Page 349 of The Romance Adventure

Because deep down. I want to settle down and have a family. I want all of that.

If I were the kind of person to keep a diary, I would lay bare the truth and my yearnings. But of course, I leave no trace—destroy the evidence style.

The sun blazes toward the horizon as if it’s in a rush to kiss the glassy water.

“I want to hear about your trip. What did you see? What were you doing?” CJ asks.

My senses prickle because it makes me worry he’s suspicious. “You visited me in Cannes.”

“For a weekend.”

“Florence.”

“An exceptional three days.”

“Cádiz.”

“It was a wonderful weekend, like an extension of our honeymoon. Then you went silent.”

“I was busy. Working internationally is a different gig, juggling multiple balls, compared to life in a small town.”

I cannot tell CJ that I was tracking the exchange of bio-weapons between Von Dräger and a tech giant.

Turning my gaze out to sea, I remember this is why I don’t do relationships. I can’t relate basic details about my days. But I try. “Let’s see...there was the estate in Toulouse. It once belonged to Madame de Pompadour.”

CJ claps his hands. “No way. Lally is not going to believe it. She’s a history buff and named her dog Madame de Pupadour after the historical figure.”

Another reason never to lie is because I have no idea if that historical figure was ever even in Toulouse. I plaster on a smile. “We already have so much in common.”

“I could tell they liked you.”

I rarely feel comfortable in the presence of women, mostly because I’ve trained myself not to form friendships—the whole secrecy thing. Women can sniff it out much faster than men. At least in my experience.

“And your brothers?”

“They’re tough customers, but they’ll get used to us.”

I hope that proves true.

The sunset whispers goodnight at the same time a ship forms a bruise on the darkening horizon.

CJ stiffens and his eyes narrow.

“What is it?”

“Oh, uh, nothing. We should head in. It’s getting buggy.”

It’s not, but now I’m wondering about the boat. It has two masts and dark sails, not a modern ship by any means, but is larger than a regular sailboat.

“You named a boat after me?” I ask, trying to resume the casual conversation.

“Mon Jolie.”

“Your grandfather left you anything that floats, including that.”

“It’s a Grady White. What can I say? I missed you.”

I want to tell him I missed him, too, at least that’s true. But I’m afraid of the risk, how it might bind us tighter.