I beeline for the door, hoping to escape before Morrie can question me too closely.
Luckily, he doesn’t call after me, but I can’t as easily outrun my own churning thoughts. I pick apart each memory of Agnes, then each nuance of my interactionwith Nina today, her eyes on a relentless loop in my mind. No one has ever had this much effect on me, not before or since Nina, and not in the interim between. I somehow forgot what it was like, this pull she has on me. The way my thoughts, my energy, my focus, all get drawn toward her, so I lose sight of everything else.
I already jeopardized one mission for her, only to be abandoned without a note, a goodbye, anything. I can’t, Iwon’t, let myself do that again.
Chapter 13
Nina
Last week, I was worried about being stuck in the hotel—cleaning and laundering, tutoring my cousins, and knitting for my aunt’s African Relief Society—for the entire eight weeks of our stay in Green Valley. Now, I’m part of the wardrobe department for a reality series, and I’m also an informant for the FBI.
Life can be strange sometimes.
My new handler, Morrie, made contact with me the day after my conversation with Cass and brought me on board. Sorry, not Cass—Wes. I’m still wrapping my head around that one. Anyway, after giving me a special burner phone for all our communications, Morrie explained that the FBI may or may not use me for information. Apparently they’re still in the process of running my background check, so for now, nothing can be explained to me about the case, but the FBI might have questions for me based on anything I might observe. In the meantime, Morrie reminded me that under no circumstances am I to tell anyone Wes is an undercover agent, so help me God. (That last part may have even been verbatim.)
I wish I could fully explain to Morrie how few people there are for me to tell anything to. Everyone in my family pretty much treats me like I’m part of the furniture. If I were suddenly to announce at dinner that I was working with the FBI, I’m pretty sure they’d just keep talking over me like I hadn’t spoken at all.
To be fair, I don’t usually have very much to say that’s interesting.
The thought depresses me, so I turn my mind to my friends.WWHTMKG&LD.If anyone from my book clubwere here, I guess I might be in some danger of spilling the beans, although even then, I’m pretty good at keeping a secret.
I’ve had a lot of practice, after all.
As I ready each of the carefully selected beanies the men will be wearing for their first scene today, I entertain myself by musing over which of my friends would make the best confidant,ifI were going to tell someone about the FBI being on set, which I most definitely will not.
Matilda would be the absolute worst person to tell, I decide. I love her with all my heart, but she is not someone who can keep her opinions to herself. She would out Wes within minutes, then probably give him unsolicited advice about what he was doing wrong in the investigation—and she’d probably be right.
Helen is no better at keeping secrets. Even though she would try to keep the information to herself, she would probably inadvertently give it all away, because her face reveals everything she’s feeling, all the time.
Kimo? No. Just, no. I love him to pieces, but what a trainwreck that would be.
Thad could probably be trusted to keep the secret to himself, but based off conversations I’ve had with him in the past, I suspect he has strong opinions about law enforcement officers, all the different types. In his job as a bounty hunter, he’s had run-ins with everyone from the Boy Scouts to the CIA. I’ve never heard him talk about the FBI specifically, but if he dislikes them as a rule, he might not be as cooperative as Morrie and Wes would want him to be. No one makes Thad do what he doesn’t want to do—except Helen.
Grady, I decide, smiling to myself. Grady would be the best person to confide in, if I were going to tell somebody, which I’m definitely not. Grady is an escape room in human form. He is a puzzle. A mystery. He might even be keeping more secrets than me.
“Nina.”
Hearing my name is startling enough. Hearing my name murmured in Wes’s voice right next to my ear sends my heart racing and my limbs flailing. I knock a bunch of the beanies off the table. Embarrassed, I whirl around to face him, only for my heart to take off at a gallop anew at the sight of him.
The other day for the photoshoot, the men were dressed up like lumberjacks, but highly stylized, almost cartoonish versions of lumberjacks, to play into the stereotype of the mountain man. They looked good, but a little ridiculous, in a fun, extra-cheesy way.
Today the goal was for the men to dress like actual rugged mountain men, emphasis on the sex appeal.
As I slowly look Wes up and down from top to bottom, all I can say is, Deja and her team have really outdone themselves. If the men are supposed to be walking embodiments of a sexual fantasy, the wardrobe department has nailed it. Wes is already a good-looking man, but right now he is ... wow.
Boots. Dark, snug-fit jeans. A flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows and unbuttoned down the front to reveal a generous glimpse of chest underneath. The garishly bright red flannel all the men were wearing in the photoshoot has been switched out for a much more muted pattern with blues and blacks and dark red. Even though I know firsthand that the shirts have been distressed by a team of wardrobe consultants (including yours truly) to make them look more authentically lived-in, the effect is ... good. Very, very good. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was really a mysterious, sexy woodsman who just happened to wander down the mountain and onto set.
I must be acting like a real weirdo, because when I finally stop ogling Wes and meet his gaze, his brow is furrowed in concern. “You okay? I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Ah, right. Because I turned into a human windmill, knocked a bunch of hats everywhere, and then spent two completely silent minutes just staring at his body. Those veins on his forearms.
“Hats,” I say stupidly, squatting down to pick up the beanies.
Wes drops down with me, helping to gather them up. I am incredibly aware of my body, his body, and their proximity to each other. The heat emanating off him. The almost brush of our hands as we reach for the same hat, only to both jerk away like we’ve been burned. I try to steal another sly peek at him, but find him already looking back at me. A jolt of warmth passes through me.
I feel hot and bothered. He looksconcerned. That’s an embarrassing combination.
“Listen,” he says quietly, “I know Morrie talked to you. If all of this is too much, you don’t need to get involved.”
