by Kit Smart
There he stands, towering over me, every line of his body powerfully present, eyes crinkling with amusement as he offers me his hand. “I take it that you’re the Serilda K. Hunt that I’ve been waiting for?”
I step forward to take his hand and find myself nearly struck dumb when the closer proximity allows me to feel the heat coming off of his body; the kind that invites you to step closer and run your hands along a man’s flanks underneath his suit jacket.
Only if you’re intimate with said man. I remind myself sternly as I put my hand in his. Otherwise it’s creepy and possibly bordering on assault. “I am most definitely the Serilda K. Hunt that you’ve been waiting for.” I let my hand linger in his. “But you can call me Seri.”
“Owen.” He keeps my hand for a beat longer, just long enough to affirm that he isn’t any more eager to release it than I am to have it released. And then he sort of sweeps the sides of his suit jacket back and slipping his hands into his pockets rocks back on his heels and just sort of stretches up to his full height. The motion expands his chest in my direction, and suddenly I am aware of how big he is. Even in my heeled boots, the top of my head doesn’t clear his collarbone.
“Seri sounds disconcertingly similar to the virtual assistant?” He lowers his chin to meet my gaze and almost but not quite, hides the smile that tells me that he’s caught me staring.
“There aren’t many nicknames available with a name like Serilda.” I answer absently as, unrepentant, I meet his amused gaze. You sir, are ridiculously nice-looking. Therefore, I shall continue to stare at you.
“Point taken.” He nods at the sofa opposite to the chair he’d been sitting in. “I think you’d better take a seat Seri.”
“I’m fine.”
“Trust me. You’re going to want to sit for this.” He tells me with a quiet confidence that has me slipping off my left shoe and arranging my left foot under me on the sofa in preparation for sitting. Normally, of course, I reserve this habit for the comfort of my own house or office and do not trot it out for more formal occasions such as first meetings with a boss, however, I am distracted enough by the man in front of me that I don’t think twice about it.
Also, he’s kind of my ‘fake’ boss.
Owen, for his part, sits back in his chair, and arranges his legs in an easy sprawl that acknowledges the mutual attraction growing between us in the confident way they point in my direction.
Quiet confidence is sexy as fuck. I realize as I take in the way he is looking at me like he knows I am contemplating doing some ‘we shouldn’t be doing this’ things with him; and he knows just how to do those ‘we shouldn’t be doing this’ things in a way that would most likely ruin me for other men.
Damn it. Despite the fact that the agency actually encourages relationships between agents as a way to keep things in house, I—the rational portion of me at any rate—am pretty certain that getting involved with Bishop-MacQuoide isn’t a first rate idea. No matter how good he promises to be in bed.
Also, he’s not agency.
“So,” The man across from me interlaces his hands over his waist just below his belt buckle and tilts his head back to look at me. “What do you know about time travel?”
“Sorry. I got lost in your eyes. What did you just say?” I couldn’t have heard that correctly. Also, I can’t believe I just said that. Sometimes, when I’m distracted by other things, the thoughts in my head just go for a stroll out my mouth. It’s not awesome. Usually gets me into trouble. Probably not desirable for a first meeting with the new boss. “Technically, you’re not my boss though are you?”
He raises his copper eyebrows at me; gives me a taken aback smile. “Are you flirting with me or trying to pick a fight?”
“Probably both.” I frown. “You did just say time travel right? As in wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff?” Oh my god. You did not just quote Doctor Who at him. You’re never going to get anywhere with him now you freaking, freakish nerd girl.
“As in a mad man with a blue box.” He confirms. He pauses, lowers his voice an octave. “And try me.”
Mental face palm. “I did not say that aloud.” Nothing like pointing out your freakish nerdiness to impress a man.
“You did.”
“Did you have to tell me?”
“Would you prefer that I lie to protect your delicate emotions?”
“Possibly.”
He tilts his head back slightly as he shifts back in his chair slightly. “I think I may kind of like you Serilda K. Hunt.”
“Uh—” I reply inelegantly. So wasn’t expecting that. I try to gather my thoughts enough to organize a more responsive response, but he doesn’t’t give me the chance as in the next moment, he straightens in his chair and the smile disappears from his face to be replaced by a mask of cool professionalism. “Now, as for the NSU, we are a multi organizational unit whose AO—” He catches my look and clarifies: “Area of Operations is time travel related to medical and scientific purposes.” He holds up a hand to stay my instinctive protest at what he is telling me. “I am not going to go into the physics and quantum physics of it at this point Hunt, so just suspend your disbelief and follow along.” He tells me in what I assume is his firm, don’t start with me, military commander voice. “One of our missions involves undoing the damage done by climate change and, well, human stupidity by traveling back in time to retrieve flora and fauna that is currently extinct so that we may reintroduce it to our time line.” He pauses to assess me.
I stare back at him; wonder if I took a wrong turn somewhere, and have somehow wound up at some sort of lunatic asylum.
“We have other missions as well.” He adds gently. “Which, you will be informed of on a need to know basis.” He gives the faintest of smiles. “Just think Tardis on a mission to unfuck the planet. Any questions?”
