“Yes, something just like that.”He grins—or smirks.Or both.It’s sin and sunlight.And it loosens something I didn’t know I was clenching.
A laugh erupts and I drop my shoes to the ground.
“You’re funny.Do you want something to drink?”
He shakes his head in the negative.
“But if you clamp down on Eddie, it’s likely every lead shutters.We need time.”
“Hmm.Well, then, I’m going to need something in exchange.”
“And what is that?”
“A tour of your home.This…tells me only that you have good taste and that your home is a design work in progress.I want the full tour.”
A tax I’m happy to pay.“You want to see each and every room, or one room in particular?”I ask, stepping back with a flirtatious flair.“There’s not much to see.”I point to the kitchen opening.“Kitchen.Hall.”
He follows along behind me and I purposefully add a little extra sway to my hips.Before, I felt a little thrown, but with the open conversation about the investigation, the reminder of my purpose, I’m feeling stronger—and not quite as cautious.
He follows around the corner and into my small, windowless bedroom.Turning, I place my hands on his shoulders, pushing his jacket off, but he covers my hands, slowing me.Not refusal.Reverence.
“I want to know the woman who chooses calm in a city that never sleeps,” he murmurs, gaze sweeping over the soft gray folds, taking in my bedroom with the same intensity he brought to studying the Moira Kelly photo.“I want to understand why you have a Steinway baby grand in your living room but no art on your walls.”
“The piano was my grandmother’s.”She gave it to me long ago, when I’d been in elementary school and the last thing I wanted was to take piano lessons.That piano moved with us everywhere.“When my parents retired to Guatemala they insisted I take it.”First thing that felt like mine.That had been the first move my parents made that wasn’t funded by the government, at least in my lifetime.
He’s so close I breathe in his cologne, enticing and familiar.
“Do you play often?”
“Sometimes.”When I can’t sleep.When the questions won’t quiet.When I need to remember myself.
He cups my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone.“Will you play for me again?”
The question is gentle, patient—no demand, just genuine interest.It’s so different from the men who’ve wanted pieces of me, who’ve seen my appearance as a trophy or commendation.“Maybe,” I whisper, leaning into his touch.A fragile word that still feels like yes.
“That’s all I ask.”His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer until we’re breathing the same air.“For now.Maybes.Possibilities.Time to discover who you are when it’s just us.”The gentleness guts me more than any demand would.
“What if you don’t like what you find?What if I bore you?”
“Impossible.”The conviction in his voice tightens around my chest.“I’ve been searching for you for years, remember?Not the spy.Not the American intelligence operative.You.”
This time when he kisses me, there’s no urgency, no desperation.Just thorough exploration, like he’s memorizing the taste of me.My hands fist in his shirt, and I let myself sink into the feeling—no assignment parameters, no exit strategy, just this moment with this man who somehow climbs the walls I build and smooths my edges.
When we break apart, I’m breathless, my skin literally craving his touch.“Adrien?—”
“I know your job isn’t the office variety,” he says, forehead resting against mine.“I hope it’s not too dangerous, but I’m sure safety isn’t guaranteed.And I can see how it would be simpler to not have anyone worrying.But I also know what I feel when I look at you.What I felt that weekend, what I haven’t been able to forget.”
“I didn’t forget you either.”It shouldn’t be a difficult confession, as it’s obvious I remember it all, but saying it out loud requires effort.“But you need to understand, I’m not normal.After college, I threw myself into a world where relationships were discouraged, and often impossible to maintain.Yes, I’m in a different situation, but I’m not sure how to spend time with someone without an agenda or an extraction plan.I’m…adjusting.”
“Then don’t be normal.”His smile is soft, devastating.“Be you.The woman designed an apartment around empty wall space because she’s still deciding who she wants to be.”
He’s perceptive.
“I’m deciding,” I whisper, liking the sound of those words in my own apartment, in this space that’s mine.
“I can help.”His smile is soft, devastating.“I know a thing or two about art.”
He dips his head, brushing his lips along my temple—tentative, seeking permission.When I tilt my head to give him better access, his kisses trail to the sensitive skin below my ear.Each press of his lips sends heat spiraling through me, pooling low.
