Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  “Of course.” We’re sitting on the Emirati embassy, which will probably be about as much fun as it sounds.

  Elliott looks away, and I see it again — a flash of pain as his smile fades.

  “Everything okay?” I ask. “In your life?”

  “Yep.”

  I wait for him to turn to me. “Sure? You don’t look okay.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows again, stepping closer. “I look a lot better than ‘okay.’”

  I groan and whack his arm. Not the first time I’ve tried to ask him about that expression, but like every time I try to talk about something serious, he makes it into over-the-top flirting.

  I give it one more shot: “You know you can talk to me, right?”

  “If I want to talk, you’ll be the first to know,” he bites off.

  I pull back. He glances around and drops his voice. “I mean . . .” He sighs. “I want to work this out myself. I know what you’ll say. I know you better than just about anyone.”

  Guess he does know me that well. We’ve worked together more than a year, and he’s become like another older brother, albeit an obnoxiously flirty one — and most of all, he’s one of the few people in this country or ours who knows what I really do for a living. I watch him hop in his car and peel off, marveling for a minute that the guy who can’t communicate without a come-on turned out to be my best friend and favorite partner. Definitely wouldn’t have guessed that the day he waltzed into my life like Langley’s gift to ladies.

  I shake off the nostalgia and run through a barrage of boring errands to make sure no one’s following me. (Like I said, everyone needs a hobby — and mine’s paranoia.) Once I’m sure I’m black — Agency slang for free of surveillance — I hit the office to hand off the card copier to my boss, Will. He’ll pass it along to a courier and by tonight, it’ll be waiting in some analyst’s inbox at Langley.

  Another surveillance detection run brings me safely to my law office for a couple hours of catch-up before rendezvousing with Elliott again.

  I’m parking when my phone rings. Please don’t let this be a problem at my other job. I check my phone. My mother.

  Crap. If she’s paying attention to me, it’s way worse than work. My stress level’s already spiking, ratcheting up the tension in my back. If she’s suddenly remembered I exist and I don’t run to answer, I’ll spend the foreseeable future on my mother’s hate list.

  Wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to hear about what a terrible daughter/sister/human I am from her and every mutual acquaintance until I grovel my way back into her good graces. Not worth it. Much faster and easier to talk to her for a few minutes. I may defend my country from thieves, terrorists and spies, but sometimes the best defense is not fighting in the first place. Diplomacy, meet Mommie Dearest. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Oh, Talia, sweetie, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t answer.”

  I wish. I turn off the car and stay put. Not about to walk and talk — that’d leave me too distracted to watch my back. “Sorry, I’m just getting back to the office.”

  “Then you should’ve answered sooner so we’d have longer to talk.”

  No, what I should’ve done is not hope Mom could take the hint that I don’t have time to talk — or, really, listen to her talk about herself.

  Gotta get it over with. “How are you?” I ask.

  I unbuckle and focus on the dash clock through my mom’s long recitation of her latest activities. Ten minutes of nothing worth a phone call, stories of how much smarter/prettier/better than her friends she is. We take a detour for her to rail against my brother Trevor for heaven knows what. I make the right conversational noises without actually agreeing he’s the worst scum to ever live until I can steer the topic back to something else she mentioned.

  Apparently, she’s ready to talk about me. “So, are you seeing anyone? How’s work?”

  “Stressful,” I say. I wait a minute for her to plow ahead about herself, but when she doesn’t, I dare to think she’ll listen. (And care?) “This week, I spent —”

  “Talia, you didn’t answer the question. Are you seeing anyone?”

  I cover my face. It’s five o’clock on a Friday. If I’m not getting ready for a date, Mom already knows my answer. And I know what’s coming — either a lecture or an announcement. “No, I’m not.”

  She sighs dramatically. “Aren’t you ever getting married?”

  I glance at the rearview out of checking-my-back habit and bite back a retort about repeating her mistakes (three of them). The point of talking to her is to not make her hate me. “Mom —”

  “Don’t ‘Mom’ me. I’m serious. You need to settle down.”

