Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  “Looks like he’s still in the Château.”

  I release my relief in a sigh. “Awesome. Thanks.”

  “T, wait—”

  “Go to Shanna.” I pull the earpiece out, take off the maple leaf brooch and pop them into my borrowed clutch.

  I’m all Danny’s. I pat a hand wet with cold water over my scratched chin, then dare to check my dress. A couple repair stitches are visible if you’re looking for them, and the dirt on my backside is pretty much unavoidable. I brush at it with a paper towel. Maybe if they lower the lights for dinner, I can pretend it’s only a shadow. The CIA will probably be able to clean the dress. Yes, we have super secret dry cleaning. Okay, we send it out.

  I’ve done as much as I can for now. I grab my bag and jog through the lobby to the back corner past the staircase. The maître d’ jumps when I slide to a stop at the restaurant door. I hope it’s because of the running and not my appearance. “Where is Danny Fluker sitting?”

  He hesitates a beat too long. I pull up my favorite picture of Danny on my phone. “Oh.” The maître d’s tone doesn’t sound good, but I hardly have time to worry.

  “Can you just point me to his table? I want to surprise him.”

  “I’m sure you will.” The maître d’ points me in the right direction, and I pretend he didn’t give me a little more attitude than I think he’s supposed to give customers.

  I find the table next to a wall of windows with a beautiful view of the lights on the Peace Tower of Parliament. I don’t need to see the clock up there to know it’s past nine.

  Before I get close enough for him to spot me, someone steps between us. A black-vested waiter. He speaks to Danny in French. I don’t catch the words, but the tone is either pity or commiseration.

  Another bad sign.

  I don’t understand Danny’s reply, either, but the undercurrent of acceptance in his voice is heartbreaking. Like this is just how it is. My girlfriend’s an hour-plus late to the extra special date she promised she wouldn’t miss, and I’m not surprised.

  The extra energy in my veins settles into my hands and feet and knees — as nerves.

  The waiter moves on with a final word of sympathy, and I can finally see Danny sitting in the chair closer to the window. Wearing my favorite suit of his, a gray one with a hint of sheen. The place setting in front of him is gone, leaving only a half-empty glass of water. The rest of the table has been cleared too.

  Not a good sign.

  I’m so late, but I’m so glad to see him I don’t have time for guilt. I slide a hand across his shoulders and go straight in for a kiss.

  But Danny jerks back, holding me off by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not—”

  “Danny.”

  He meets my eyes. “Talia?” His jaw doesn’t hit the table like I’d hoped, but there’s enough surprise in his face to compensate. Unless the surprise is that I’m showing at all.

  “I am so unbelievably sorry.”

  He lets me go and I take my seat across from him. A beat passes before I break the silence. “You just ma’amed me.”

  “You don’t even smell like you.”

  I settle against the back of the sloped-arm wing chair. “You’re saying I smell?”

  “No, you have a smell — a scent. It’s not bad.”

  I can feel my eyebrows knitting together. I have a smell? And what do I smell like tonight? Fyodor, his drink?

  No, I won’t let things play out this way. I won’t take offense. Now that I’m finally here, I will not ruin tonight. I reach across the table for his hand.

  And he pulls away. Again.

  My heart drops an inch. Still not giving up. “Have you ordered?”

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “I’ve ordered. I’ve eaten. Now I’m sitting here looking like a loser.”

  I wince. The waiter returns with the check. No, the folder he’s setting on the blond wood table has a credit card inside. Danny’s already paid.

  “Est-là,” the waiter says. My French sucks and Danny knows, but I can understand that much: “Here you are.” He pushes the check at Danny, but I see the little eye-shift toward me.

  Danny’s smile is nothing like his usual grin: more like a grimace. “Trop peu, trop tard.”

  I know that one, too: too little, too late. My heart drifts down another inch. “Did you have dessert? It’d be on me, since you’ve already—”

  “I’ve got it covered, actually.”

  The waiter switches to perfect English. “Let me bring that out to you.”

  I know it’s too much to hope he’s ordered something for us both.

