She disappeared into her room. The door clicked shut behind her.
Dakota stood in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the closed door.
All my nightmares I live out loud.
She was hiding something—he felt it in his gut. The question was whether it was something that mattered—something dangerous—or just the ordinary secrets everyone carried.
He went into his own room. Stared out the window at the ocean, the darkness beyond.
Yes, there was trouble. He just didn’t know what kind.
She’d almost kissed him.
Jayden stood in the hotel room, door safely locked behind her, and pressed her palms flat against the wall.
C’mon, Jayden.
Worse—she’d almost told him about Ian.
Any nightmares?
No, she’d said.
Whatever.
But maybe she needed that little nightmare reminder right now—a sort of pep talk against what happened when a gal fell for a guy she shouldn’t.
People get hurt.
Die, even.
She pushed off the wall and crossed to the window. The night arched over the ocean, stars blinking through the last thinning cloud cover.
And of course, her mind just kept circling back. The soft light from the hallway sconce. The faint scent of Dakota, emanating, tugging at her. The look in his blue eyes as they’d traced her face.
She’d almost leaned in too. Almost closed the distance. Almost pressed her mouth to his and let herself forget everything—the mission, the danger, the aliases that kept her alive.
See, she did live her nightmares out loud. Because she’d nearly groaned and grabbed his shirt and pulled him to herself.
Stop it.
She turned from the window and caught her reflection in the mirror above the desk. Hair down, almost wild. Cheeks flushed. Eyes too bright, too vulnerable, too much like the woman she’d been three years ago.
Before Ian.
She hadn’t thought about him in a year—okay, not true. Weeks. Sometimes months. But in the last twenty-four hours?
Too much. Because right behind Dakota’s laugh, she’d heard the echo of Ian’s. And sometimes in Dakota’s eyes, she’d spotted a reflection of the woman she’d been with Ian—happily lost, playing the game without regret.
Ian Weber. Black Swan asset turned more.
He’d seen through her, maybe from the first, and hadn’t cared.
His face surfaced unbidden—dark eyes, crooked smile, the way he’d laughed when she’d finally dropped her guard. There you are, he’d said, sharing a glass of wine as Notre-Dame loomed above them, the cool wind of the Seine winding through the linden trees.
She’d let him in. Let herself believe that maybe she didn’t always have to perform. That maybe she could be enough without the costume.
And six months later, she’d learned the truth.
