“Because you stink,” she said, with a full measure of sisterly sensitivity.
“What?!”
“The sweat? The garlic? They’re mixin’, sweetie, and not in a good way. You’ll feel better if you freshen up a little.” She wrinkled her nose at me.
The possibility that I currently smelled like sweaty garlic jolted me out of complacency. I stood up, discreetly trying to smell my breath and pits on my way to the bathroom. When Gemma didn’t move, I turned back. “Aren’t you showering?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” she assured me, turning the page of In Style with a flick of her wrist.
“Should I meet you on One?” Technically, Portkey 1. Dad had read all the Harry Potter books and seen all the movies. After watching Goblet of Fire and seeing how a lone boot on a hill had transported Harry and friends to the Triwizard Tournament, Dad decided a zip-line was as close as Muggles could get to that sort of wild, free-fall mode of transportation. He refused to even acknowledge skydiving as a front-runner.
Gemma glanced up. “How about Five?”
“Is anyone staying in the cabin?”
“I do believe The Castle is to let at the moment,” she returned in a stilted British accent.
The Castle was either proof that Dad was secretly a romantic at heart or that he was a keen businessman preying on the tender emotions of “those poor bastards.” Built on a larger platform thirty-five feet in the air, the cabin was like something out of the Swiss Family Robinson movie. Crafted out of golden oak, the cozy little retreat boasted enough room for a queen-sized bed and a tiny sitting area. The three-sixty views were open-air, but there were gauzy white privacy curtains and a mosquito net draped over the bed, which was made up with all-white linens. Amid the rustling breezes and the sound of birdsong, it was a lovely little escape that seemed a world away—at least after the zip-liners were done for the day. Gemma and I had spent hours lounging on the down-stuffed duvet when the lofty cabin wasn’t booked, each imagining a life as Roberta and debating the merits of Fritz versus Ernst.
You could only reach the cabin from Portkey 5, or a miniature bridge that led to a rustic little bathroom cottage, and in an attempt to keep The Castle experience as private as possible, we tried to avoid Portkey 5 whenever necessary. But if it was empty. . . . I was all for yoga on Five and then a zip-line ride down to the cushy comfort of the cabin.
“Five it is, then,” I agreed and headed to the shower, where I let the tears finally have their way.
When I reached the top of the platform, Gemma was already there, looking suspiciously unfreshened. I narrowed my eyes at her.
“What happened to your shower?”
“I checked and I wasn’t dire, so I decided to hold off till after yoga.” She was fiddling with her phone, presumably cueing up some soothing music. She looked up at me. “Didn’t you have any black yoga gear?”
I glanced down at myself, in purple pants and a bright, flower-patterned top. “Why? Is this throwing you off your Zen?”
“I’ll keep my eyes closed.”
I rolled my eyes in exasperation and laid out my yoga mat, appreciating my clean, fresh scent. Lavender mint . . . very soothing.
We took turns picking positions and specifying hold times, with Gemma choosing the most overtly sexual of the standard poses and then adding a few of her own.
“You haven’t branched out into pole-dancing, have you?” I quizzed, lying back on my shoulders with my hips up off the mat and one kinked leg in the air.
“Not yet,” she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. “But I hear it’s a great workout.” She sat up. “Ready to take a ride?” Her eyebrows did a little Groucho Marx number.
“Sure. I’m done. My muscles feel like noodles.” I reached for the harness and stepped into it, clipping it around my waist before slipping the helmet on my head. As I fastened it beneath my chin, Gemma clipped the zip-line carabiner into place at my waist. Then she turned quickly and grabbed her phone, grinning.
Seconds later, the Mission: Impossible theme was echoing through the trees, and Gemma was leaning in to speak to me.
“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to close the deal.”
Her grin broadened and she took hold of the zip-line strap and gave it a good hard yank toward the edge of the platform.
Surprised, confused, and suddenly a little panicky, I grappled for something to hang on to. But there was nothing—even Gemma’s hair was back in a ponytail I couldn’t reach.
“Good luck, sweetie!” she said, right before she centered her foot on my ass and sent me flying out over a Hill Country panorama, replete with gorgeous fall color, native birds, and at the moment, a cornucopia of expletives.
The landing wasn’t graceful, and that put Gemma even higher on my shit list. She was tramping on the tradition: We were supposed to sail gracefully into The Castle, like fairies, or at the very least, elegant young ladies. We were not supposed to catch our foot on the platform and go sprawling. Then again, we weren’t supposed to be pushed either. Or squirming, or cursing like a sailor.