  Suddenly the stress of the whole day — the makeover, trying to get here on time, thinking about Danny, everything with Fyodor — falls on my shoulders. The adrenaline I’ve been running on dissipates, and tears prick to the surface.

  No, no, no. I won’t cry. Not again. I press a fist against my mouth.

  But the tears come anyway.

  “Talia.” Danny sounds like I’m a little kid who’s throwing her fourth tantrum of the night and he’s too exhausted to fight.

  “I’m sorry” is all I can whisper. And I am. I’m sorry I’m late, I’m sorry I’ve let him down yet again, and I’m sorry I’m crying. I know guys think crying is manipulation.

  I don’t manipulate Danny. I fill my lungs and close my eyes to rein in the tears. “Today was awful.”

  And in the next second, Danny’s chair is next to mine, his arm around my shoulders. I turn and bury my face against his neck. It’s all I wanted to have Danny hold me. Just sitting here, he’s solid and soothing and safe.

  I can almost let go of the tension still lacing my back — almost — and then his free hand brushes against my knee.

  I jolt back. One hand seizes his wrist.

  Whoa. This is Danny, not Fyodor. After half a heartbeat, I check myself and release him even more abruptly. He stares at me, silent. Saucer-eyed. Scared.

  I need to fix this. “Sorry. I banged my knee on the way in.”

  “Ouch.” The wariness hangs in his expression. He offers a handkerchief.

  I wipe away the tears (again) until the waiter slides a paperboard box onto the table. “Enjoy your evening.” He gives us a slight bow.

  “Actually, could you bring us a couple forks, please?” Danny’s polite to a fault with people who handle his food. It’s a good habit I try to emulate. (And my paranoid side reminds me you never know what they might put in there.)

  “Certainly.” The waiter bows again. It takes him less than a minute to deliver our forks.

  I pull the box closer. “Hope you tipped him well.”

  “Really well.” Danny opens the box to reveal a gorgeous pecan pie. The sharp, sweet smell of maple hits me. After three years here, I’m pretty much addicted.

  “Maple Chocolate Chip Pecan Pie,” Danny says. “Chef Ernst’s specialty. Apparently somebody ordered it yesterday, but never came to pick it up, and Guillaume felt bad enough for me that he offered me a discount.”

  Without a thought of etiquette, I dig into the pie so I don’t have to respond. Smooth, creamy filling with chewy nuts, chunks of chocolate, and sweet maple-caramelly goodness? This has to be heaven. I don’t stop except to savor every bite until we’ve eaten a quarter of the pie. I pause for a deep breath, my back muscles slowly unknotting. “This. Is. Bliss.”

  “Oh?” Danny’s tone is teasing but carries a definite edge. “I thought that was ignorance.”

  I focus on the pie. He might be joking, but how would he feel if he knew what I was doing an hour ago? Or what happened afterwards? I’m definitely letting him keep his illusions, including the one that all knowledge is good.

  I slow down when I realize Danny’s watching me. “You look amazing. All this for me?”

  I shrug one shoulder, as if dropping half a grand on dressing for dinner is nothing to someone so frugal (or miserly).

  “Don’t tell me getting ready made you late.”

  “No, I had to wear thi
s to the meeting. Which was terrible.”

  “Sorry you had a rough day.” He sets his fork down.

  I am so not done with this pie. “Unbelievable.” I take another bite.

  “What happened?”

  “Ugh. Client tried to pick me up.”

  Danny’s eyes dip to my dress a millisecond and he frowns. “Definitely don’t want that.”

  “No. Good thing Elliott was there.” I can’t help a smile at the memory of Elliott’s one genuine, Danny-esque grin.

  “Elliott was there.”

  It’s not a question, but I answer it anyway. “Well, yeah, he was . . . in and out.”

  “Oh.” There’s something I don’t like in that one little note.

  I fold my hands in my lap, though I could definitely keep going on the pie. “But now I’m here with you.”

