Epilogue
One yearlater
Shannon nudged my elbow. "What do you think they're talking about out there?" she asked, her gaze trained on Will and Jordan.
They were outside, near the dunes that separated the land from the shore, and engaged in a heated debate that involved emphatic gestures and vehement head shaking. If not for the full moon, they would've disappeared under the cover of darkness.
I murmured but didn't tear my eyes from the men. Or one man in particular. My tall, dark man with the panty-dropping voice.
"I think they're debating the proper way to build a snowman," I said, watching as Jordan motioned roundly only for Will to slash a hand in front of him. "Maybe it's something about football. There's always something to argue about when it comes to football."
Shannon didn't respond, sipping her sparkling water as she watched our men. There hadn't been an announcement yet, but I was interpreting the lack of liquor in her life as an indication she and Will were expecting baby number three.
Abby was asleep upstairs, in the bedroom she called "mine, mine, mine." That little girl loved Montauk and the cottage Will and Shannon were renting this month. Jordan's mother, Trish, was busy rocking Annabelle to sleep on the back porch while reminiscing about babyhood with Marco. She took great pleasure in telling everyone that Jordan had been bigger as a newborn than seven-month-old Annabelle.
"Did Jordan say anything about their trip to the training facility?" Shannon asked.
Work was nearly complete on Redtop's expanded site, and Jordan and Will had inspected the progress on their way back from a series of meetings in Miami last week. After eight months of non-stop construction, the expansion project was finally winding down. And it wasn't a moment too soon. Though Jordan had worried about stepping away from D.C. and delegating day-to-day management to his deputy Jeremy, business was brisk. The fallout from the shuttering of Stillhouse left Redtop with many new clients, although Toby Renter's whereabouts remained a mystery.
The Agency didn't make a habit of publicizing the guest lists at their off-grid black site prisons.
"Some," I said. I tucked my feet beneath me as I resettled on the sofa. "Mostly complaints about Miami, and then some noise about wanting to double the size of the shooting range again."
Jordan traveled a fair amount, but the departures were what made the arrivals so sweet. We planned our reading around his schedule, and that meant we always had new books to discuss and amorous moments to role-play when he got home.
It was hard to believe it, but that's what we had. Ahome. After years of bouncing from one place to another, a new cover story for every city, it was amazing to have a place that was mine.
But it wasn't the oceanfront cottage or the Long Island location. It was Jordan.
The beach was wonderful and the hamlet of Montauk was storybook-perfect and everything I had here was a-freaking-mazing, but Jordan was the home I'd long craved. He was my rock, my anchor, my port in the storms of life—all of it, and then some.
And he wouldn't stop teasing me about stabbing him.
"That goddamn range," Shannon muttered. "They won't be happy until they have nineteen miles of unobstructed shooting range space." She turned to me abruptly. "I forgot to ask about your class schedule this week. Do you have anything basic that won't make me dizzy or irritable?"
I stifled a laugh and reached for my wineglass. Shannon and I had become close over the past year, and I'd learned her tolerance for yoga was lean. She preferred simple stretching and breathing, despite being a hard-core runner and spin enthusiast. "I have a beginner's class tomorrow afternoon," I said. "Four o'clock at the studio."
"Will it be packed with city folk and tourists?" she asked. "Not that I mind."
I cut a glance to Will and Jordan, and found them in the thick of their snowmen-and-football argument. They reveled in barking at each other. "Tourists hit up the morning classes," I said. "I see more locals in the afternoon."
She nudged me again. "They're probably debating something ridiculous, like how to build a bomb with an orange peel," she said, nodding toward the dunes. I had opinions about orange peel bomb-building but kept them to myself. Though Will and Shannon knew of my history as a covert operative, it wasn't information that I advertised. "I'm gonna break this up."
I followed Shannon down the stony path leading from the house to the beach. As we neared the men, I caught shards of their conversation but not enough to make sense of it.
"It's past your bedtime, commando," Shannon called.
Jordan pivoted as we approached, and he regarded me with the cool, confident gaze that still sucked me in like a force field.
"You have orders," Will said to Jordan. "Follow them."
Will and I passed each other on the path as we traded places. "What was that about?" I asked Jordan when we were alone.
He hooked his arm around my shoulders and urged me toward the shore. "Home?"
We walked through the sand as waves crashed nearby. Our place was a short distance from Will and Shannon's, and I could spot the twinkle lights bordering our porch. The cottage was now home to an addition because Jordan hated working from the kitchen table. We had a bit more elbow room, and tidy spaces for his office and my bodywork, and—
"Will you marry me?" he asked, his lips brushing over my ear.
