I’ll have to tell him now that I’m having his baby—and then what? Will we co-parent? What?
A part of me is giddy at the idea of being tethered to him for life—and another is scared out of her wits for the same reason.
“You seduced me to get close to my father; that son of a bitch Barclay did the same.”
He lets out an arrogant huff. “Don’t compare me with that idiot.”
I shake my head, a wave of sadness making me tremble. “I am the idiot, Nick”—I let out a jagged laugh—“Hell, I don’t even know what your name is.”
“I’m Nick…your Nick.”
“You’re NSA’s Nick Smith,” I throw back at him. “You’re my nothing.”
Except the father of my child.
Oh God! I have no idea how he’s going to react when he finds out.
He’s going to be upset, isn’t he?
Is he going to blame me for getting pregnant?
What if he asks me to get an abortion?
I don’t know this man. I don’t know how he’s going to react to this news. I should know the man who impregnated me, shouldn’t I?
As Cass would say,“Holy fucking cosmic plot twist.”
11
THE DANCE I DON’T DESERVE
DOMINIC
Iknew what that asshole Kevin Cahill was doing when he asked me to come to the fucking ball. He wants to use me now that I have no cover to maintain, no alias to protect, no handler tracking my movements. I’m here as myself—no filters, no misdirection, no need to disappear halfway through the night.
Back when I was undercover, I kept my exposure tight. Family only. Controlled environments. Short conversations, no lingering, no personal details volunteered unless they served a purpose. I met people in Kevin’s orbit, yes—but selectively. Enough to be familiar, never enough to be memorable. That’s how you survive in plain sight without leaving a footprint.
But now my name is real. My job is public. My connections are known. I’ve spent my life managing risk from behind a cover. Doing it in the open is a different calculus. This is the part no one trains you for—what happens after you stop lying. Because the moment I stopped being undercover, I became exposed.
And Kevin Cahill knows it. He’s heard the chatter—how I walked away right after the op, how I didn’t stick the landing, how I burned a career for reasons that don’t line up on paper.He’s smart enough to connect that to Enya. Smart enough to test me where everyone can see.
It’s a risk to be visible this soon. I’ve made enemies. I’ve ruined people who don’t forgive or forget. I was advised to keep a low profile, to reemerge slowly. Definitely not to show up at the Hamilton Fellowship Ball, where every D.C. leech with a memory and a grudge congregates.
But how can Enya trust me—trust anything I say—if I keep operating like I still have something to hide?
The second she steps away from me, I know I can’t let her go.
Part of me knows I should give her space. I should let her breathe—let her heal.
But that part is small—the rest of me is impatient to have her where she belongs, which is with me.
I’ve spent months pretending I didn’t need her—but I don’t have to do that anymore, I can claim the truth…that I’m in love with her.
Madly. Completely. Irretrievably.
I grab her arm. “Dance with me, baby,” I whisper, my mouth brushing her ear. She smells like lavender, mingled with everything that’s Enya. Sweet. Subtle. Magical.
“Nick,” Enya hisses, eyes flashing. “Let me go.”
