Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) by Sarah J. Maas

She gave him a feline grin. “You aren’t afraid of a bunch of stuffy old ladies and giggling young women, are you?” He glared at her, and she patted his arm. “Weren’t you listening when I explained my plan? We’re just going to pretend that we’re waiting for our table. So don’t fret: you won’t have to fight off all the mean little ladies clawing at you.”

“The next time we train,” he said as they eased through the throng of beautifully dressed women, “remind me to wallop you.”

An elderly woman turned to glare at him, and Celaena gave her an apologetic and exasperated look, as if to say, Men! She then promptly dug her nails into Chaol’s thick winter tunic and hissed, “This is the part where you shut your mouth and pretend to be a woolly-headed bit of decoration. Shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

His returning pinch told her that he was really going to make her sweat the next time they were in the training room. She grinned.

After finding a spot just below the steps that led up to the double doors, Celaena glanced at her pocket watch. Archer had begun dining at two, and usually the meal was over within ninety minutes, which meant he’d be leaving any second now. She made a good show of pretending to rummage through her small coin purse, and Chaol, mercifully, kept quiet, observing the crowd around them, as if these fancy women might attack them at any moment.

A few minutes passed, and her gloved hands grew numb as people continued walking into and out of the tea court, so often that no one bothered to notice that they were the only ones who weren’t about to go in. But then the front doors opened, and Celaena caught a glimpse of bronze hair and a dazzling smile, and she moved.

Chaol played along with expert skill, escorting her up the steps, up, up, until—

“Oomph!” she cried, slamming into a broad, muscled shoulder. Chaol even pulled her to him, a supporting hand on her back to keep her from toppling down the stairs. She looked up through her lashes, and then—

A blink, two blinks.

The exquisite face gaping at her broke into a grin. “Laena?”

She’d planned to smile anyway, but when she heard his old pet name for her … “Archer!”

She felt Chaol stiffen slightly, but she didn’t bother to glance at him. It was hard to look away from Archer, who had been and still was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Not handsome—beautiful. His skin glowed golden even in the height of winter, and his green eyes …

Gods above and Wyrd save me.

His mouth was a work of art, too, all sensual lines and softness that begged to be explored.

As if emerging from a daze, Archer suddenly shook his head. “We should get off the steps,” he said, extending a broad hand to gesture to the street below them. “Unless you and your companion have a reservation—”

“Oh, we’re a few minutes early, anyway,” she said, letting go of Chaol’s arm to walk back onto the street. Archer followed beside her, giving her a glance at his clothes—expertly tailored tunic and pants, knee-high boots, a heavy cloak. None of it screamed wealth, but she could tell it was all expensive. Unlike some of the flashier and softer male courtesans, Archer’s appeal had always been more ruggedly masculine.

The broad, muscled shoulders and powerful frame; the knowing smile; even his beautiful face radiated a sense of maleness that had her struggling to remember what she’d planned to say.

Even Archer seemed to be searching for words as they faced each other on the street, a few steps away from the busy crowd.

“It’s been a while,” she began, smiling again. Chaol remained a step away, utterly silent. And unsmiling.

Archer stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You were just a girl when I saw you last. You were … Gods above, you were thirteen, I think.”

She couldn’t help herself—she looked up at him from beneath lowered lashes and purred, “I’m not thirteen anymore.”

Archer gave her a slow, sensual smile as he took her in from head to toe before saying, “It would certainly seem that way.”

“You filled out a bit more, too,” she said, returning the favor of surveying him.

Archer grinned. “Comes with the profession.” He angled his head to the side, then flicked his magnificent eyes to Chaol, who now stood with his arms crossed. She still remembered how adept Archer had been at taking in details. It was probably part of the reason he’d become the top male courtesan in Rifthold. And a formidable opponent when Celaena was training at the Assassins’ Keep.

She glanced at Chaol, who was too busy staring down Archer to notice her attention. “He knows everything,” she told Archer. Some tension flowed out of Archer’s shoulders, but the surprise and amusement were also wearing off, replaced by hesitant pity.

“How’d you get out?” Archer asked carefully—still not mentioning anything about her profession or Endovier, despite her reassurance that Chaol knew.

“I was let out. By the king. I work for him now.”

Archer eyed Chaol again, and she took a step toward the courtesan. “He’s a friend,” she said softly. Was it suspicion or fear in his eyes? And was it merely because she worked for a tyrant that the world feared, or because he’d actually turned rebel and had something to hide? She kept herself as casual as possible, as unthreatening and relaxed as anyone might be upon encountering an old friend.