I’m being ridiculous. I like her. Definitely asking her out.
Before I finish at my table and move to help her, Beth intercepts me. “You know, I can’t help thinking that we’ve just been dancing around one another since our party.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Tricking me into a triple date doesn’t count as “our” party. I keep my tone noncommittal, searching for the best way to sidestep what’s coming.
Maybe it was an oversight, but dating via trickery is yet another warning light for Sassy Beth. Being this close to her is triggering that old panic, even if she’s secretly desperate, not manipulative and mentally ill.
And she has something else to say. Gotta get away. Finally my escape passes in front of me — Campbell, again. I grab him by the shoulders. “Hey, man, help me get this table?”
Campbell agrees, and in seconds, I have a solid shield be-tween me and Beth.
“So,” Campbell murmurs as we roll the table to the storage rack. “Are you not dating Sassy Beth?”
I sigh. “No — but I’m not sure she knows that.”
“Have you tried, ‘It’s not me, it’s you’?”
Sure, now he gets it. “Yeah, that’d go over well.”
“How about, ‘Actually, I’m interested in Talia. What do you know about her?’”
So I’m not subtle at all, though I hardly need Campbell announcing it. I shoot him a warning glare. But beyond him, I don’t see Talia putting up chairs anymore.
She’s way too good at that disappearing thing. Campbell and I head back to tackle the next table. As soon as we’ve got the legs folded, Arjay reappears.
Which one of them taught the other this materializing-out-of-thin-air routine?
He doesn’t say anything, just nods at the nearest corner. The doors? Worth a look. I stack the table on the storage rack and head for the doors, narrowly missing an incoming Beth.
Yep. Subtle.
In the hall, away from the bustle of clean up, it’s almost creepy quiet. After half a second, I hear her voice. “I got the email last night, but I figured it’d wait until Monday.”
On the phone?
My well-trained brain says I should give her privacy, but she rounds the corner before I can retreat. I signal that I’m backing off.
“We’ll hammer it out tomorrow. Gotta go,” she tells the phone and clicks the icon before the caller protests. “Hey,” she says to me.
“Hi. Feeling better?”
“Eh.” She waves a so-so hand. Shields nowhere in sight.
Suddenly I want to ask dozens of questions — about her life and her family and just her — but only one seems right. This is sending a huge, HUGE message if she saw me dodge Beth. And I don’t care.
Is this a good thing or a bad thing?
If I don’t ask, I’ll never know. “Would you like to go out Saturday?”
Blink-tilt-recalculating-smile. Real Talia smile. “Yeah. That sounds like fun.”
Didn’t say what we’d do. I don’t even know.
“Let me get your number.” She holds up the phone she was just using. “In case something comes up.”
“Here.” I hand over my cell. “Wouldn’t want to accept full liability for your phone.”
She shoots me a fake glare. “Ha.”
“You work Saturdays?”
She types in her number and mutters, “I work anytime they call, day or night.”
Sounds . . . fun. Dedicated, at least. I give her phone a ring and hang up so she’ll have my number too. Now texting wouldn’t be weird. Mostly. “Anything you’d like to do in particular?”
“You did the asking,” she teases. “You’d better be prepared to do the planning.”
“I will,” I reassure her. “Just making sure we don’t end up doing something you hate.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Man, Talia, you —” Arjay stops abruptly when we both turn to him, standing in the door to the gym. “Oh, sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Talia says. Though it’s not. She points at the exit, then presses two fingertips to her temple. “Better get home. Need some painkillers.”
“Hooray, free healthcare,” I try a lame joke.
She snaps her fingers as if to say aw, shucks. “Still have to pay for OTC drugs.” She looks at me a minute longer, a smile instead of shields in her eyes. “See you Saturday.”
“See you.” I watch her the whole way out. Luckily Arjay retreated so I’m alone for my silent celebration.
I have a date. With Talia.