  Danny doesn’t smile back as broadly as me. He picks up his fork again, but rubs the fancy design on the handle instead of taking another bite. “How does everyone else at work survive?”

  I flinch, but try to cover it. He can’t possibly mean physical survival. “Hm?”

  “On this schedule. Is anyone there married?”

  “Some of them, I think.” César for sure, and Elliott, obviously. Justin chases anything that moves (except me; boys’ club), and I think Will and Robby are both divorced. Maybe I’m the only one who doesn’t keep tabs on these things. If Elliott’s wife wasn’t in labor right now, she’d probably never cross my mind.

  “How do they stay that way?”

  “The patience of a saint, I guess.”

  Danny huffs, and I think that’s a laugh. “I’ll say. That’s going to make any marriage hard.”

  “Yeah, I guess. I haven’t considered it.”

  The small talk isn’t enough to distract me from the siren scent of the pie, but I manage to tear my eyes away to find Danny looking at me like I’m speaking Russian (except he doesn’t know I speak Russian). “Never even crosses your mind?”

  “I don’t really have a reason to think about it,” I say slowly. “You know? Personal stuff stays at home.” And when it doesn’t — like it hasn’t with Elliott lately — it only means trouble.

  A lot of trouble. But we dodged that bullet tonight, and maybe we’ve turned the corner.

  Danny watches me a minute, then shifts in his seat to focus on the pie. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “And anyway, we’ve had a lot of problems with that stuff getting in the way of work.”

  “That stuff?” he repeats.

  Am I out of my depth here? I’ve had a lot of practice with subtlety, but there’s something else going on, and even sitting face-to-face with Danny isn’t giving me the intel to figure it out.

  In my lap, my purse vibrates. That’s gotta be Elliott. That was fast. I pull out my phone. Sure enough, the caller ID says Elliott Monteith. And the battery indicator is now flashing red.

  “Talia.” Danny’s tone carries an edge of warning.

  “I’m not going to answer.” I hit the button to ignore the call. “Happy?”

  “A little.”

  I tuck my phone in my purse. “Almost dead. I know what he wants anyway.”

  “Probably pretty obvious.” And this time it’s a lot more than an edge in his voice.

  I turn to him. Is this what he’s been talking about? “What are you trying to say?”

  “You were working with Elliott tonight, right?”

  “Yeah, of course. I work with Elliott all the time.”

  “I know.” He closes the pie box. “You wore that to your meeting?”

  I glance down at my dress. “It’s not like I’m vamping for the clients.”

  He’s already started to stand up, but he looks back over his shoulder. “For the clients? Is that why you’re Supermodel Barbie Talia tonight?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Danny leans in to level with me. “Tell me the truth: did you dress up for me tonight? am I the one you’re trying to impress?”

  My strict personal policy of telling him as much of the truth as I can is quickly backfiring. My gaping silence answers for me until my phone chimes to announce a voicemail.

  “Awesome.” He grabs the pie box and stands.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute.” I push away from the table.

  Danny buttons his suit jacket. “You wait a minute, Talia. Think about it. You work eighty hours a week with the guy. You come running every time he calls. You call me in to help impress him—”

  “When have I ever—”

  “Tuesday night, with the aerospace stuff. To get second chair. To impress Elliott.” He’s keeping his voice low enough to avoid a scene, but vertigo swirls in my head like the floor is tilting, and I’m about to lose my balance and slide away from Danny forever.

  He turns for the door. I dash after him, struggling to keep pace with his long strides when my heels fare a lot better on hard floors than this thick carpet.

  We hit the marble tile of the lobby. “Danny, that’s not what it’s like.”

  “Isn’t it? He calls you away from lunch, asking you about your favorite movie. I don’t know your favorite movie.”

  “I have seven and you do know them all. And it was my boss who made me leave.” We pass the boutique shops along the side galleries and then the reception desk, finally reaching the main vestibule. The echo of my heels is muffled by the rest of the foot traffic.

  I wait until we’re out front to try again. “Danny, you’re taking this the wrong way.”

  He marches over the Plaza Bridge. I run along, trying to keep up with him. “Can we please talk about this?”

