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

  She shakes her head, and then the parts of the truth she’s always avoided start to come out. “I ate enough French fries to last a lifetime when I was moving cross-country after my parents’ divorce, and again after my mom’s next two divorces. That and my dad’s job changes are why I’ve lived in nine states. I want to go into family law so no kid ever has to go through what I did.”

  The pieces of information slide into place in my Talia file — the things I knew better than to ask. The biggest piece I’d already figured out: her parents’ divorce. Now it only makes sense that she avoids that topic, with this many painful memories hinging on that one event.

  She sighs. Her gaze follows a passing car. “Danny, you deserve . . . everything. You deserve to be happy.”

  “Funny, my plan for being happy was to date you, so I’m still not seeing how this precludes that.”

  She’s silent for a long minute, staring up at the steeple.

  Now I need to say something — not because I’ve filed away info on her personal life, but because she’s helped so much with mine. “Haven’t you spent the last month or two showing me I can’t change what people did in the past; I can only change myself and how I tackle the future?”

  “Can’t say I came into it with that goal, but impressive takeaway.” Talia wrings her hands. “Thing is, the past affects the future. History repeats itself when you don’t know any other way to act.”

  “We’ve hung out for three months. I know how you act. Doesn’t seem like a problem.” She has a rebuttal for every assertion. Does she just not want to date me? I try to push aside the worry.

  “No — do you remember a while back when I called you because something was bothering me, but I didn’t want to talk about it?”

  “Yeah?” The night I told her about cooking my phone to help distract her.

  A breeze rustles the trees, and she shivers. I scoot closer to put an arm around her. “I was upset because my mom called — always upsetting — but this time, she called to gloat that Tyler’s getting a divorce.”

  Her brother? Man, her mother is messed up. “That sucks; I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  And she can’t date me because . . . ? “Trying to keep up, but still not quite seeing your point.”

  Talia takes a deep breath and starts tracing a pattern on the stone benches. “Tyler’s the last in a long string of Reynoldses to ruin a marriage. Tyler’s getting divorced. Troy’s already divorced. My mom has been married three times, and I was there to watch all three fall apart. My parents fought constantly, as far back as I can remember.”

  “That’s hard.” I squeeze her shoulders. She leans back, and we both rest against the back of the bench, also cold and hard.

  “Even tougher knowing the pattern has repeated itself with Troy and now Tyler. It’s how things go in my family. No escaping it.”

  “Well . . .” There has to be some counterpoint here. “What about your other brother, not Timo? He divorced?”

  She folds her hands in her lap. “Trevor? Gay. Adds a whole ’nother degree of difficulty to our family dynamics.”

  I slide my arm from around her shoulders to take her hand. She doesn’t pull away — she clings to me like she doesn’t want this to end.

  Enough to try again. “Are you trying to say you don’t want to date me because you think you’ll get divorced?”

  “Not ‘don’t want,’ Danny. I want to date you — I so want to date you —”

  “Simple solution: date me.” I grin to show I’m joking. Kind of.

  Sorrow wells up in her eyes until they roll skyward to the leaves above us. “Nothing’s that simple. Haven’t you done all this healing so you can think about dating and marriage again?”

  “Sort of, but you’re getting ahead of us. I’m not asking you to marry me — I’m not even ready to think about that.”

  “Isn’t that the endgame of dating?”

  “I guess, but —”

  She releases my hand and stands. Without her by me, it’s suddenly colder, and not just the weather.

  She walks two steps away, focused on the glowing reflection of the church. “I’m not going to do that. I just can’t. I’ve never even seen a happy marriage up close. I’m not sure I believe in them.” She looks down. “I don’t, not for me.”

  “Talia —”

  “Danny.” She turns around to cut me off, like she’s anticipating my you’re being unreasonable argument. “Other than my dad’s second, every marriage in my family has ended in divorce. And not oh, well, we grew apart divorce. Screaming, crying, fighting divorce. Five years of ugly custody battles and poisoning the kids against the ex divorce. Can’t be in the same room for a decade afterward divorce. The only way out of it — the only way — is to not start.”

  Wow. Yeah, Talia had years of therapy, but even with that help, she’s lost all hope for a happy future. At my darkest place, somewhere inside, I still hoped things might work out for me one day — today — and Talia’s been hurting like this for years. Her whole life.

  I just want to hold her and make that better. Nothing can erase what she’s been through — I know that way too well — and I’m not talking about sacrificing myself to make her happy. I only want to be there for her as much as she’s been there for me.

  One easy way to do that: I stand up and cross the physical distance between us.

  “I can’t put you through that kind of pain,” she finishes, still staring at the church in the building’s windows.

  “You want to spare me pain?” Logic time. “If you can walk away now without it hurting, then run. Seriously. Get out while you can.”

  “Are you kidding?” She laugh-scoffs. “These last few weeks away from you have killed me. I wanted to text you every day. The kittens, Danny. Think of the kittens.”

  I’d almost forgotten that inside joke. “I was dying without you and your kittens. It’s too late to avoid pain.”

