“Good.” She hugs me tight. “Now, help me survive breakfast with my mother for ten more minutes, and then I’m off to sail to Cabo with my ridiculously nautical husband.”
As we return to the table, I catch Wyatt watching me, Zoey still contentedly playing with his shirt buttons. On his exposed forearm, I can just make out the edge of his tattoo, Zoey’s name inked permanently into his skin, a promise to her father.
A promise I could never make myself.
Mason greets us with a smile. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” I lie, reaching for my coffee. “Anyone else looking forward to cooler weather? Denver’s gorgeous right now with the leaves changing.”
As the conversation shifts to weather and travel plans, I feel Wyatt’s eyes on me, questions unasked hanging between us. I focus on my coffee, on Callie’s excitement about their coastal cruise, on anything but the message still unanswered on my phone.
You okay?
I’m not. But maybe, with enough distance, I could be.
2
Chris
The seatbelt light dings. I don’t look up.
The envelope’s pressed against my ribs—thin, discreet, lethal. Inside: transcripts, names, chatter logs. Enough to keep Vicente and Arturo on a leash for another few weeks. Maybe. If they don’t slip it like everything else in their lives.
A kid kicks the back of my seat for the third time. I think about turning around. I don’t. Enduring it feels like penance.
I shift my weight, coat bunched under one thigh, heat building where it shouldn’t be. My body still remembers... how she tasted, how he sounded, how I forgot what the hell I was pretending to be and just was.
Goddammit.
I adjust my posture, stretch my legs, do everything short of punching myself in the face. Beside me, a woman scrolls through her phone with the slow, hypnotic boredom of someone who’s never had to lie about her name for ten years straight.
Exit rows at 13 and 27. Three crew members visible. Pilot sounds sober. No signs of trailing agents or bad actors on board. Threat level low. Mental state unstable.
I close my eyes and try to run diagnostics on myself, like I used to in the field. Pulse elevated. Throat dry. Hands steady, but jaw locked.
And there it is again—Wyatt’s hands gripping my shoulders. My own voice, raw and half-unrecognizable: “Please.”
I meant it.
The worst part is, I meant it.
The drink cart rolls by. I wave it off. Whiskey won’t help. I spent four years drinking tequila I didn’t want with a man I was pretending not to care about, and all it did was make the lies taste smooth.
Don’t think about Vicente.
I’m back in that villa for a second anyway, heat, sweat, the way he used to look at me like he owned me, and the way I let him, because ownership felt easier than being known.
My phone buzzes in my jacket. One message.
LANGLEY OPS: Package confirmed. Briefing 0830. Amador intel still viable. More coming. Source remains volatile.
No signature. No commentary. Just the facts. I wouldn’t expect anything else.
I read it twice.
Still viable.
They say it like that’s a win.
