She smiles. “I know Director Han reached out to you.”
“And then you must know that I told her, ‘fuck no’.”
She eyes the bottle of Dom. I don’t offer her a glass. I don’t want her here. I don’t need her to mess things up with Enya, right when I’m slowly getting back into her good graces.
She glances toward the hallway where Enya disappeared. “She’s pregnant.”
“And?”
“Yours?” There is envy in her eyes, and I don’t like that, not one bit.
“Yes.”
She scoffs. “You knocked up a target?”
“Kiera, get the fuck away from me.” I keep my voice low.
Fiola is discreet, and my making a scene is going to draw the kind of attention that will show up inThe Washington Post, especially with Daisy here.
“Come on, don’t tell me you’re going to be happy playing daddy and changing diapers?”
“You have no idea what makes me happy.”
She leans closer. I can smell her perfume. It’s wrong to compare women. My father would have my head for doing that,but I can’t help it. She smells all kinds of gaudy—nothing like Enya, who is soft and elegant.
“I know you, babe.” She puts a hand on my thigh. “I know you?—”
I shove her hand off. “Crossing lines, Kiera? Don’t make me call Director Han and tell her that you’re harassing me.”
That gets her attention and her back up. She straightens. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Please stop. I don’t need help.”
She shakes her head as if disgusted. “Do you know there’s chatter. About you. About why you quit. About what you walked away from.”
My insides tighten as the old reflex kicks in—to engage, deflect, control. I shut it down.
“This is D.C., there’s always chatter, and from my experience, if you wait sixty seconds, there will be louder chatter about someone else.”
She lowers her voice. “Dom, tell me you don’t miss the work, tell me you don’t miss me.”
A dry chuckle escapes me. “I don’t miss the workoryou. Happy?”
Her eyes flicker with annoyance…and maybe jealousy. “You’re throwing everything away for her.”
“What does everything encompass?” My tone is sharp. I want her to get the message. “My career at the agency? You? I don’t give a shit. I gave fifteen years of my life to my country, and now I’d like to live my life for myself, for my wife, my child.”
“Your wife?” she splutters.
“Fuck, Kiera, I don’t want to talk to you. Why can’t you understand that?” I don’t mean to be rude, but enough is enough.
She studies me, searching for the crack. “You used to be my friend, Dom.”
“I used to be a lot of things.”
Her mouth tightens.
“Kiera, you’re sitting in my sister’s chair, and you need to get going because she’ll kick your ass, and not give a damn about making a scene.” It’s not an empty warning. Daisy is not discreet.