Uh huh. With an effort, I pick my proverbial jaw up off of the floor and slip it back into my skull. “Am I permitted to ask questions?” I return as my training slowly reasserts itself and need to know throws a nice fat blockade in front of all the thoughts making a run from my undisciplined brain toward my mouth.
“No.”
“So—” Where do we go from here?
“You’re— taken aback.”
“Is it the confused look and the blank stare that give me away?” I point to my face.
Another slight smile. “You don’t have to believe me just yet Hunt. All you have to do is focus on your AOR—Area of Responsibility.”
“Preserving your cover story.” I return as evenly as I can given that I am fairly certain that particular portions of my brain had turned to mush.
“Preserving our cover story.” The lunatic across from me concurs wryly. “Are you up for it?”
“Do I have a choice.”
“Not really. At this point, since I’ve already told you what goes on here, if you decide to leave I have to kill you.”
“Seriously?”
Crooked little grin. “No.” A huff of laughter. “That’s not how we do things here.” Pause. “We’d have you permanently dropped off in the 1800s or some other time period where you couldn’t do any damage.” He tells me solemnly.
Funny man. I catch the return of the smile. “I’m not sure I think much of your sense of humor.” I rise to my feet and start for the door.
“Where are you going.”
“To my office.” I pause at the door and offer him a small smile of my own. “Oh, and Chief?”
“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows at me in question.
“Never underestimate my ability to do damage.”
He laughs. “One final question.” He says.
I turn to face him. “Yes?” He’s still smiling but his eyes are serious now.
“I have PTSD. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
I blink. “No. Should it?”
“No.”
“Okay then.” I reach for the door and start to shut it. “Good talk.”
5
Seri<
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“So…” I look over at Amory where she sits organizing the pile of files she’s brought to go over. How to put this so as not to appear the idiot in the event that this is all some sort of elaborate joke? “Time travel.”
Amory glances up from the files and quirks a brow at me. “Yes.” She affirms.
“Seriously?” I have got to stop watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy. Nobody uses seriously anymore.
“Seriously.” Amory nods. With the exception of Amory Quinn. I amend. I wonder if she’d up up for a Grey’s marathon?
“You’re not just having a go at me?”
“Nope.”
“Have you seen it—the uh…” I try to remember what the Chief had called the whatever it is they used to time travel.
“Tardis?” Amory smiles; explains. “We just call it that for simplicity’s sake.” She shrugs. “Also, it makes a great cover story in the event that we are ever overheard. You know, we can just claim to be rabid Whovians.”
I study her carefully for signs that she is joking, and find nothing. Either she’s a master of deception or she’s telling the truth—at least in as far as she believes it to be true.
Aware that there are other concerns to be dealt with. I put the thought away for later and pick up my still steaming cup of tea. “Okay.” I take a nice long sip to buy myself a moment. “So, what exactly are we dealing with around here.”
“You’ve decided that you don’t really need to know what the NSU does haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Stage two.” She nods. “Right on track.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The stages of accepting that time travel is actually a thing.” Amory offers me a wry smile. “Don’t worry you’ll get there.”
Why do I suspect that getting there involves a complete loss of sanity?
Apparently sensing the direction of my thoughts, Amory flips open a file and turns it toward me. “This file contains all of the financial data for Courage Under Fire.”
“We use files?” Like actual paper files?
Amory holds up a hand to stay my protest. “Nope. We are fully digitalized. However, our tablets aren’t scheduled to arrive until next week, so I have printed everything out so that we can bring it with us while we’re hoofing it.”
You did not just. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief.
Amory just shrugs as her smile deepens. “We are an equine therapy center.”
“That doesn’t make equine puns the order of the day.” I try to sound serious as I fight to control my amusement.
“Doesn’t it?”
“This is serious.” I manage to maintain a severe expression long enough for her smile to dissipate. “So quit foaling around.”
Seri
Over the next few days, I learn a lot about our cover operation and nothing about Owen Bishop-MacQuoide.
He has, in fact, virtually disappeared from the office.
When I question Amory about it, she reveals, with a gallic shrug, that the Chief and Baehr are off somewhere attending to NSU matters.
Because I am still not entirely certain that the whole thing isn’t some sort of elaborate farce; I refrain from asking questions. Also, because I am a well-trained agency type and we don’t ask questions about need to know stuff. No matter how much we want to.
Fortunately, I am busy enough getting myself up to speed on the operative structures currently in place for Courage After Fire along with the ones that still need setting up and have practically no time to think about him aside from noting the occasional signs, mostly in the form of abandoned tea cups on his desk that he’s come through the offices at one point or another.
By the end of the first day, I understand why I was pulled from training for this position. The sheer scope and complexity of the operations necessary to run a project like Courage After Fire would be daunting even for a highly trained team specialized in the field. Running it with a team of untrained under cover agents backed up by military personnel on top of a top secret project, well, it’s nothing short of bonkers.