  Somewhere deep inside, I haven’t learned my lesson. Eight-year-old me really, really wishes this sudden concern had to do with actually caring about my happiness. But I know she’ll say something to make this all come back to her.

  “It’s like you don’t want me to be happy.”

  And there it is. My existence, my purpose, my life to my mother in a nutshell: I exist to make her happy, and I never have. This is why we don’t talk. I pull the keys out of the ignition and grab my messenger bag. “Sorry, Mom,” I say. “But I really have to get to work.”

  “Is that more important than talking to your mother?”

  Here comes the martyr card. I pause, one hand on the door handle.

  “After all I’ve done for you, you can’t spare ten minutes for your own mother?”

  Never mind that it’s already been twenty, and I haven’t done any talking — and that she can barely be bothered to remember my existence half the time. “I can’t drop —”

  “You used to be such a sweet little girl. What happened?”

  Finally, my Mom-survival instincts kick in and I shut down the emotions — disappointment, regret, and most of all, stupid, stupid hope. It’s how I made it through my childhood, and if it’ll help me survive this conversation, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.

  “Do you remember when I helped you open that bank account?”

  Her leaps are harder to follow than Elliott’s advanced dance steps. “I guess?”

  “And the money I gave to get you started?”

  Really? “You want your twenty dollars back?”

  “I would never — but, you know, I’m behind on a few bills and with interest —”

  Typical. Gifts, especially money, are never free in her family. “Sorry, Mom, I really can’t talk now.”

  “Don’t you care — oh, my show’s on. Better go.”

  Wait, what? I stare at my phone’s call timer, stopped and blinking. I told her how many times I had actual work to do, and the minute she had something trivial (it’s July! It’s rerun season!), she dropped me.

  No. No. She can’t hurt me, not anymore. I’m an adult. I’ve been through years of therapy and have control of my life and my emotions and my choices. Mom is only allowed in because she’s my mom. I’d like to think she loves me, and I guess I love her. I must, since I’m still protecting her. Of all the secrets I keep for my country, none of them is buried quite as deep as my deepest: the family secret that Mom’s crazy with a K.

  I doubt many people will be in the office, but I’ll have to endure Elliott later (not to mention the rest of the weekend — church especially), so I need to regroup. I comb my hands through my hair, smoothing it back into a ponytail and rearranging my bangs. I check my appearance in the rearview, grateful I never succumbed to the fleeting temptation to highlight my dark hair (like Mom does). My hair’s fine. Game face on. Walls up. Secret safe.

  Now to keep it that way.

  I came to Canada for the chance to start over, but some habits can’t be broken — like Sunday afternoon naps. Even if it conflicts with church.

  Dozing off in meetings is practically a time-honored tradition, so I don’t appreciate the sharp elbow in my ribs when I nod off. Twice. Everyone else here thinks “Sassy” Beth and I are meant to be — especially Beth — but something about her is a li
ttle too far on the psycho side of the spectrum for my taste.

  I’ve had enough psycho for four lifetimes. I’m getting out. A walk around the halls would help me stay awake . . . and give me an excuse to sit somewhere else. Maybe. Not really that harsh.

  Three meters into the foyer, I stop short. I’m not into feet, but some shoes can drive any guy to distraction. A pair of major offenders are staring me in the face. Crisscross straps wrapped around her ankles, high heels, toes that aren’t fighter-jet-pointy-scary.

  More than that, I know who they belong to, because this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed those ankle straps accentuating those crossed calves.

  Yep, totally awake.

  And totally gawking at her legs. I flash my gaze to hers, fast, but she’s focused on the glass doors, tapping her fingers on the armchair. At least if she catches me staring at her face, I won’t look like a jerk. Not like looking at a pretty girl can hurt you.

  No, but it’s a start.

