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

  I walk Vasily to his car and confirm our next meeting, then head for my own car.

  “Hey, Talia!”

  I jump and turn around — Campbell’s jogging toward me. “What are you doing in the neighborhood?”

  “Getting lunch.” I point back around the corner where we didn’t go to a café.

  “Whoa.” Campbell grabs my wrist and pulls my hand closer. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I’m not —” Suddenly the residual aching in my knuckles makes sense, because blood covers my fingers. Though it could be Square Jaw’s.

  I jerk away. How can I explain? “I’m fine.”

  “Fine? You can’t drive home like this. Let’s get you patched up.”

  “No, it’s okay —”

  “You’ll get blood all over your car. Danny would kill me if he ever found out I let you hobble home bleeding.”

  Hobble? “I’m not hobbling.” But I am following him to their building. He’s right that I can’t get blood all over my car. Bloodstains aren’t covert.

  I can take two minutes to wash up. It’ll be okay. It’s Danny’s.

  Which is probably the real reason I’m going along.

  Campbell takes me to their apartment, now decorated with cardboard boxes, and oversees me washing off the blood. Sure enough, there’s a nice pair of puncture wounds, two dashes across my knuckles.

  How do I explain teeth marks?

  “What happened?” Campbell asks.

  The lie comes to me. “Saw some broken glass in the alley. I went to throw it away and tripped.”

  He sucks in air through his teeth in sympathy, then digs through a cabinet. “I don’t think we have any of those knuckle bandages, but we should have something.”

  After a minute, he comes over with a paper towel and dries off my hands, then applies two regular Band-Aids.

  “Danny’s not around, is he?”

  On cue, a door in the back of the apartment opens. “Campbell? Did you pack the stuff under my sink?”

  “Uh . . . maybe? Come see who’s here.”

  Danny walks out from the back wearing a dark gray suit and red tie. He startles to see me (and I can only imagine what I look like from my post-dance-lesson-and-fight ponytail to my faded yoga pants). “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  I’ve spent hours and hours talking to Danny, and I have nothing to say. Except I love you. But, um, probably not the thing to say now.

  “You’re early,” he notes.

  Campbell seizes my wrist and holds it aloft. “I saw her on the sidewalk, and she’d hurt herself. I was helping her get bandaged up.”

  Danny and I both eye him, but Danny walks over and takes my wrist, examining the Band-Aids. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.” Danny’s holding my hand, why wouldn’t I be fine? Fabulous, even?

  His gaze meets mine. “You’re shaking.”

  I check my hand again — and I totally am. Not like oh, I’m trembling to be in front of the man I love, flutter, swoon. Like hypothermic, I can’t stop shaking, somebody get a spoon before I bite through my tongue. (Because why, why, why would I naturally do something the cute, girly way?)

  “Are you going into shock?” Campbell jumps up and runs to the living room. The couch and chairs are buried deep under stacks of coats and blankets. He grabs the top thing, a jacket, and tosses it to Danny.

  “I’m fine,” I insist (again). “Just adrenaline. From seeing the blood.” Or, you know, drawing it.

  Danny wraps the jacket around my shoulders, and at the concern on his face, a tiny piece of my heart splinters.

  More pain’s coming for me tonight, and Danny . . . will be better off.

  He glances at the packed couches. “Want to sit down?”

  “No, better if I walk it off.” This has only happened once or twice, but that seemed to help.

  “Okay.” Though that wasn’t an invitation, Danny gets his jacket and keys and opens the door for me.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell him.

  “I’m taking you somewhere to walk it off.”

  We’ve established I have no willpower when it comes to spending time with Danny, right? “All right.”

  Danny drives me to his “favorite place to walk.” (With the amount of walking I do for my job, the idea of doing it for fun is hilarious.) Guess I shouldn’t be surprised when we drive up to the Aviation and Space Museum. Museums can be a good place to meet agents, but I can’t say I’ve ever been to this one.

