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

  Wait — what? I straighten, but Mom keeps talking before I gain my mental footing. “In Connecticut. So I know it’s you, ignoring me —”

  “Mom!” I cut her off. “Do you really think I’m in med school in Connecticut?”

  “Yes, of —”

  “Is this a joke?”

  That makes her mad. “Why would I joke about this?” she demands. “I’ve tried to reach out to you, Talia. I’ve been calling you for months, and you never reciprocate, you never visit, you never email.”

  “Mom —”

  “Now that I know what kind of person you’ve become, things will never be the same between us.” Her words carry a note of finality, like she’s cutting me off forever. “I’m done worrying about your feelings. Your self-centeredness destroyed this relationship.”

  I can’t hold back the scoff. Is she kidding me??? My self-centeredness? Can we say “projection”?

  “You’ve always been so distant and hard to love,” she continues. “You can see that’s why you’re all alone.”

  My back grows cold, and I know she’s won. I made the mistake of giving her that one piece of information months ago, and she’s turning it against me. I am alone, and I want to blame it on her, but maybe I can’t.

  My phone beeps to tell me the call’s over. She hung up on me, driving her point home. She’s wrong about me and my memories — I know she is — I hope she is.

  I step out onto the street, stopping at the corner to let the few pedestrians march past, not noticing me. No one notices. No one knows. No one cares. I am less than invisible. I am nothing.

  I am alone. I was about to run back to the man I love, and then this phone call, this abuse — this reminder of exactly why I have to stay away. Why I never believed it could work out, and I was right.

  The screaming I lived with through my whole childhood echoes in my ears, only now it’s not my mother’s voice. It’s mine, screeching hurtful, cruel epithets, tearing apart our family and our lives

  I can’t be in love. I can’t. I don’t even believe in love, especially not for me. I’m not that delusional — and three more seconds in his arms and I’ll lose myself inside that illusion.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. Yeah, he likes me. (I think? He didn’t kiss me. . . .) I like him. That would make everything easy — if I were anyone else.

  I’m not anyone else. Danny’s working to overcome his baggage and move forward, but for me, there are some things you never escape.

  I stare down the street at the awning to Danny’s building. That’s where I go when I’m lost. I could run up to his apartment and kiss him now — but the minute after we kiss, we will have to open our eyes, and my reality? It’s ugly. I will hurt him, ruin everything, break his heart. I’m a Reynolds; there are no happily ever afters.

  Danny doesn’t deserve that. With a final glance at his building, I sigh and walk away. I have to. Because I do love him, I have to stay away. For good.

  I finish explaining the latest design Thursday afternoon and watch Patrick, the AeroTechCanada exec, for his reaction. He turns over the wing’s scale model. “You say you’ve tested this at speed?”

  “Yes. Not only did it hold up, but our tests suggested a 2.6% decrease in fuel consumption — on top of your other efficiency improvements.”

  “It’s also approved by Transport Canada,” Carol adds. News to me. I figured she was sitting on the project because it was too “out there.”

  Patrick presses his lips together like he’s impressed. I allow myself the tiniest sense of relief. This is the closest we’ve come to fulfilling his company’s request.

  “The design’s . . . unusual.” He looks at the wing again with the V-shaped wingtip device sticking off the end. “Not quite a fence, not quite a winglet.”

  “Kind of a hybrid. Raked wingtips weren’t cutting it, so we had to think outside the box.”

  He nods. “That you did. Well,” he sighs, standing and collecting the model. “Sounds good. Send the specs over, and we’ll get on making a full-size prototype.”

  “Really?” I’m so used to leaving these meetings frustrated and disappointed, I don’t know how to react.

  “Of course. Nice work.” He holds out his free hand, and I stand to shake it.

  Finally. I walk Patrick to the door, where Carol waits, probably expecting to reassure him. Before she can start, Patrick holds up the model. “This’ll make quite the impact.”

