“You can still let Anders and Hopper take care of New Orleans, you know.”
Gael and I have been calling these men by their city names, and in places like New York, where there are a few, I’ve been calling them by their boroughs or street names. Gael’s the only one who knows this first one will be the hardest for me, and it was his idea to get him out of the way first so I wouldn’t dread him the whole time.
“I know my friends would take care of him, but I kinda want to do this for myself, you know? Just to say I did.”
Gael pulls me into a big hug. “I believe in you. Now, let’s set that aside and enjoy your going away party.”
4
ERIK
God, I just want to get this trip over with. We should’ve started out this morning, but last night some of the terraced land at my aunt and uncle’s vineyard collapsed, taking a dozen grapevines down with them.
Anja and Georg immediately reached out to their handsome neighbor—and our generous Sunday dinner host—Trip Goodnight. He’s got a land-management degree and has put it to use, both on his own ranch and freely within the community.
So, when Trip called on the entire crew to bring their shovels, Ant and I were happy to push back the trip another couple of days to join in.
Right now, he has us digging out the buried vines before he resets the hillside terracing with his brand-new toy—a shiny compact backhoe. We’ve been at it all morning, and my Nordic ass is about to melt in this heat. Running the tip of my shovel into the loose dirt, I lean on the makeshift support with my forearms.
“Who’s fucking idea was it to re-terrace this section in the middle of summer?” I ask, taking the water jug from Nacho.
“Pretty sure that was the drought-with-intermittent-flooding we’ve been experiencing,” Nacho says, wiping the sweat off his brow.
“Is this one bitching about the heat again?” Ant asks, walking up to us with a shit-eating grin. Taking the water jug out of my hands, he gestures up at me. “What the fuck is this?”
I’m wearing a long-sleeved sweat-wicking shirt and a bucket hat with a neck guard to protect the back of my neck from the sun.
“I’m Norwegian. I burn easily.”
Nacho, who took off his shirt an hour ago and has turned a pretty dark-tan, snickers. “You’ve lived here long enough to know you’re supposed to spend the spring getting a base tan.”
“There is no such thing as a base tan for Scandinavians, you melanin-blessed bastard. Just varying levels of sunburn. You’re still going to age though.”
“Like a fine Mexican tequila. Meanwhile, Noruego, you’re going to spoil like milk.”
My Spanish is only okay, but I do know thatNoruegomeans Norwegian.
Ant’s gorgeous bronze skin has deepened in the sun, and he laughs as he takes off his tank top. Soaking the cotton in cool water from the jug, he runs it over his pretty face and delicate chest. “Erik, you are ridiculous.”
“Not everyone was born with built-in sun protection, Ant. Though you shouldn’t rely on that. Are you even wearing sunscreen?” I ask, reaching for my fanny pack.
“How old are you?” Ant asks, stepping forward to peer inside the pack. “All you need to do is start wearing socks with slides, and someone in Florida will send you the key to a retirement villa in Boca Raton.”
“Shut up. I’m at least thirty years from retirement,” I grouse, smacking his hand as he tries to steal a granola bar. “You can’t make fun of me and then steal from me.”
He blinks at me, his bright eyes glinting in the sunlight.
We’ve spent the last two weeks working out the logistics of our little summer road trip, and I have to admit, mostly to myself, that Ant is even smarter and a helluva lot more capable than I’ve given him credit for. His ideas are clever and a little sneaky.
Of course, it’s inaccurate to call it a road trip when Hedy has lent me her restored Cessna. She also not-so-subtly reminded me that Ant and I have the number to the Bat Phone—Wimberley’s immediate response emergency number. If we call, Wimberley will redirect operatives from any mission to find us anywhere in the world.
Yeah, I don’t plan on calling on help from Wimberley. Ever.
Anyway, we were up late last night putting the finishing touches on our plans when he’d scrunched his eyes closed and yawned. That’s when I noticed how long and thick his lashes were. That’s only important, I suppose, because I’m noticing them again as they glint in the sun.
Nacho chuckles to himself, and I look down. Ant has snuck the granola bar from my pack, and he’s shamelessly munching away.
“Did I ever tell you I’m a world-class pickpocket?”