I’m still beaming when I reach the gym again, and I’m feeling so good I don’t even try to escape Beth. Smiling. “You know, it’s so nice of you to reach out to Talia, but just a heads-up: it’s probably a lost cause.”
Yeah, right, I buy that. “Oh?”
“I mean, she’s got Arjay, but she still doesn’t come to church hardly ever.”
“Strange, I’ve seen her here pretty much every week.”
“Well, sure, it seems that way, but she’s not so much here as lurking in the corner, you know?”
Not okay. I don’t know Talia well enough to defend her with facts, but really, all I can see is Beth fixating on appearances, reinterpreting reality and manipulating me with it. More than ever before, I want — I need to get away from her.
I take a second to scrape together enough tact to admit some bit of the truth. “Can we clear something up, just between us? I know everyone else seems to think we’re dating, and you’re great, but I don’t want to lead you on.”
“Oh.” She giggles, nervous. “Yeah.” Her gaze falls. Though I don’t know if she really believes the “It’s not you, it’s me” line, Beth drifts away to help finish the clean up.
If only she were bitter about this, if only she turned spiteful because I turned her down, if only she’d scream I was the worst person on the planet, it’d be so much easier not to feel bad.
Duh, naturally I feel bad.
It’s insane to wish she’d flip on me. That might make it easier to shut her down, but I’ve been there. Never want to go back. Don’t even want to start.
And dating could be the start.
If I don’t want to date, why did I ask someone out? Isn’t going on dates “dating” by definition? A one-way ticket to destination: dating?
I know nothing about Talia. The protectiveness could be hiding her psychopathic tendencies. She could kill bunnies and puppies as a hobby. She’s a lawyer, for crying out loud.
Or the protectiveness could mean she’s been hurt worse than I have.
Whoa. Calm down, self. Let’s be logical. It’s one date. Not that big a deal. Even if Talia’s secretly a serial killer, I’m not signing my own death warrant. I want to start over. Talia doesn’t have to be Ms. Right, but moving on with my life is right.
If I can just figure out how.
As soon as I get to work Monday afternoon — Keeler Tate (CIA), not Terfort & Sutter — Will, my boss, steps out of his office. Ironically, in an organization that thrives more on relationships and people skills than rocket-propelled grenades, most managers in the CIA basically suck. Not Will. No head games, no manipulation, no nonsense.
To prove my point, Will spots me and gets right to the day’s agenda, beckoning me with a single crook of two fingers. He extends the invitation to Elliott with only a meaningful glance.
My something’s-up-o-meter creeps into “caution” zone. If this were a run-of-the-mill report on our dancers, he’d tell us at our desks instead of behind closed doors. But close the door he does, once we’re all in the office, and he jumps in before we have time to sit. “Vasily Loban’s phone records have contacts with dozens of MPs, government officials, diplomats —”
“Russian diplomats?” I interrupt. Could be his contact to hand off intelligence to the Motherland.
Will gives a single grim nod.
“How much access does he have to these people?” I ask. “Isn’t there a barbershop on the Hill? I mean, like, in their offices?”
&n
bsp; “Vasily’s an artiste with more than stage makeup,” Elliott says, settling into a cheap office chair. Do I want to know how he knows that? “Likely has a lot of regulars.”
Will rounds his desk and takes his cushy seat. “Even if he hasn’t recruited from Parliament and Embassy Row, you know how people talk to their barbers.”
Other women supposedly talk to their stylists; do men do the same thing?
“Also, we partially decoded at least one encrypted transmission. If the analysis was correct, he has seven agents in his ring, minimum.”
“Anyone outside of his clientele?”
Will checks his monitor. “Possibly another dancer.”
I ignore my sinking stomach. (Is it bad I was hoping to not dance again?) His partner’s the most likely suspect. “What does Galina have access to?” Elliott asks.
I run through my mental case file. “She’s a translator, part-time at the US Embassy.”