  Carol agrees. As soon as Patrick turns away, she shoots me an approving look. Even better. She escorts Patrick out, and I head back to my office. I’m shutting down to go home when Carol leans in the door, knocking. “Great job with AeroTechCanada.”

  Probably the closest I’ll get to her approval on my design itself. “Thanks. Took us long enough.”

  “How it is sometimes.”

  “You know,” I begin before she can turn away. “I don’t feel like I’m contributing on the de-icing project. I’d like to focus on my other projects.”

  “If you feel that way, sure. I just thought they could use your insight.” She steps all the way in my office. “Did Roger tell you about my transfer?”

  “What?” I’ve been in contact with her husband nearly every day over the last few weeks for some bit of house-buying paperwork or another, but he hasn’t mentioned anything outside of business.

  “A director position opened up in Vancouver, and I had to take it.”

  “Oh.” Why is she telling me this? Am I supposed to throw her a going away party?

  “And,” she says, drawing the word out, “I recommended you as my replacement.”

  I’m too stunned to say anything for a minute. I’ve only been here six months, and things have gone well other than AeroTechCanada — but design lead? Over all the design teams? I’d get to pick my own projects and get a taste of everything else. With a halfway-competent manager, we could really move things forward. “Thank you,” I finally manage.

  “You deserve it. I know you’ve been frustrated with the AeroTechCanada issue, but you’ve handled it well, the rest of your work is stellar, and you’re great with your team.”

  “Thanks,” I say again.

  “The decision’s up to the bigwigs, but I hear you’ve got a really good chance.”

  “Wow. Thank you,” I say yet again, because apparently I’ve run out of other words.

  “Have a good evening.” She leaves, and the reality sets in. Even if the promotion doesn’t work out, some people think I deserve it. That feels good.

  It still feels good by the time I walk into my empty apartment, toss the groceries on the counter and sink onto the couch. When I agreed to have Roger preapprove me for a loan, I had no idea I hired the fastest real estate agent in the province. In the last three weeks, I’ve opened an escrow account, gotten homeowner’s insurance, gathered bank statements and pay stubs for the last three years, signed off on the home inspection’s minor problems — I think I can fix a slow drain and missing banister on the garage stairs — and reviewed the final closing documentation.

  I knew buying a home took a lot of time and money, but I didn’t realize it took this many dead trees. Still, we’re ready to close tomorrow.

  Not only am I possibly getting a promotion, I’m buying a house without my parents’ bribe, six hundred miles away from them — and Kendra. That feels like more of an accomplishment than Carol’s recommendation.

  I get out my phone. Wish I could talk to someone about this. No, not just “someone.” I want to talk to the person who understands how much this house means to me, but she hasn’t been answering my texts. Not even a picture of kittens, and then a real act of desperation, a picture of a grinning baby hedgehog, has gotten a response beyond Sorry, super busy.

  Apparently I freaked her out a little with that I want to kiss you moment.

  I contemplate my phone in my hands. There’s someone else I need to tell, too, but I don’t think she’ll be quite as happy for me. But with eighteen hours until we submit the
final paperwork and down payment, it’s now or never.

  “Never” sounds good, but it won’t solve anything. I hit the icon to call my parents’ house and listen to the phone ring.

  Dad answers, and I kick back on the couch to chat for a few minutes. We commiserate about the woes of managing people, though I only “manage” a small team — for now, maybe. I’ll hold off on telling them until I know for sure. Once we’ve run the topic of work into the ground, I ask for Mom. I grit my teeth to hold back the nerves building through the small talk before I drop the thermonuclear warhead.

  Finally, there’s a lull. My chance. I sit up. “So, Mom,” I initiate the subject change, “about the house.”

  “What house?”

  Oh. Better back up. “A few weeks ago, the real estate agent who prequalified me talked me into seeing a house.”

  Mom pauses long enough to convey that she’s not happy. “In Ottawa?”

  “Technically across the river, but yes.”

  Silence again. “I don’t like where this is going.”

  “Picked up on that.”