  They let us in free the last hour of the day, and Danny describes the more interesting specimens among the exhibits of the main hall, explaining what improvements they made over previous technology. By the time we reach the World War II exhibit, I’m off the adrenaline high. Instead, I’m hooked on the light in Danny’s eyes as he explains seventy-year-old innovations.

  Because I needed to add to my list of reasons to love him.

  He seems to be angling for a specific destination, moving toward the back corner of the museum. But he has to stop to talk up the good stuff, so we’re only halfway there when they play the hurry-up-and-get-out-we’re-closing-in-fifteen-minutes announcement.

  “Come on.” Danny takes my (unhurt) hand and leads me to the exhibit we’ve been working toward. Not sure which of these planes is making him grin like a little boy, but he finally points up at one of the smallest pieces of the exhibit. “The Avro Canada CF-105 Arrow Two.”

  The nose cone tip is painted black, and the cockpit seems super small from this angle. There are . . . I don’t know, engine slots or air intakes or something reading 205 and — that’s it. No body, no wings, no tail. “Super experimental?”

  Danny laughs. “No — well, sort of. There’s more to the plane. And to the story.” He explains how the Arrow was designed after World War II, the wings all one piece, giving it an overhead profile like a triangle. “Bleeding edge for the day, and testing was going well, but one day, the prime minister cut the program, cut the funding, and cut up the prototypes.” He walks me around to a different angle, showing the obvious burns.

  “Why?”

  “Nobody knows for sure, not that they admit publicly. Could’ve been politics.” He leans closer to add. “Could’ve been American influence. Some people think it was the CIA’s fault.”

  My stomach dips more quickly than this prototype fell from grace. I’m pretty sure his conspiratorial look is because we’re both American, but I keep my gaze on the section of the plane. I may have to tell him the truth about me, but not that truth. The rules are clear: we’re not supposed to tell someone we’re CIA until we’re engaged to them — and that’s not happening. Ever.

  “Whoever it was, amazing how one person can destroy something like this, forever. Aerospace could’ve been completely different today. But as cool as the Arrow is, I think most things work out for the best.” The conspiratorial look is back, and now over the secret significance of that symbolism. Which confirms my suspicions — that Danny has no suspicions about my real job.

  I almost wish I could tell him that truth — no, I do, but the rules are there to keep us safe. And to keep him safe. If I ever told him, he’d be at risk, and I will never do that to him.

  He’s gazing up at the Arrow with a faint smile. Then he turns to me, and his smile turns real, crinkling the corners of his eyes, making my heart catch and melt. I don’t know what it is about this man’s smiles, but you can’t not fall in love with them. With him.

  After a minute of soaking in his smile, I realize I’m smiling back. Danny steps closer, not making a move, just to be nearer to me. I want this moment to last as long as possible, but I have to give him the part of the truth he deserves. “Danny, I need to —”

  The closing chime plays over the announcement system, breaking our moment.

  “What were you saying?” he asks as we head for the entrance.

  “You come here a lot?” I change the subject.

  “When I need to walk or think,” Danny says. “I was already planning on com
ing today. Nice to have company.” He squeezes my hand, and it dawns on me: I never let go. We’ve been holding hands for fifteen minutes.

  I’m leading him on.

  I let go of his hand to get the door, though he opened it for me, and it hurts. Because I love him, and I’m already losing him, and he doesn’t know yet.

  If he noticed my maneuvering, it doesn’t show. The conversation doesn’t seem strained from his side on the way back. He parks in his underground garage and walks me back to my car.

  “Was this our date?” I ask once we’re nearly there.

  “Are you kidding? I don’t wear a suit and tie to the museum. We’ve got reservations at seven thirty.”

  “Reservations? Should I change?” Barely enough time to shower and get ready.

  He looks me up and down. “You look great.”

  “Danny, I’m wearing yoga pants. I can’t go somewhere that takes reservations in yoga pants.”