  Stop it, brain. Stop. Those defenses are a delayed reaction not to the woman in front of me, or Sassy Beth in the chapel. My master plan for starting over didn’t include dating quite yet, but when the prime opportunity to pursue the perfect puzzle presents itself, who am I to say no?

  I know who she is, though I’ve never spoken to her. That’s mostly because she seems to avoid speaking to anyone at church. Nobody knows why, and public opinion seems split along the “shy”/“stuck up” divide. In fact, nobody knows anything about her, and that’s one reason I’m interested. I’d love to be the first to figure her out.

  If she’s just shy, and if it’s just us in the foyer, and if she didn’t just see me checking her out, then it should be okay, right?

  She looks up, one eyebrow asking a silent question. As much of an invitation as I could hope for, and I’ll definitely take it. I lean against the wall by her chair. “You know,” I say with a nod toward the double wood grain chapel doors, “you can see better in there.”

  Lame.

  That one eyebrow arches higher, and she points at the speakers in the ceiling. “What, does Coop have puppets and posters?”

  Okay, I have to laugh. She’s witty. I like witty.

  “I’m not here to see,” Talia says with a smirk. “Or be seen.”

  “Wish I were that smart,” I mutter.

  “What, the pressures of the ‘meet market’ suddenly too much for you?”

  “That and the fact I catch an elbow every time I fall asleep.”

  She winces.

  “Talia, right?”

  She blinks and tilts her head a millimeter, like she’s recalculating her estimation of me. “And you’re Danny.”

  “That’s me.” Dude, she knows my name. That’s better than ankle straps.

  Inside the chapel, Coop pauses in his droning, and we both glance at the speakers in the ceiling, waiting for the next words. “We need to get married. Like, now.”

  My gaze has already fallen back to Talia, and I’m still grinning because she knows my name, so that makes Coop’s pronouncement doubly awkward.

  Coop’s not done. “I know we all know this,” he says, “and we’re probably tired of hearing it, but it really is true: it’s not good for man to be alone.”

  Footnote: sometimes, it is better for man to be alone.

  “Oh. Marriage.” Talia smirks. “Must be the fourth Sunday.”

  Witty again. I really like that.

  “Obviously, I’m preaching to the choir,” Coop continues. “But seriously, everyone I’ve talked to says marriage is awesome. If you get the chance, do it! If you’re dating someone and it’s going well, it’s time to talk marriage.”

  Footnote 2: be extremely careful who you date. I shouldn’t resent a twenty-two-year-old preaching to me like this, but apparently I’m not as mature as I thought.

  Before either of us salvage that one with a clever retort, Coop launches into what has to be the conclusion of his talk. Talia gets up.

  Yep, the effect of the heels is even better when she’s standing. And walking. That was the first time I really noticed her, three weeks ago, walking in the back doors of the church with the sun hitting her back, lighting up her hair and dress with a coronal halo. I kind of interrupted a conversation with Sassy Beth to watch Talia walk by. At the last second, Talia looked back at me, but before either of us could react, she stopped short, narrowly missing a guy I don’t know. She apologized and disappeared.

  Just like she seems to be ready to do now.

  “Where you going?” I call.

  She looks back. “Getting a drink.”

  I eye the water fountain that’s two meters away, 135° off her trajectory.

  “Yeah, people will come out here and get a drink there during the rest hymn. And I will be —” She motions down the hall and around the corner, where another water fountain waits — “over there.”

  “You’re taking the ‘not being seen’ thing to the Olympic level.”

  Talia smiles, and that’s either subtle flirting or secretly funny. “You have no idea.” She reroutes for her destination, but wheels back again before she disappears down the hall. “You know, water might help you stay awake.”

  A definite invitation, and a definite yes. The opening chords of the rest hymn ring out, and I have to hurry, without looking like I’m hurrying, to reach her before the inevitable string of parched people parades out the doors like she said.

  The back of the building is noisy and crowded with families from our building’s other congregation, which is always weird when yours is composed entirely of single twentysomethings in an attempt to get us married off. We have to wait in line for the fountain. “How’s this better?” I murmur to her.

