Nina absorbs this. Truth without pressure. Recognition without demands.
“He called himself your boyfriend last night,” I add. “Don’t think he even noticed.”
Nina inhales sharply, then tries to hide a smile behind her hand. Fails.
I register her reaction. Don’t push, but let it rest as something hopeful between us.
30
Wyatt
Eventually we have to move. Nina heads to the bathroom first while I pull on my boxers and retrieve my clothes from the armchair. In daylight, the damage shows clearly. Grass stains mark my jeans. Dirt grinds into the knees. A small tear runs near the pocket where I hit the ground when Lucia tackled me.
I pull on the jeans anyway, then the henley. Outside, the November morning hangs gray and overcast. From this window I can see the side yard—those bushes we crouched behind last night look smaller now, less like adequate cover and more like decorative landscaping. Worth it, though.
A piece of blue silk catches my eye on the dresser beside Nina’s jewelry box. Folded carefully. The pattern strikes me as familiar.
I pick it up, running the fabric between my fingers. The tie I left behind four weeks ago, the morning after Callie’s wedding. The morning I slipped out like a coward before Nina woke.
She kept it.
We saw each other later that day at the wedding breakfast. We sat beside each other on the flight home to Denver—three hours, side by side. She had this tie in her luggage the whole time and never mentioned it.
Nina emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a robe, hair damp at the edges. When she catches me holding the tie, she stops.
“Found it in the hotel room that morning,” she says quietly. “Kept meaning to give it back.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” She crosses to me, takes the tie from my hands, and loops it around my neck. Her fingers work the knot slowly, deliberately, eyes tracking the silk as it slides against my skin. When she finishes, she doesn’t smooth it down—just lets her hands rest against my chest, feeling my heartbeat through the thin cotton of my henley. “I wasn’t ready to let you go completely.”
I kiss her then, soft and unhurried. When we break apart, she keeps her hands on my chest.
“I have a client at nine,” she says. “Can’t reschedule—it’s her first session.”
“Right.” I’d almost forgotten she has actual clients now, not just Arturo and Vicente. Part of making the cover look legitimate. “Your regular job.”
She smiles faintly. “My regular job.”
“That’s fine. I need to check on Nikita anyway. And probably touch base with Chris.” I pause. “Tomorrow, though. The procedure. Who’s taking you?”
“Callie was going to take off work, but...” Nina’s expression shifts, uncertain. “If she can’t, Mason said he’d help.”
“I can take you,” I say.
The words come easily. I want to be there. I want to be the one who drives her, waits with her, brings her home after. Chris might want the same thing, but he’s neck-deep in whatever Tatiana’s intel means for the operation. My role stays more reactive—monitoring developments, coordinating resources if something breaks. I can step away for a few hours without the whole thing falling apart.
“I’ve got more flexibility in my schedule,” I add. “As long as whatever Chris is dealing with today doesn’t blow up—and I don’t think it will.”
Relief crosses her face. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah. We’ll figure it out tonight when Chris gets back. Talk through it together.”
She nods. “Okay. Yeah.”
We finish getting ready in comfortable silence, the kind that comes from knowing each other’s rhythms. Nina drives us back toward my apartment. The clock shows just past seven, early enough that traffic on the 10 hasn’t completely gridlocked yet, but still heavier than anything I dealt with in Denver. Nina weaves through lanes with focus, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift.
I cover her hand with mine.