  “So you’re calling to ask for the money though you won’t even consider our conditions?” Annoyance rings through her words.

  She can’t see me, but I lift a hand, somewhere between a defense and an attempt to calm her down. “No. I’m calling to let you know I’m closing on the house tomorrow.”

  “What do you expect me to do, run to Western Union?”

  Not sure they have those anymore, but that’s the opposite of the point. “Mom. I’m not asking you for money.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a minute, but I think this silence is shock, not fury.

  “It’s your money, and you can do whatever you want with it, put whatever conditions on it you want. Doesn’t mean I’ll do what you ask.”

  “Danny —”

  “You can’t use it to control me. Period.” There’s no room for argument.

  The tension carries over the line, and I resist the urge to tap my foot. When Mom finally speaks, her voice is subdued. “That wasn’t my intent.”

  I release a silent sigh and lean back on the couch cushions again. “It was the result.”

  “I’m sorry it felt that way to you.”

  Come on, Mom. Will it kill you to admit you were wrong?

  She takes a deep breath. “I can see why it must’ve felt that way. I just want what’s best for you.”

  “Don’t you think I should decide that for myself?”

  The words sink in for a minute. “You’re probably right. But Danny, you’ll always be my baby.”

  I can’t help a good-natured lip purse. “Of course, Mom. I just have to be an adult, too.”

  “I suppose I can handle that.”

  I’ll take it. Not quite as smooth as it could’ve been, but not nearly as hard as I thought. I should stand up for myself more often. Mom gives me an update on my siblings, and we talk about work. She almost acknowledges I do have a good job — we’ll see how long she can maintain that position if I get this promotion — and she seems to accept that I’m not moving home. Now that’s progress.

  When we finish talking, I end the call and stare at the phone for an extra minute. I feel . . . released. All this time, on some level, I’ve told myself it was my fault that Kendra turned on me. In a way, I was right — because I was so desperate to make her happy, I gave up every little part of me to do it.

  But I don’t have to make other people happy, and the world doesn’t end if I don’t. Standing up for myself didn’t cause huge rift between me and my mom. I’m just fifty thousand dollars poorer than I might’ve been.

  Self respect? Power? Freedom? Worth it.

  All I want is to tell somebody. Someone else who’d get what a big deal this is.

  If she cared.

  I stuff my phone in my pocket and head to the kitchen to start on dinner, maple-mustard pork chops with couscous. Kinda risky, but I’m on a roll. I’m halfway through when it strikes me this isn’t nearly as difficult as those first attempts almost two months ago — but my half-made-up recipe’s a lot harder than boiling a piece of fish. Everything’s going great until I realize I’m missing couscous.

  Yeah, an ingredient actually in the name of the recipe. I check my grocery list on my phone. There it is, not crossed off. Great job.

  Okay, everyone makes mistakes. Do I stop cooking and stick everything in the fridge to go get couscous or . . . do I call the person who told me she was at the grocery store nearly every day and she’d be happy to pick up stuff for me, who I conveniently want to talk to anyway?

  Hm. Tough choice.

  I hit the icon to dial Talia.

  “Hi, Danny.” She sounds like she’s resigned herself to having to talk to me.

  What a terrible fate. “Hey, Talia — any chance you’re going by the grocery store tonight?”

  “Possibly. Need something?”

  “Actually, yeah. I could use some couscous. I’ll pay you back.”

  Long pause. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Great. See you then.” And I’ll tell her about my little victory in person.

  Little victory? I’m buying a house on my own, away from my parents, away from Kendra, and far, far away from caring what they think. Nothing little about that.

  I turn the heat off and move the pan to the oven. Just before Talia’s due to arrive, Campbell walks in.

  Oh. Goody.

  He plugs his phone into the speakers on the counter and cues up some Smashing Pumpkins. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Pork chops.”

  “Sounds good. Anybody coming over?”

  Man, the guy’s so fixated on social interaction, he could probably live on that instead of my food. “Talia,” I say, like it doesn’t matter to me. Because I did totally give him permission to date her.