  “But —”

  “Just listen.” I take her in my arms, and I start. “Let’s think about this objectively: your mom’s mental illness is what destroyed her marriages, and it gave your brothers — and you — a lot of baggage that will make a happy marriage — a happy life tough.”

  Talia opens her mouth to object, but can’t.

  “Because of those problems from her, you’re breaking your heart now instead of risking it getting broken later — not a guarantee. Doing that is letting your mom win again. You’re letting her mental illness control your life and keep you from happiness.”

  Her face falls, and I don’t think she finds my tie this interesting. “You know, my mother called a couple weeks ago, and . . . she told me I’m difficult to love, and that’s why I’m alone.”

  “Are you serious?” I shake my head.

  The wind picks up again, the leaves overhead swishing. I pull her closer, but not just to fight the air currents. “Let me tell you, you’re not difficult to love. It’s easier than breathing. And all the other autonomic body functions.”

  Her head snaps up, her eyes bright, but a little furrow appears between her eyebrows. “Autonomic . . . ?”

  Yeah, naturally, I try to be smooth and end up confusing. I clarify, “Heartbeat, swallowing, pupils dilating, you know, those.”

  “Ah.”

  If I’m going to be there for her, I need to start providing antivenin to her mom’s poison. “While we’re at it, since I don’t know what other lies your mother’s been feeding you, let’s cover all the bases. You’re beautiful.”

  She glances away for a second, like the truth’s embarrassing. Or like she doesn’t believe me. I reiterate: “You are.”

  “Okay.”

  I’ll keep working on convincing her of that. “And you’re talented and amazing and everything anyone should ever hope for. You don’t deserve to be alone.”

  Her gaze falls again. I’ve hit home. I hold her tighter, my voice even softer. “You don’t have to be alone, and you’re not. I’m here.”

&n
bsp; She looks up, and the streetlight or the church’s glow reflects off tears brimming in her eyes.

  Good tears, I hope. “No matter what you decide, I’m still here for you — with you.” That would suck, but if that’s what I have to do to be there for her, I will.

  She bites her lip and blinks away the tears. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

  “I mean it.”

  A passing car honks at us. Didn’t know Canadians did that. But we’re not about to let that ruin our moment. I keep holding onto Talia.

  Until she jumps. “Sorry, hang on.” She reaches in her jacket pocket and takes out her phone. She scowls. “My mom.”

  That woman is a viper. But Talia stares at her phone like this is a major debate. “Going to answer?” I ask.

  “She’s my mother. She — she’s supposed to . . .” Talia sighs. “She’s never going to change.”

  Her eyes plead for me to contradict her, but she knows that answer better than me. She hits the ignore icon. “I guess if you can stand up to your mom . . .”

  “Oh yeah, if I can do it anybody can,” I joke.

  “Exactly. Thanks for making it look easy,” she teases back, and a smile sneaks onto her lips.

  Better get to the point before I get distracted by those lips. “I’ve spent way too much of my life trying to make other people happy, and all I want now is to be happy with you. I don’t know what’ll happen in a month or two or ten, but I’m not willing to miss out on being with you until then. I promise, if I ever am ready to think about marriage, I’ll let you know — but even if this goes absolutely nowhere, I would rather date you than break up and hold out for someone who’s ‘marriage material.’”

  “Break up?” Talia’s smile turns to a smirk, and she tilts back in my arms to cop a teasing attitude. “We’re already dating?”

  “We’ve been dating for almost three months — but it was so secret, even we didn’t know.”

  She laughs. I love that sound.

  “Other than your date with Campbell,” I add.

  “What date with Campbell? I never —”

  “When we went dancing.”

  Her brow furrows again. “No, I thought I was your date.”

  Now I have to laugh. “Are you kidding me? Watching you guys dance was torture — and you thought you were there with me?”

  “Is that why you didn’t kiss me?”

  “The only reason. You wanted me to?”

  She scoffs, sliding her arms around my waist. “Duh? I’ve been thinking about it since our first date.”

  “Nice to know I wasn’t the only one.” So much for being jealous — I’m done with that. It’s idiotic.

  I’m done with secrets. I’m done with bending over backwards to make everyone else happy. I’m done with the past.

  And, standing here in this little alcove between a pretty church and its reflection, an even more beautiful woman in my arms, I’m finally ready to start over — with Talia. “So if you don’t want to break up —”

  “Terrible idea.”

  I have a much better one. I use my fingertips to tip her chin up and lean in. Despite the kiss her, kiss her, kiss her cadence in my pulse, I don’t quite yet. “Guess there’s just one other thing I need to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You were right about me all along. I was lying.”

  Her eyes turn wary, though her shields are nowhere in sight.

  “I don’t like kittens half as much as I claim.”

  She purses her lips and slides her arms around my neck, playing with my hair again. “Don’t see how anyone could.”

  I hold her closer. “Talia Reynolds, I love you.”

  “And I love you, Danny Fluker.”

  I lean those last inches to kiss her, and it’s even more perfect than the first time.

  THANK YOU FOR READING!