  “Talk about what? Why Elliott’s at your apartment before eight AM? Why you’ve stood me up for him like four times this week alone?” He shakes his head. As soon as the sculpted concrete railing next to him ends, he turns — down the stairs Fyodor and I used after the changing of the guard. Down to the locks.

  I don’t know why Danny’s going there now, but I’m not letting him get away. “Since when are you jealous, Danny Fluker?”

  He stops at the bottom of the stairs and wheels back to me. “Since I realized how much time you spend with him. Since he started coming up in every conversation. Since he started interrupting all those conversations.” His shoulders slump. “Since I saw you in the hall together.”

  My brain flashes on the wrong moment in the wrong hall. Elliott, closing the distance between us too quickly. Me, paralyzed with shock and fear.

  Unable to stop him before he does something really, really stupid.

  No. Danny doesn’t know about that incident. It was before we were dating. An accident. A cover. Not my fault.

  Danny breaks into my thoughts. “That’s what I figured.”

  “No. Hey, I saw you walking out with Ariane the other day and I’m not freaking out.”

  An alarm goes off in his eyes. “What? You were . . . spying on me?”

  “I do not spy on you.” And then I remember: I had them ping his phone. For the first time, I really did spy on him tonight.

  Danny sees my hesitation. He turns on his heel and heads down the sidewalk by the canal. I stand there, stunned, for a moment, but I’m not giving up that easily. I hurry to catch up.

  “Elliott isn’t like that to me. At all. Ever. I swear.”

  In the shadows of the streetlight, I think I see him roll his eyes. “It’s just become painfully clear over the last week.”

  He jogs down a flight of stairs to the next lock and I follow, catching him again on the straightaway. “What has?”

  As if he thinks he can avoid the conversation if he gets away from me, he pivots and starts across the walkway on top of a set of lock gates. I don’t think he knows where he’s going — there’s no sidewalk connecting the flights of stairs between the locks on the other side of the canal — but I pursue. “You have to believe me. Elliott isn’t—”

  “Elliott isn’t the issue.” Halfway across, he turns back to me, pain written in every detail of hi
s expression. “The issue is obviously I’m way more into this than you are.”

  “No, Danny, I swear—”

  He holds up his free hand. “Is this relationship worth it to you?”

  f I can only gape at him. “But—”

  “No, you know, you don’t have to say anything.” His words aren’t sarcastic — they’re sad. Resigned. Heartbroken. “You’ve already given me your answer. You fight for what you want, Talia. I’m just trying to figure out when you stopped fighting for us.” He shoves the pie into my open, apologizing hands and finishes crossing the lock gates.

  And this time, I can’t follow him. My equilibrium tilts. I’m not sure gravity’s working right anymore — or my ears or my eyes or my heart. All I can see is Danny disappearing into the bridge’s shadows.

  My mind spins off its axis and I grab the hip-height railing to keep myself upright. It feels like hours before someone calls, “Sorry, miss?”

  I turn, not even bothering to hope it’s Danny. It’s a lockstation worker. “We need to open the gates. Excuse us.”

  Still numb, I somehow make my way off the doors. Up the stairs. Onto the bus.

  Danny broke up with me.

  Danny’s gone.

  I revert to automatic pilot, taking the bus to basically anywhere, then transferring to another route until I find one that stops near my place. On each ride, I slump into the seats, the pie box on my lap. I don’t even know why he gave it to me.

  The conversation with Danny keeps replaying, as if somehow in retrospect I can see where it went off the rails and fix it now. And then my mind circles back on every time we’ve talked over the last week, reviewing the horrible highlights. Suddenly I see with perfect clarity what Danny means about Elliott. I mean, no, I don’t have those kinds of feelings for him, but he’s practically omnipresent in my life.

  My mental replay reaches Saturday at the aviation museum, Danny in the middle of the dramatic tragedy of the Avro Arrow fighter jet in front of a prototype’s nose. Pointing out the blackened torch marks where they cut the plane in pieces.