“And Vasily was dating a secretary from the embassy until recently,” Will adds. “So we’ve got a lot of leads. Do whatever it takes to get into his next competition and on his friends-and-potential-agents list.”
If we can do that, we’ll be able to feed the Russians whatever misinformation we want. Will’s charge sounds like a get-to-it dismissal, and Elliott and I both start for the door.
“But . . .” Will starts again, hesitant. “Keep it quiet. If CSIS caught wind . . .”
Uh yeah. We try hard to play nice with our Canadian counterparts, and between Vasily’s connections with Members of Parliament and American embassy employees, I’m not sure which of us wants at him more. No one here would purposefully betray us, but we all know what loose lips do. (Aside from kissing on a first date.) (Is that still considered bad?)
By silent agreement, Elliott and I head to an unoccupied office down the hall to strategize. He closes the door behind us. A few spare computer chairs are our only company. “First thing, we need to know when their next competition is.”
“Okay, I’ll get on that, see if he or Galina updated their blog.”
“I’ll check Canada DanceSport’s website.” He turns for the door. “Should we get food? Pizza?”
I actually trust the pizzeria across the parking lot from our office building, but — “I’m not walking today.”
“You like walking.”
Less “like” and more “can’t avoid.” “Not in these heels.”
“And I do love you in a skirt.”
I roll my eyes. “You love anything in a skirt.” I plop into one of the empty rolling chairs in the vacant office to reinforce my decision to stay. “Next time I have to appear in court, I’m bringing a change of clothes.”
“Fine, no food. Can you tackle Galina?”
I doubt he means physically. (Still, she’s tiny.) “Sure.”
“Let’s split up the list of phone calls —”
“Double-check they’re sorted by frequency. Remember last time?”
He grunts. “That woman still drunk dials me sometimes. Never calling blind again.”
We both shudder.
“Need to increase surveillance on his shop,” Elliott adds.
Our strategy session reaches an abrupt halt as we’ve run out of things to say. “So.” Elliott draws out the word and settles in another office chair, but the casual note in his voice and posture is obviously fake. “How’s your boy toy?”
“Huh?” Is that supposed to mean Vasily?
He swivels around to face me. “You know, the one who passed you notes during the sermon yesterday?”
My cheeks flush. (Stupid cheeks, stupid cheeks, stupid cheeks.) “We weren’t passing notes — I mean, I didn’t see him during church.”
“Ah, an illicit meeting beforehand? Getting fresh in the ‘foyer,’ making out in the choir loft?”
“Only you would think of a church as a make-out spot. And we don’t have choir lofts.”
That doesn’t throw Elliott off the trail. “After church?”
My cheeks turn up the heat. I stand. “Better get on the phone.”
“Wait, wait, I’ll stop. Business: do we need to prepare for another competition?”
“I guess so.” Yippee.
“Oh, almost forgot — our friends at the embassy picked Marcus Lee up. He’s back in the States. Never working in the foreign service again; may even stand trial.”
The US Embassy leak from his case? Who tried to kill me? We probably would’ve been better off calling in the Ottawa Police for attempted murder. But the CIA isn’t in the business of justice. “That’ll ruin his week.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Elliott updates me on his meager progress with the Lebanese scientist, a colleague of my Turkmen professor. We haven’t tapped into their motivations and values, so prospects aren’t good with six weeks before they head home.
He manages to stay on business for four entire minutes. I’m about to go get to work when he changes the subject. “Danny, right?” Elliott asks.
I clamp down on the blush as much as humanly possible and fix him with a mock glare. I point to the window. “Did you want to practice rappelling without equipment?”
“T, relax. Just making sure he’s good enough for you.”
Not sure I buy that. He thinks he’s teasing me, and with any other topic, I’d play along. But the way my face burns whenever he mentions Danny, I can’t play this cool. “Thanks, but I already have three big brothers.”
“You do?”