  Yeah, I don’t have to make other people happy, but I can’t kick human decency to the curb. I said he could date her. Until I rescind that, I won’t swoop in and steal her away. Much.

  Before I can find the right way to settle this with Campbell, Talia knocks. I guess Campbell doesn’t hear, because he’s still in his room when I open the door to find Talia holding a box of couscous. “Not the easiest thing to find.”

  “Thanks. Probably why I forgot it.”

  She follows me into the kitchen. “Thanks,” I tell her again, switching on the burner under the waiting pot.

  “Said I would,” she murmurs. She hovers by the counter like she’s uncomfortable. The heat shields in her eyes are the last thing I want to see.

  Oh, crap. She’s shut me out these last few weeks — beginning right after she went on her first date with Campbell. Then I tried to kiss her? No wonder she’s barely communicated with me since then. She’s dating Campbell, or she wants to, and she’s probably still freaked out to be around me. Not that I blame her.

  I pretend watching the pot requires my full attention. I should back off, but . . . I don’t want to. At the very least, we’re still friends, right? She’ll care about the house.

  Now I just have to get past those shields again. I’ve got to tap into something we did together. “Remember the house we saw?” I lean closer to add, “Georgia MacBride?”

  “I remember that night, yes.” She casts me the shortest glance, but I see the smile hiding behind her shields.

  I lean another few centimeters closer. “I’m closing on it tomorrow.”

  That gets her attention. She whips around to face me. “You bought it?”

  I nod, reining in a proud grin.

  “Wow.” She doesn’t fight her shocked smile. “What about your parents?”

  “Mom wasn’t too happy, but I think I convinced her I’m an adult.”

  Talia huffs out a laugh. “Can you give me lessons?”

  I wish. I check the pot. Simmering. I can’t see her, but I can sense Talia move closer to me. “What are you doing about the master bedroom?” she asks softly.

  “I d
on’t know.” I turn back to her. “I mean, I guess it makes a nice trophy, ‘look what I did,’ but . . .”

  “That color’s like living inside a migraine.”

  We laugh together. “I have to paint it,” I decide.

  She contemplates me a minute, her expression between pride and nostalgia. “This is big.”

  I shrug one shoulder to play it off and focus on the finally boiling pot. I dump the couscous in, put on the lid and switch off the heat. Talia’s hand lands on my back, not moving away, and I turn to her again.

  She looks up, shields down. But her expression is tinged with sadness. “You deserve this, Danny.”

  “Thank you.” I mean it.

  Just one more thing I want to talk about. But she beats me to the punch. “Listen, I need to —”

  “Hey, Talia! When did you get here?” Campbell practically bounds into the kitchen, and I restrain a groan. Hello, Captain Third Wheel — whom I cleared the runway for three weeks ago. Like an idiot.

  Talia breaks off and steps away to let Campbell monopolize her for the next five minutes while the couscous steams. The guy can’t stand to be left out of the “party.” Even if anyone else would identify the “party” as a “date.”

  With a woman he might be dating himself. Yeah, I’d interrupt, too.

  Don’t have to like it. I grab a plate, dish up a scoop of couscous and a pork chop, and shove it at Campbell. “Dinner.”

  “Thanks!” He gets a fork and attacks it with the same enthusiasm he shows for . . . pretty much everything. “This is amazing!”

  Talia takes the next plate from the stack and waits for me to serve her. She cuts one bite and eyes it. “What did you say this was?”

  “Mustard-maple pork chops with couscous.”

  She gives me a dubious lip purse and carefully eats her bite. No time to worry before she makes an approving sound. “Best thing you’ve made. By far.”

  I get my own plate and try it. Yep, they’re right. You wouldn’t think these things could go together but the mustard’s bitter tang is perfect against the sweet smoke of the maple syrup, and the pork chops aren’t overcooked into meat pucks like the last time I tried to make some. Could my life get any better tonight? I glance at Talia. Okay, I can think of one way.