Fortunately for me, it appears that everyone here specializes in bonkers.
Seri
“What are you even doing?!” I eye an errant section of hair, that, despite all odds has formed itself into a random wave on the right side of my head in an effort to sabotage my otherwise perfect bob. “I had you killed last weekend.” I examine the bag of hair products resting on the console beside the mirror. “And yet, here you are, fucking things up again.” Maybe I should wear some sort of hat. Not to mention, get a refund on that Korean Magic Straight Perm.
“May I help?” A familiar voice, one I haven’t heard for the better part of a week, intrudes on my hair drama.
Steeling myself against the embarrassment of being caught berating my hair, I turn to face my long lost ginger fake boss.
Like me, he hasn’t changed yet for the afternoon’s outing, and casually dressed in jeans and an Oxford Button Down, unbuttoned at the throat, untucked at the waist with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms lightly dusted with red gold hair; he is a sight to behold as he leans against the door frame smiling at me.
“You look tired.” I blurt because he does look tired, and also because I am an idiot. I mean, I was expecting him, but not; I glance over at the clock on my desk; for another ten minutes or so.
He ignores me. Nods at my hair. “You look beautiful.” A slight pause. “Am I disturbing you?”
“It’s not what I was going for, but thank you.” I shrug. “And you’re not.”
He raises an eyebrow in the direction of the sofa, and I nod my permission in response.
“What were you going for?” He asks as he pushes himself off of the doorframe and makes his way over to the sofa.
“Otherworldly and vaguely threatening.” I answer watching him settle himself at one end of the leather sofa with tell-tale restlessness. Running on nerves and caffeine. “You’ve been going a while.”
He doesn’t prevaricate. “A few days.”
“Are you going to pass out on me Bishop-MacQuoide?” I take in the way he tucks his hands under his arms.
“Not if you keep me supplied with copious amounts of tea.” He offers me a wry smile. “Coffee will do in a pinch.”
“I have tea.” I walk over to the electric kettle switch it on. Never let anyone say that I am slow to take a hint. “Have you had anything to eat today?”
“No.”
“Not hungry or—”
He leans his head back against the wall behind the sofa and regards me from beneath lowered brows. “Stomach can’t deal with it at the moment.” He tells me matter of factly.
Opening the box of tea, I retrieve three bags and drop them in the pot. “I gather that you haven’t taken any Paracetamol either then.”
He grimaces. “No.”
“Wise. Water?”
“No.”
“So you’re pretty much just awash in tea and adrenalin then?”
“Pretty much.” He answers agreeably.
I grab an oversize mug and toss a peppermint teabag into it; open the cabinet under the kettle and pull out a box of saltines and a bottle of Paracetamol. “There are some blankets in the basket beside the sofa.” I tell him.
He leans forward to look over the side of the sofa then glances back at me. “I’ll fall asleep.” He warns.
I snort and pick up the kettle. “No great loss.” I offer him a smile. “The meeting is between me and Amory. You and Baehr are just window dressing.” I give him an exaggerated once over. “Fabulous window dressing, but window dressing nonetheless.”
He grins in appreciation of my exaggerated once over and reaches for a blanket. “Strictly a courtesy invite then?”
“Absolutely.” The scent of mint drifts upwards as I pour hot water over the teabag.
I pour the remainder of the water into the teapot and the scent of Earl Gray mingles with the mint briefly before I slide the lid onto the teapot.<
br />
Gathering up the necessities for tea, I put them on the tray along with the mug of mint tea, crackers and Paracetamol, and bring it to the low table in front of the sofa.
Bishop-MacQuoide pulls a dark gray blanket across his chest; tucks his hands back under his arms and changes the subject. “Why would you want to look otherworldly and vaguely threatening Hunt?”
“Hunt?”
He offers me a wry smile and a raised eyebrow. “Bishop-MacQuoide?”
Touché. I shrug as I skirt the table. I stop when I am within hand’s reach of him. “I suppose I haven’t had the chance to get into the habit of calling you Owen.” Picking up the oversized mug full of mint tea, I offer it to him.
He studies me intently as he reaches a hand out from under the blanket and takes the mug. “Is it too late?” He asks softly.
“It’s only been a week.” Unable to resist the temptation, I brush my fingertips across the back of his hand as I hand him the mug.
“Thank you.” He murmurs as he grimaces down into the mint tea.
“It’ll go easy on your stomach.” I tell him as I reach back for the crackers and the Paracetamol.
He takes them from me, frowns down at the crackers.
“Absolutely tasteless.” I tell him. “They’re popular amongst pregnant women.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me.
“No. I’m not pregnant.” I respond to his unasked question with an eye-roll. “They’re just useful to have around.”
He casts a pointed glance at the doorway that leads out to our predominantly male office as he opens the box of crackers. “Swarms of pregnant women around here. Got it.” Pulling out a cracker, he offers me an agreeable smile that is more eyes than mouth and takes a small bite. “Why do you want to look otherworldly and vaguely threatening?”
I cock my own eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I want to look otherworldly and vaguely threatening?”