We have definitely discussed this before. “Let’s keep focused — next step with Vasily: find the date for the next Canada DanceSport competition.”
Elliott persists. “And what’s your next step with Danny? Do you two have a date yet?”
I cover my cheeks with my hands, but it’s too late.
“You do,” he crows. “When is it?”
“Saturday,” I mutter.
Elliott laughs and jumps out of his seat. “Fast to be getting married after two conversations.”
Ugh. I punch him in the shoulder for that stupid joke. But in the split-second pause before Elliott’s next volley, the idea sets in, sending a cold front through my bones.
Stranger things have happened, especially when it comes to sometimes-marriage-happy Mormons. I don’t fall in that category, but Danny — no, Danny’s not insane. He’d have to be more crazypants than Mom to make that leap. I lived with her long enough to key into crazy a kilometer off.
“I know how you Mormons are,” Elliott breaks into my thoughts to rag on me again.
Sure, now he remembers/cares about my religion for the first time? “Almost as crazy as the perpetual engagement?” I toss off the parting barb, maybe a little crueler than it sounded in my mind, and escape the office before Elliott can respond.
Remind me never to tell Elliott anything personal again — not even something as innocuous as the first name of a crush.
Elliott’s great for hunting down spies and moles, but when it comes to relating to people, the man needs serious help.
I wait until a decent hour to call Talia Saturday morning. Last minute, I know, but it’s taken me all week to plan and work up the nerve to do this. I won’t let the sweaty palms deter me now, though I’m glad she can’t see me rubbing my thumb over my knuckle. No way am I sabotaging this before it starts by looking stupid. I hop on the kitchen counter and dial.
“Hey,” she answers. “Still on for tonight, right?”
“Oh — actually I was thinking earlier in the day. Like eleven.”
“Mm.” The pause on the line does not bode well. “I’d love to, but I have to go into work this morning.”
Before I can even think about being disappointed, she continues, “Can we do . . . whatever a little later?”
“We can try, but I was planning around the weather.”
“You like to live dangerously, right?”
I let some sarcasm sneak into my tone. “Yeah, that’s why I’m designing the planes instead of flying them.”
/> She laughs. “I think I can get away by one. That work?”
“Sure.” Maybe. “Then I’ll pick you up around one? What’s your address?” I’m smooth — the street she has listed in the ward directory doesn’t exist on any map.
“I’m already cutting it close. Can I meet you there?”
“Yeah. Hang on a minute.” I grab my laptop to read off the bike rental place’s address. “Know where that is?”
“Like, downtown?”
I double-check the map. “That’s the place.”
“Yep, I can find it. So we’ll be outside? What kind of shoes should I wear?”
Random. An image of her calves and those ankle-strap heels flashes through my mind, but those aren’t really practical. “Tennis shoes will work.”
“Okay. Good thing nobody cares what I wear to work on a Saturday.”
“They should be grateful you’re willing to come in at all.”
She sighs. “Less ‘willing’ and more ‘unable to get out of it.’ But I’ll work as fast as I can. One o’clock.”
“Good.”
I get to the sidewalk in front of the bike shop a couple minutes early, just enough time to worry about whether I’ll do something stupid. Been a while since I’ve ridden a bike, but you’re not supposed to forget how. I don’t have long enough to go completely out of my mind, because Talia’s right on time, wearing tennis shoes as promised, and khakis short enough to show off her calves. “Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” Silence. This is where the conversation is supposed to happen.
Suddenly it hits me: been a long time — years — since I’ve been on a first date. Even then, it wasn’t like I was good at being cool and confident and putting a cute girl at ease. My temperature is already rising, and not because of the sun.
“So,” Talia says at last. “Bikes?”
“Yeah.” The relief is a little too evident in my voice.
“Sounds like fun.”
We head for the rental shop. A bike ride isn’t just something cute and easy. If things get weird, we can always focus on pedaling, and if it takes a turn for the worse, built-in escape, right?
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) Page 21