  “Okay, I can pick you up later.”

  That smile again. For once, I don’t want to lie about every detail of my life that I don’t actually have to lie about. “Got a pen?”

  He fishes one from his shirt pocket. I turn his hand over to write my address on his palm. He doesn’t say anything, but he seems to sense how big this is. “Thanks. See you at seven fifteen?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He opens my door and watches from the sidewalk until I pull away. He’s still smiling.

  I love him. And I have to tell him. I need this one thing in my life to be real — or be nothing. Or, most likely, both.

  Yep. I have one final date with the man I love, to tell him why he should run far, far away. Fast.

  Dinner’s spectacular, but despite the intimate lighting, the tables are too close together to get into a serious define the relationship discussion. We can’t really talk until we’re on our way out.

  “You know,” I say as we reach the doors, “I think I owe you some thanks.”

  “Just some?”

  I glance over at Talia, like I’ve been able to keep my eyes off her all night. I hadn’t realized it before, but she always wears black and beige and the most boring, blend-into-the-background colors. Tonight, her dress is the bluest blue I’ve ever seen, her hair is up, and she’s got those ankle strap shoes on again — amazing as always.

  She’s still smirking, getting ready to put on her jacket. I take it and hold it for her. “Okay, a lot of thanks. It was your idea to start cooking.”

  “Best idea ever.”

  “Second best. Made me appreciate the actual best idea ever: really good food made by someone else.”

  “I have to admit, this was probably the most amazing dinner I’ve ever eaten.” She slides an arm into her jacket sleeve. “No offense to your cooking,” she adds.

  I signal the none taken. That’s why I picked this place — it’s supposed to be the best restaurant in the city. The price tag matches, but if everything goes well now, it’s well worth it.

  Even if everything doesn’t go well, it was worth it to spend the last hour and a half with her. Also, the food. The food was really good. “That risotto,” I say. “And the tuna. The duck?”

  “The s’more,” Talia sighs. “I could eat that every meal for the rest of my life.” She puts on the other sleeve and I pull the jacket up around her shoulders, letting my arm linger there. I swear she leans closer to me for a second, but when we reach the door, she smoothly turns out of my grasp. Like she did when we were leaving the aviation museum.

  Two points against taking this jump. I’ve got no flight plan, no parachute, no landing gear.

  But I’ve got to tell her. I try to swallow despite my dry throat. “Okay,” I say once we’re on the sidewalk, headed for my car. “Maybe I owe you more like a lot of thanks. That barely begins to cover the painting.”

  “I think we’re square.”

  Cashwise, maybe — even without the wine pairings, the full tasting menu for two is over $200 — but that’s definitely not what I’m going for. “Really. Can’t imagine where I’d be without you.”

  “With someone else,” she says softly, even wistfully. “Someone better for you.”

  Make that three points against the jump. Sounds like to her, this is ending — this is goodbye. I can’t let her go without trying. We reach the light and wait to cross the street. My car’s on the other side, but I want more time. I glance around the intersection. Diagonal from us, there’s a huge gray stone church. “Hey, Miss Ottawa Expert, what’s that?”

  “Saint Patrick’s Basilica,” she answers. I didn’t actually expect her to know, so I’m impressed.

  “Want to take a look?”

  “Sure.”

  We cross both streets to get to that corner, but a wrought iron fence keeps us off their lawn. Man, I wish this were a park or something. Not that I like loitering in public parks after dark, but it’d give us more privacy than walking through the city streets. We admire the lights in the church’s arched windows and the towering steeple. The fall leaves are nice too.

  Yep. Nice. Now say something.

  Say something.

  ANYTHING.

  What, standing here in the middle of the sidewalk? There has to be somewhere to sit.

  “Cool church.” Talia’s still staring at the building, but sounds like she’s done with viewing.

  Still need to find a way to tell her . . . everything. Like that I love her. I start past the three sets of peaked-arch doors. Are there seriously no benches around this church?

