She’s in a beautiful, flowy, light pink maternity dress. It makes her look ethereal, like a wood nymph.
Yeah, I know I thought the words:wood nymph. I’mthatstupidly in love.
I adore how she puts her hands on her stomach. It’s a protective gesture and makes me want to pound my chest and say, “That’s my woman, and she’s pregnant with my baby.”
Since she started her second trimester and left morning sickness behind, she’s developed a glow. It’s almost like someone lit a light in her eyes.
She’s still hurt and angry with me, but I know she’s softening.
Partly because she’s pregnant and emotional because of it, which I’m fine with—you have to take the obvious advantages—and partly because she loves me. I wish she loved me enough to trust me again. I think she’s forgiven me, she understands it was the job, but she’s gun-shy of putting her faith in me.
It’s evident when she casually says,“I can’t get used to you doing things for me, Nick. What am I going to do when you leave?”
She doesn’t believe I’m here to stay.
That hurts, but I’ve earned the bruises her careless words leave.
I’ve had sex with a target before. It’s not a big deal. But I never spent time with them the way I did with Enya. We went on dates, picnics—hell, we watched bad movies on Netflix while we cuddled on Grandma Lucille’s damn uncomfortable couch.
Enya pushes her chair back, and I stand immediately. “All okay?”
She gives me a baleful look. “Yes. I need to pee.”
Since she fainted, I’m on tenterhooks, worried half the time that she’s going to pass out and the other that I’m not going to be there when she does.
I look at Daisy. “Go with her.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Nick.” Enya shakes her head. “I can go alone.”
Daisy lets out a loose laugh. “God, he’s so cute. Come on, pregnant sister-in-law, let’s keep an eye on you while you?—”
“You’re both insane,” Enya huffs as she waddles away, Daisy with her.
From the back, one wouldn’t be able to tell she’s pregnant, except for how she walks.
That ass is still fine.
They disappear toward the back, and I reach for my champagne just as a familiar presence slides into the chair Daisy just vacated.
“Kiera, not now.”
I’m sick of her. Truly sick of her.
She keeps calling. Showing up at my place—something I only know because my concierge mentioned it, since I’m never there. She even stopped by Lucille’s once. Thankfully, Enya wasn’t around.
She wants me back. There’s an operation in the Middle East, and she’s convinced I’m needed for it. Director Han has floated the idea of bringing me on as a civilian contractor, as if that changes the math.
I’ve told both of them the same thing: I’m done with tradecraft. Retired. Finished.
I’m not working right now, and I don’t plan to until my baby is here and I’m ready—actually ready—to reenter a worldgoverned by calendars, meetings, and expectations. I know myself well enough to admit that eventually my brain will need a challenge. I can’t be idle forever.
That’s why I accepted the role at Sentinel. They were more than willing to wait a few months for me to start if it meant they could announce the hire and enjoy the PR lift in the meantime.
This life—this choice—is measured. And I’m not negotiating it.
“Dom,” she says lightly, as if we ran into each other at a party instead of her tracking my movements like it’s a sport. “Funny running into you.”
“It’s not funny, Kiera.”
