It's a text from Moony. Still caught in traffic?

Fully stalled, he taps back, watching shamelessly as the gorgeous redhead taps her pen, then lifts it to her mouth, biting demurely on the end.

They'll show, Moony replies, irritatingly confident.

James frowns, sunglasses slipping low. 'Course he's unbothered. He's posted up in the shade, keeping an eye on the cryptokey James had tucked between some lilies at a florists' stall down the street for Foxglove, the other end of this deal.

Still frowning, James sweeps back over the plaza. Nothing.

Redhead continues to be ethereal fifteen feet away. A light breeze flirts with few tendrils of her hair.

James fidgets another fifteen minutes, putting off ordering a fourth macchiato and soothing the barista's evil eye with his best smile.

Redhead re-crosses her legs twice, each shift exposing a sliver of skin at the waist of her gauzy white top and trousers that could end wars.

At fifty-seven minutes, James decides to call it.

Foxglove remains a ghost, and he's sweating through his t-shirt. Not the best look for when he heads over to rakishly charm the world’s most perfect woman — the only possible salvage to this day.

He takes his eyes off her long enough to craft an appropriately flippant text to Moony about the quality of his acquaintances, and suddenly his goddess is sliding into the seat across from him.

She’s even prettier up close, almond eyes a startling green like moss after rain, one lone freckle dotted just below a swoop of dark eyelashes.

Folding her arms along on the tabletop, she leans in and smiles — sweetly but knowing, a little impish. 

It is devastatingly attractive. James delights in it. 

Confident women are his catnip and here she is, forest-floor eyes challenging him to something. He's not sure what, exactly, but he's in.

“You’ve been staring,” she speaks first, and her accent is British. 

A fellow ex-pat, how intriguing.

Recovering, James mirrors her pose, flexing a little, and flashes a grin he knows can only be described as wolfish. “Apologies, couldn't help myself. You know how good you look, yeah?”

She laughs — also devastating — and slides closer, a knee brushing his. “Are you waiting for someone?”

His brief hesitation is answer enough. Instead of bristling, her smile turns sly.

Holding his gaze, she reaches for his hand, brandishing the pen he’d been so jealous of earlier. Her nails are neatly manicured, fingers gentle as she scribbles a string of numbers into his skin, eyes magnetic.

It's so intensely intimate for a moment, James forgets he’s supposed to be on a job.

The magic shatters the second she smoothly slides a USB to his palm, curling his hand over the cool plastic as she pulls away.

Because of course, of course, this painfully sexy woman is his fucking mark.

Of course she's excellent, too.

Before he can recover, she’s on her feet with a cheeky wink, breezing around café tables as she makes a swift exit onto the busy street.

By the time James hits the corner, barely seconds behind, she’s already vanished.