  Guess they keep those inside. Going in is probably pushing it. Talia walks with me to the next corner. Across the street, a glass façade building mirrors the church’s lights. I cross toward the building. Talia seems to hesitate, but she comes with me.

  In front of the building, past the sign proclaiming this a government structure, there’s a little court with trees in a planter. At last — benches. I lead Talia into the alcove formed by the planters and look up at the reflected glowing twin steeples and the streetlight filtering through the fall leaves. Perfect spot. Now I just need the perfect words.

  “How’s work going?” Talia asks, filling in the silence.

  “Good — I got a promotion today.”

  She looks up at me with an open-mouthed grin of surprise and . . . pride? “Awesome — you deserve it.”

  She has no way of knowing that, but Talia slides an arm around my back and gives me a squeeze for a kind of side hug. I drape an arm over her shoulders and she doesn’t move away. “Danny?” she ventures. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.” Except I’m the one who’s supposed to be saying something.

  I wait there, and finally she meets my gaze again. She looks sad — no, beyond sad. Devastated. Like she knows what we’re about to say will ruin everything.

  She pivots and turns the side hug into a full hug, adding her other arm around my waist. I slide my other arm around her, and she rests her head on my chest.

  “You know you’re my best friend, right?” she says.

  Oh crap. I will not be friend-zoned again. Yeah, she’s my best friend, too, but if I have a chance to be happy with her — to be happy together, more than friends — I want to take it. I have to.

  Talia lifts her head and looks up at me. “I just wish . . .”

  I stare into her hazel eyes, and I don’t dare fill in her wish with mine. But suddenly I don’t need the perfect words anymore. Because I know exactly what to do.

  I ignore the fear of rejection filling my lungs, lean in and kiss her.

  Just after my lips touch hers, her hand lands on my chest. I realize my heart is doing about Mach 3.2. Will she push me away again?

  Before I stop kissing her, she slides her hand up to twine her fingers in my hair — she has no idea how much I love that — pulling me that much closer. Like she was worried I’d get away.

  Believe me, I’m not going anywhere.

  First kisses are supposed to be tentative, maybe even a little awkwa
rd, and short. This is none of the above. Talia kisses me back like she’s been waiting as long as I have and wanting it as much as I do, unwilling to let this end.

  When that perfect kiss does end, I linger a couple inches from her. Should we talk and then kiss again, or kiss and then talk and kiss again?

  “Don’t,” she whispers, her eyes still closed.

  Oh no.

  “Stop,” she says. Objecting a minute too late? But she kissed me back. Unless I’ve totally misread this.

  My stomach sinks in a death spiral. “I did stop.”

  Her eyelids flutter open. “Oh, no — I mean, ‘don’t stop.’ Sorry, had to catch my breath.”

  Wait, what? My gut rebounds. Not only is she not upset about the kiss, but she’s breathless, just as caught up as me. I’m so relieved I laugh and squeeze her close. “At some point, we’ll have to stop.”

  “I know — I just didn’t want to get . . . here.”

  She may be the resident expert, but I doubt she means this random building. “What’s wrong with here?” Personally, I was really excited about the more than friends and definitely okay to kiss stage.

  She groans and pushes away from me. “This wasn’t supposed to happen — I wasn’t supposed to fall in love.” She keeps talking, and it doesn’t sound good, but I replay those three words in my mind, my pulse revving all over again with every repetition.

  How can this night get any better?

  “You’re in love with me?” I know that’s not the only thing she said, but I can’t hide my grin.

  Talia wheels back. “Yes, try to keep up, rocket scientist.”

  I fold my arms. “I’ll do my best — once you start explaining.”

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to be.” I take her hand and tow her over to the stone benches to sit. They’re hard and cold, but I don’t care. “I hear the beginning’s a good place to start.”

  “I told you how I don’t like French fries.”

  Is she trying to change the subject? Not going to let that happen. “Weird, but not a relationship killer.”