The moment I stopped I realized that Mission: Impossible was playing over here too. The dork. I quickly disengaged myself from the harness and removed my helmet, wanting to pummel Gemma with it. I peeked up through the canopy of leaves, toward Portkey 5, trying to get a glimpse of her, wondering if I should keep hold of the helmet in anticipation of her imminent arrival, but she’d obviously gone into hiding. Smart girl.
Now I had The Castle all to my fresh-smelling self, and I would use the opportunity to plan yet another bit of revenge. Smiling broadly with maybe a twinkle of menace in my eye, I stepped through the doorway and felt my heart stop as a thundering rush filled my ears.
Ethan was lying on the plush white down.
Fully clothed (that was the first thing I noticed!)—wearing faded jeans and a royal blue polo. He was lying in the typical hottie calendar pose, propped up on one elbow, facing the doorway. He lifted his phone, and suddenly it was quiet. Shockingly quiet. And we were alone. Glaringly alone, with only a soft, white bed between us. Awkward.
“Hello,” I said, a world of inflection in my voice. I honestly couldn’t decide how to react to this little surprise of Gemma’s. I was thrilled to see him, but über-conscious of the fact that there were a lot of hurt feelings—on both sides—and I wasn’t sure of my footing. I felt my face flush as I realized he’d seen—and heard—the unprecedented humiliation of my grand zip-lined entrance. Perfect.
“Hi.” It wasn’t much, but it was more than he’d said to me in nearly a week. Something loosened inside me, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. It was still a little hitched. And that’s when I noticed the Scrabble board.
Lying on the bed beside him, the board already had words arranged on it with careful spacing. With each word building off another, wherever possible; it read: “I’m game, if you’re game.”
My gaze shifted back and forth between the board and his face. I was loath to misinterpret whatever message he was sending by showing up unannounced, conspiring with Gemma to be alone with me . . . and a bed . . . but I was also daring to be optimistic. I felt an encouraging glow of hope kindle inside me.
“What does that mean exactly?”
“It means,” Ethan said, standing and walking slowly around the bed to my side, “that if you’re willing to put up with my strange schedule, ‘secret life,’ and a nondisclosure agreement, then I’m willing to put up with your amateur sleuthing, amateur ghost hunting, and amateur matchmaking.” His mouth quirked up in an amused smile, and I melted. I’d missed that smile. I fisted my hands to keep from touching him and twisted my lips in a rueful smile of my own.
“What if I go pro?”
“With what exactly?”
“Any of it.” I shrugged in an “it could happen” sort of way and faced down Ethan’s stare with my arms crossed over my chest.
I could hear the amusement in his voice when he answered. “You could probabl
y win me over to your side, assuming there was no danger to your person,” he admitted. “Or my reputation.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed back. “Probably?”
“Very probably,” he allowed, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“But there’s no guarantee.” Reaching his hand out, he wrapped it around my wrist and tugged gently, pulling me toward him on the bed. I resisted falling onto his lap, but just barely.
“There never is, Cate. If I’d do it for anyone, I’d do it for you. Good enough?”
I stared at his face, feeling suddenly incandescent, and grinned. “How could I ask for more than that?”
“I feel certain you’ll find a way.” His tone was dry and a little superior. So I pushed him back on the bed, falling over him into the pillowy down. He caught my hands and flipped me in what seemed like a well-practiced move. I was going to assume spy training and leave it at that.
The moment hung between us, our faces inches apart. We were beyond just benefits now—this was the real deal. We were going for it, the big win . . . the happy ending.
I bit my lip. “You’re okay being my Mr. Knightley?”
“I’ve been your Mr. Knightley almost since the day we met. You were just looking for a Mr. Darcy.”
“I could see that.”
“Now you can see that.” He smirked, settling a friendly kiss on my forehead.
Alone in The Castle with—I was certain—guaranteed privacy, this wasn’t the time for forehead kisses. “You know, this whole thing is reminding me a lot of a James Bond film . . . the double cross, the riveting soundtrack, the daredevil action sequence . . .” I cocked my eyebrow up. “And now, the seduction scene.”
Ethan’s face broke into a giddy grin as his arms tightened around me. “Are you saying you want one of those kinky names?”
“I hate to burst your bubble, Chavez, but I’m imagining myself as James Bond, thus making you the Bond Girl equivalent. You just let me know if you want one of those raunchy names.”
Ethan wasted no time in shutting me up, or stripping me out of my “spy duds” and finding ways to remind me that I was, in fact, the girl in this equation. But always one to have the last word, he couldn’t resist uttering, “Oh, James!” as things progressed.
