Josh grins slyly at me.
“You said you’d stop calling her that.”
I scoff the scoff of the damned.
“It’s called ‘lying,’ Josh. You can tell her if you want. I’m not afraid of that ice dragon.”
“You know that isn’t brave, right? It’s just stupid. Like people who say they aren’t afraid of heights or sharks or getting shot. All those things could kill you, morons.” Josh makes an irritated huffing sound. “God, I hate field agents.”
“And one day I’m going to tell your boyfriend how much shit you talk about him,” I tease.
“One time he wouldn’t wear a bulletproof vest because it was, and I quote, ‘too hot,’” Josh says in shrill disbelief. “What the shit is that? Seriously. What kind of psychopath have I fallen in love with?”
“Your own fault for going out with a himbo,” I remind him. “Gotta take responsibility for your choices.”
Josh makes another mildly exasperated face at that. He’s constantly getting fretful over his field-agent boyfriend. I would get fretful too if my boyfriend were Craig Daniels. Mostly because I would be wondering what brain injury I’d incurred to have allowed such a thing to come to pass.
Josh slumps forward, setting his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on one fisted hand.
“You should date someone terrible,” he grumbles to me, “then we could talk about that instead.”
“I don’t date field agents,” I say in mild disgust, mainly still at the thought I could somehow wind up dating a bloke likeCraig Daniels.
Big fat nope on that one, thank you.
“You don’t date anyone,” Josh complains.
“Of course not, most people are terrible and don’t wear bulletproof vests because it’s too hot and jump out of aeroplanes without a parachute because they’re close enough to the ground, and anyway, broken legs can heal.”
Josh’s eyes widen comically.
“He didwhat?”
A black phone on Josh’s desk bursts to life, letting out a high-pitched ring. Josh, the good personal assistant that he is, holds his finger up to me and immediately answers it.
He has a brief conversation with the person on the other end, who I know is my aunt because Josh tells her I have indeed arrived for our meeting.
“Okay, I’ll send him through, Director,” Josh finishes, then puts the phone down.
He looks up at me with a wan smile and indicates I should dodge around his desk to enter Anabelle’s office.
I give Josh a two-fingered salute and move to do as I’ve been instructed.
“See you later, yeah?” Josh calls out to me.
“Maybe in the caf if I’ve not been sent somewhere by the powers that be,” I reply over my shoulder.
Josh makes an exaggerated sad face at me, and I discreetly flip him off. He snorts out a laugh as I turn around and go to meet my fate.
I give the door a short knock before opening it and walking a few paces into the room.
Anabelle is sitting behind her ornate mahogany desk. She gives me one of her top-five most sterile looks, gaze dragging over me in clinical assessment. I’m used to the cold stare at this point, so it barely gives rise to my anxiety anymore.
Anabelle looks a lot like my mother, with the same sharp features and pale-blue eyes. We all share the same raven-black hair, with Anabelle’s having been cut into a severe bob.
Unlike my mum, who does her best to hide any trace of age, Anabelle has done nothing to conceal the lines she’s developed in her face over recent years, as well as the few streaks of grey in her hair. I once asked her why she didn’t dye the grey.
Anabelle, in a rare show of her humanity, told me she spends her life hiding almost every aspect of herself from other people out of a need for protection, both her own and the agency’s. The one thing she does not need to lie about or keep secret is her age, so she doesn’t.
