I studied him as he chopped and measured, every movement deft and intentional. He knew what he was doing and he looked good doing it. "What's this glaze all about?"
He replied with a tiny, almost imperceptible head shake, saying, "It's nothing."
I tipped my hand toward the array of ingredients. "It looks like something."
"It's just a little sesame ginger sauce," he said. "I made some last weekend when I was meal prepping—"
"Sorry, I didn't catch that. You were what?"
"Meal prepping," he repeated. I still didn't understand but I nodded as if I did. Rule number one of spycraft was acting like you knew what was going on. "It's my Sunday routine. Meal planning, grocery shopping, and then meal prepping. I look at my calendar for the week to determine if I have lunch meetings or evening events, and organize my macros from there." I nodded again. Still didn't get it. "And I made some of this sesame ginger sauce but when I opened it before coming here, it didn't smell fresh anymore. Sometimes that happens with the ginger. It can turn after a few days, you know?"
"Yes," I agreed. What did the ginger turn into? I did not know. "I've had that experience."
He pinned me with a look that would've been a glare if not for the upward curl of his lips. "You have not."
I rolled my hand, prompting him onward. "Continue with your story. It's fascinating."
"There's nothing else to it," he replied, a laugh ringing in his words. "Can we talk about something else? You're making me nervous."
I shifted closer to Tom. "How am I doing that?"
"You're watching me mince ginger. That's weird." He nudged my belly with his elbow until I backed up. "I'm going to screw up this recipe if you're not careful."
Once the ingredients were in the mixing bowl and he'd started whisking, I asked, "So, uh, where are you from?"
"Oh my god," he muttered.
"What? You wanted to talk about something else. What's wrong with asking that?"
"Nothing. It's fine." He rolled his eyes at the sauce. "It's the least interesting thing about me but the question that gets asked the majority of the time. I was born in Connecticut, the northwestern part. Lived there as a kid. Haven't been back since."
"I'm from San Diego," I offered. "It's my favorite place in the world and I'm comfortable saying that as I've seen a fair amount of the world. Since I loved it there so much, I went to the University of California in San Diego and then went to SEAL school on Coronado Island, just over a bridge from San Diego."
He glanced up at me, that scowl still betraying itself with a hint of a smile. "Is this your way of telling me your stay here will be brief?"
The second rule of spycraft was always knowing the out—exits physical and otherwise. The only trouble was I didn't have a clear out. Staying here another month or two wasn't my idea of a good time but my body was still healing and my job was on hold and there wasn't an alternative waiting for me around the corner. And I was on a date—on Valentine's—with a man I was interested in getting to know.
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "Though I'm guessing I'll ship out by springtime."
Ihadto ship out by springtime. Even if the Agency didn't want me anywhere near Russian interests, they'd have to send me somewhere. There had to be some low-level ops requiring a guy who spoke enough languages to get around and could talk antiquities. There was always something going on in Monaco, the Caymans, Polynesia. They'd need me soon enough. They always did.
"Mmhmm." He resumed whisking. "Good to know." Then the whisk clanked against the metal bowl and he flattened his hands on the countertop, hanging his head. "Should I just go? I mean, you're leaving in a month or six weeks or whatever. Why am I even here? I should've stayed home tonight, drinking my calories and watching serial killer documentaries under my weighted blanket."
I stepped behind him, braced my hands on either side of his, and rested my chin on his shoulder. For a moment, I held myself steady, waiting for him to refuse me. When it didn't come, I leaned in, layering my torso over his back. I tucked myself right up against his ass because how could I not?
"You're here because I asked you to be here," I said. "And you came because you wanted to."
"I came because you were sad and lonely."
"You're not wrong." A laugh rumbled out of me. "And you're not wrong about my time here being short. But listen to me, Tom. There's no reason you should drink your calories and watch serial killer documentaries alone, not when you could do it with me."
"You forgot the weighted blanket."
I looped my good arm around his waist. The scents of ginger, garlic, and lime wafted around him but there was also a dash of something warm there, like cinnamon. "I don't even know what that is but it doesn't matter. I'd love to get under a blanket with you."
"Where have you been that you don't know about weighted blankets?"
I laughed into his neck. "I've been out of the country and had my eye on other priorities. You'll have to give me a thorough demonstration."
