She’s got this. She wanted to help. She’s not in any real danger. She told you to stop checking in because it was making her more nervous.
Still, I can’t help myself.
“How you doin’ with your part, darlin’?”
“I’m ready.”
Eleanor
I swear I’m going to pee myself. Or hurl. Hopefully not at the same time.
My heart is racing so hard that I know my face is probably beet red. I keep checking in the reflective surfaces of the trays I stack and windows I pass. And while there’s a definite pink flush, it’s really no more than you’d expect after running around.
Stay calm, Eleanor.
I like to think I’ve come a long way since I walked in on a sniper in my apartment. I’m so far from that sad, scared, self-critical girl who was afraid to go after things she wanted. I’ve learned so much since meeting Mac—about myself and the world—and one of the most transformative realizations was that Icando hard things. Taking on a challenge that scares me is an opportunity to prove to myself that I’m strong and resourceful…
But that doesn’t mean it’s not still scary in the moment. And it definitely doesn’t mean I’m any better with this secret agent/spy shit.
With trembling fingers, I adjust the neckline of the black chef’s coat, feeling like I’m wearing a nostalgic kind of costume. Only, my chef’s coats never had a camera wired through, peeking out and pretending to be a button.
“Can you still see?” I mutter, trying to look like I’m talking to myself and not the group of people listening in and watching my every move.
“Yeah, Eleanor, we can still see,”Madison replies with exaggerated patience.
To calm myself, I repeat the plan. Dump the carefully measured vial of sedative into a champagne flute. Put it on the tray with the other cocktails. With her help, find Madison’s boss in the crowd. Offer him the cocktail with the sedative. Get the fuck out.
It’s one of the rare times I’ve been alone in the room where the catering stuff is set up, so I grab the sedative vial from my pocket, snap off the top and dump it all into one of the elegant thin glasses. The drink fizzes at the addition, but doesn’t bubble over. When it dies down, the flute is a fraction fuller than the others, but with no noticeable change to the appearance. It’s the same pale yellow as the others from the lemon juice.
Just as I’m stashing the empty vial in my pocket, Sarah comes barreling through the double doors, slamming down her tray and rubbing her eyes. It didn’t take long to figure out who was in charge of catering at this event—it’s a surprisingly small, collaborative circle of mostly women—and Sarah from Great Eatz was thrilled for an extra set of hands when two of her staff called in sick. That was sheer luck; I was just banking on the fact that it always feels like there areneverenough hands.
“I swear to God, they never listen when they’re ordering—I always tell them to double however many crab puffs they think they want, and even then it won’t be enough. Eleanor, can you check on the crab puffs we have left for me? I’ve got to go talk to someone with allergies.”
I have to bite back the amenable response that instantly springs to my lips. Chef Eleanor has no problem checking on the crab puffs, but I’m not Chef Eleanor tonight. I’m Undercover Eleanor. “I was just about to take out this tray of cocktails.”
“You don’t need to be on cocktail duty—you should be plating. Give it to Tilly,” Sarah suggests, catching the girl by the arm as she tries to scoot by.
Fuck. One minor hiccup and I’m sitting here like a dead fish, mouth agape, trying to come up with some reason to object that makes sense other thanwell, I would, but one of these champagne flutes is full of the perfect dose of etorphine and I have to make sure it gets to the right corporate asshole with network access to a murder-for-hire software program that we’re going to dismantle before it goes live.
I’m not quite sure how the truth came to be so unbelievable.
“I, uh…”
Sarah reaches out to grab the edge of the tray.
“I need to do it. I, uh… I need to talk to one of the guests.”
Her frown deepens. “What? You can’t use this event as an excuse to talk to someone. That’s so unprofessional.”
Fuck. She’s right.
“Tell her you’re pregnant,”Madison suggests.“People back down for personal stuff like that.”
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out, latching on to the offered excuse when I can’t seem to think of one myself.
Sarah goes still, and Tilly stops mid-step towards the double doors.
“I won’t cause a scene,” I rush to add, nearly wincing when I realize I’ve created a whole new problem for myself. I just needed an excuse; instead, I opened a can of worms. “I… I just need to talk to him.”
