He settled into the chair himself, arranging her on his lap with her legs draped over the arm. His arms wrapped around her—gentle, mindful of her healing side.
She leaned into him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. He smelled like coffee and clean cotton and something that was just him—the scent she’d learned in Australia, in hotel rooms and the safe house and one terrible, wonderful boat ride across Sydney Harbour.
“Got our bags in the car,” he said against her hair. “Ready to go?”
Key West, the whole Jones, Inc., family gathered to celebrate, and she would be there—not as a cover, not as an operative, but as herself. As Dakota’s partner. As part of something bigger than her own lonely story.
“Anywhere with you,” she said.
His lips brushed her forehead—soft, reverent. Then her temple. Then the corner of her mouth.
“I love you, TJ,” he murmured against her skin.
Her heart swelled—full, finally, in a way she’d never thought possible. “I love you too.”
They sat there for another moment, wrapped up in each other, the lake glittering before them. Then Dakota stood, lifting her with him, setting her carefully on her feet.
“Come on.” He took her hand, laced his fingers through hers.
They headed toward the driveway, the lake stretched out beyond them, silver and gold, holding Skylar’s ashes somewhere in its depths.
“He lifted me out of the slimy pit . . . he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”
She’d spent so long running. So long performing. So long believing she had to earn love by being whoever someone needed her to be.
But here, with Dakota, she was just . . . enough.
This was enough.
Dakota had indeed packed the car, and she climbed in. He closed the door, rounded the hood, slid behind the wheel.
The engine started.
“Ready?”
“Just get me there in one piece.”
He laughed. “I’ll do my best.”
And TJ—not Jayden, not Lynx, not even just Tiffany, the woman she was—headed toward her future, Dakota’s hand warm in hers, the morning sun spilling gold across the road ahead.
AND YET…THE STORY ISN’T OVER.
PARIS, 4 OR SO YEARS AGO…
Alan Martin had done a hundred dead drops in his career. A thousand, maybe. Each one the same: Scout the location, identify the exits, make the exchange, disappear.
Paris was no different.
The park was small, tucked between apartment buildings with their wrought-iron balconies and window boxes spilling geraniums. A bronze horseman rose from a stone pedestal at the center—some forgotten general, his glory now diminished by pigeon droppings. Pansies wilted at the statue’s base. A worn bench faced the street, positioned perfectly for watching the café across the way.
Alan stood in the dappled shade of a chestnut tree, cataloging. Two exits from the park—east toward the boulevard, west into a narrow alley. The café had outdoor seating under cheerful umbrellas, an interior visible through glass that showcased stainless-steel coffee roasters. Tile floors. Maybe twenty patrons at this hour.
Abu would sit on the bench. Alan would walk past, leave the newspaper. Simple.
He let his gaze sweep the café one more time?—
And stopped.