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for reading Spy by Night! I never expected to write this novel — it was supposed to be a novella, maybe two! I started writing Danny’s story a long time ago to get to know him better. When I came back to write those same scenes from Talia’s perspective, I found myself missing Danny’s voice and input. I had to include his story here, even if it made the project more than twice as long (and hard) as I was anticipating!

  Whether this is your first book in the Spy Another Day series or your last, I hope you’ve enjoyed the adventure as much as I have. I write my stories because they’re adventures I want to read about, but I publish them because I love to share these stories I’ve worked so hard on. I love to hear from readers! You can write me at Jordan@JordanMcCollum.com or find me (and fun bonus features!) at http://JordanMcCollum.com.

  Finally, can I ask a quick favor? Could you please leave a review of Spy by Night online, or tell your friends about it? So much of a book’s success depends on friends’ recommendations. To make things easy for you, I’ve got a full list of review site links on my website, or you can use the social media sharing buttons right after this. Want a free book? Send me a link to your review and get a coupon for a free book from my website (up to $4.99)!

  Thank you again for reading!

  P.S. Want to be the first to know about my next release? Join my mailing list at http://JordanMcCollum.com/readers/. (I will never spam you!)

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  Canada is probably the last place you’d expect to find an American spy. But even idyllic Ottawa has its deadly secrets — and so does CIA operative Talia Reynolds. She can climb through ventilation shafts, blend in at the occasional diplomatic function, even scale buildings (small ones). But there’s one thing she can’t do: tell her aerospace engineer boyfriend Danny about her Top Secret occupation.

  It worked for a year, keeping Danny in the dark, keeping him away from danger, keeping her secrets. And then Talia finally catches a hot case: Fyodor Timofeyev. Russian. Aerospace executive. Possible spy?

  She can make this work, too — until Danny needs her at the same time her country does. And when Fyodor targets Danny? Suddenly her schedule isn’t the only thing suffering. Now to save her secrets and her country, Talia must sacrifice the man she loves.

  I don’t do catsuits. The leather/plastic/spandex coatings female spies pour themselves into on TV are ridiculously impractical for actual spy tradecraft: no mobility, reflective in low light, loud colors. Nothing shouts “I’m a covert operative!” like a catsuit.

  But I kinda wish I had one now. At least it wouldn’t snag on every half-screwed bolt I come across in this narrow ventilation shaft. My clothes are dark, close fitting and comfortable no matter how I have to contort myself, but I can’t move more than ten feet without getting caught on something — like now. If I yank my pants hem free, my knee will hit the metal flashing, inches from my targets’ neighbors making dinner on the other side of the wall. I suck in a silent breath thick with their garlic and ginger.

  I’ve made it this far. I’m not about to let one more hitch stop me. I keep my weight evenly distributed and lower myself to the bottom of the narrow tunnel. This looks a lot cooler on TV. James Bond never had to deal with wardrobe malfunctions. He also never faced off with Lashkar-e-Omar, or any other terrorist armies bent on killing people just because they were American.

  And I’m not going to get a chance to do it either unless I can get to this apartment. “C’mon, Talia,” I whisper, like self-pep talks are effective. I wriggle backward, bending my body into an awkward V against the cold metal to grope for my ankles in the dark.

  “Talking to yourself, FOXHUNT?” comes Elliott’s voice in my earpiece. “T-plus eighteen.”

  I have to stick to the targets’ routine. We should know it; we�
��ve timed them every night for more than a week. I have twenty minutes left until our window is narrower than this ventilation shaft. I need to move. At last my fingers find the bolt and I unhook my CIA-issue, top-secret-weave pants. (I’m kidding; they’re just pants.)

  Finally free from the flashing, I unkink my body and lift into a low crawl for my targets’ vent a few feet away. After inching through this tunnel for so long, it feels like I’ll never get there. I swear, the movies seriously gloss over how long this entry takes.

  I’ve never met anyone who’s done this for a break-in-and-bug, “black bag” op in real life, and the unexpectedness is part of the reason we chose this Hollywood-style clandestine entry. The only woman on our team, I was the only one agile enough, small enough, eager enough for the job.

  Remind me not to do this again.

  Within seconds, I’m there. The room below me is lit by the moon streaming through the windows. Nothing remarkable: desk cluttered with office supplies, stained mattresses shoved in every corner, rotting bookcase with a single half-empty shelf. Shabby chic it’s not, but I’ve bugged filthier.

  I unwrap the twine from my wrist and thread it between the slats of the vent, pulling it back through the other side. Holding both ends, I can be sure not to drop the vent once it’s free. A special tool made for unscrewing bolts from the wrong end — sorry, I can’t say much more about it than that — makes for quick work and the built-in rare-earth magnet keeps them from clattering to the bare floor below.

  Before I move the vent, I have to make sure I know where I’m going. If there’s no way out but the front door, I don’t want to get myself trapped. Like the catsuit, that’s a little less than covert.

  I spot my way out of the apartment, a cold air return near the front closet. I’m going in. My pulse measures the seconds in double time, and I pull the vent cover into the shaft. It’s tough unless you know the trick to turn it on a diagonal. I lower myself within a couple feet of the clear area on the desk, not daring to breathe. Even super-secret “quiet shoes” make some noise if you jump hard enough.