  “They’re not obligated to talk to us,” she responds. She peeks over her shoulder to make eye contact, and I know she doesn’t mean she’s obligated to talk to me or vice versa. Once we’ve gotten water, Talia pauses to kill more time perusing a bulletin board of photos from this summer’s girls camp. Or pictures of a bunch of teenagers we don’t know.

  In silence. I’m not obligated to talk to her, but I want to. I mean, I should. So . . . speak, self.

  Talia glances at me again. Say something. Something.

  I have nothing remotely interesting to say. Reciting tensile strengths for the top six alloys we’re considering always gets the girls.

  Aaand Talia turns away.

  Idiot.

  Apparently satisfied her chances of being spotted are zero, she leads the way back to the foyer. Even an idiot can see it makes more sense to follow her than to stare at strangers’ photos. Aside from a couple with two toddlers on the couch closest to the gym, when we reach the foyer, it’s quiet and abandoned.

  “Brothers and sisters — guys,” implores the second speaker’s unfamiliar, piped-in voice, “I want to testify of the doctrine of marriage.”

  “Wow.” I give a low whistle. “Batting zero for two today. More water?” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder.

  Talia laughs with only her eyes, still hinting at those shields. “We better hunker down and take cover.” But she keeps standing there, watching me.

  Waiting for me to do something?

  Okay. I take a seat at the end of the free flowery couch. Her move. Sitting across the foyer in an armchair will make it tough to carry on a quiet conversation.

  She settles onto the opposite end of the couch. Yes.

  I don’t let the mental celebration show. “So, what’s your story?”

  “Hm?” That eyebrow-question mark is back.

  “Why’d you move to Canada?” In the two debates I accidentally provoked with the What’s with Talia? question, a couple guys from the ward weren’t even sure whether she was Canadian. She’s not — I figured that much out from the first word I heard her say: sorry.

  She does the little blink-tilt-recalculating thing again. I’m beginning to like that. Or maybe I just like surprising her. “Free healthcare. Got tired of waiting for them to get it right in the
US, so I came here to wait for a doctor instead.”

  “Oh, are you sick?” Wait, that’s rude.

  “No, waiting on that too.”

  I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to talk to someone like this, joking around, not quite flirting. The brief lull allows the speaker, someone whose voice I still don’t know, to butt in again. “Marriage is ordained of God, and He wants that for all of us, but we’ve got to give Him something to work with.”

  Awkward again. Talia and I stare at one another, frozen. There’s a limit to how much embarrassment two people can endure. When did it get so hot in here?

  I can play this off — I need to. So I shrug. “I got nothing.”

  She cracks up almost in spite of herself. Yep, I like that, too.

  “What’s your story?” She reflects my question back.

  Oh, we’re not getting into the reasons I needed this chance to start over. Not now, not ever. I give her the surface version. “Got a great job. Kind of a new lease on life.”

  “Life’s one of those things you should definitely buy. Congrats on the job, though. What do you do?”

  “I’m an aerospace engineer at National Research Council Canada.”

  “So you’re a rocket scientist?”

  We can skip the terminology lecture. Lame that I hate that phrase, but I hate it — from anyone else. From her, it doesn’t sound like a joke or an insult. It sounds like a compliment. “I mostly work on planes.”

  “Cool. Big transition, moving here?”

  “Nah, I served my mission here.”

  “Right here?” She points at the blue speckled carpet, teasing me.

  “Mostly Québec, but actually, yeah. The Champlain Ward was my first area.” That’s the congregation milling around the back of the building. In fact, I probably did know those teenagers we were looking at. As children. Not that they’d recognize me

  “Ah, so the hair?” She gestures at my hair, which isn’t that long, but a lot longer than missionary standards. “Traveling incognito?”

  “Hey, I like my hair.”

  “No, I didn’t — it looks good — I mean —” She licks her lips then presses them together, like she’s clamping down to cut off anything else embarrassing she might say.