We spent the night in The Castle, curled up together against the chill, snacking on the provisions available courtesy of Ethan’s planning instincts.
We talked through the last few weeks . . . about our impromptu slide into benefits, about Jake, Bad Manners, the CIA, and the silence. It was agreed between us that the silence couldn’t happen again. If something went awry, we needed to regroup and talk it out, not simply “go dark.” Ethan was being a particularly good sport over my espionage lingo, which was great, because I didn’t think I’d be able to rein it in anytime soon.
He admitted that while getting that call from Jake on a burner phone buried in lollipops had irked him—“You could have told me. I can turn up the charm when I need to”—he’d really been mad at himself. I’d caught him off guard with my little Q&A and subsequent seduction. (Judging by the grin this mention brought on, I could see I’d be given full credit for this particular match.) And then there’d been Bad Manners and his threat to investigate, “Which is nothing,” Ethan assured me. “I’m taking care of it.” After a quiet pause, he continued: “Honestly, I just needed to back off a little and figure a few things out. And Gemma called right in the middle of that.”
That brought me up suddenly, and my hand stilled on his chest. “Gemma called you? Why? Was she working?” Oh please, God, say no!
“She may have called from work—I don’t know—it didn’t come up,” he said, looking at me curiously. “The weird thing was she was a little flirty.” He shook his head, slightly baffled. “Evidently your mom called her to discuss our ‘little speed bump’ and suggested she help nudge us along.”
I sat up now, frustrated on two separate levels. “Why are the two of them interfering, and why the hell wouldn’t they come to me?”
A slow grin settled over Ethan’s face, and he tugged me back down so that I landed very cozily on his chest. “Because apparently you don’t appreciate a little well-meaning help.”
I rolled my eyes and tightened my jaw, silently conceding the truth of that assessment. “So Gemma called, and you answered, but you let me go straight to voice mail?”
“I wasn’t ready to talk to you yet,” he insisted, tightening his grip on my hand. “I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. And I figured I was only going to get one chance to convince you to give me another shot.” He reached up and tucked my hair behind my ear. “When she offered The Castle, I jumped on it. What could be more romantic than this? This is worthy of Mr. Darcy himself. Although I did consider donning a ruffly white shirt and some breeches, and walking out of the lake as you and Gemma hiked around it.”
I giggled, raising an eyebrow. Clearly my insistence that Ethan watch the 1995 BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice with me had been the right decision. “Oh, really? You know you can’t keep screwing me around. You’re either Darcy or Knightley—you can’t be both.”
“Oh really?” I nearly giggled again at the pompous British accent Ethan assumed. “Why can’t I be the estimable Mr. Knightley with the romantic sensibilities of Mr. Darcy? I daresay I can. That is, my dear, if that is what would make you happy.”
My heart thudded heavily, and my throat was dry. As I gazed into Ethan’s dark eyes, I marveled that it had taken me so very long to truly “get” him. Now that I had, though, I had no intention of letting him go. “You make me happy,” I said honestly, and leaned down to lay my lips on his.
“What do you suppose your Gypsy Jane has to say about this latest development?” he asked huskily, skimming his index finger over my jaw.
I fought for concentration, trying to remember how I’d left it with her. Something about the man thwarting the best-laid plans. Which is precisely how things had played out. Not that I’d had a firm plan in mind, but I was working it, getting there. I would have. And he would have thwarted it anyway, because I hadn’t been expecting him here. He was one step ahead of me, and so, it seemed, was Jane.
“I suspect she’d approve,” I finally answered. The journal was tucked down into the bottom of my weekender, but we’d be having a little back-and-forth at my earliest convenience. Until then, I was on my own. Without the slightest concern for ladylike behavior.
I kissed him then with wild abandon, wanting to convey everything I felt in that one fiery kiss. As it swelled with urgency, I suddenly pulled away, caught my breath, and said, “Don’t talk to Gemma on the phone.”
A long time later, we’d pulled the Scrabble board out and started up a game. As usual my head was only half in the game. I fiddled with my tiles, shifting them on the rack, searching for a way to play on a triple-word score.
“What did you mean about the investigation and you taking care of it?” I said, looking up at him.
Ethan glanced up from his tiles, met my gaze and smiled. “I have a little surprise for you on Friday. You get to ride along on an off-the-books sting operation.”
I raised an eyebrow in amused curiosity, but didn’t say a word. Ethan wouldn’t tell before he was ready—I’d learned that the hard way—so I didn’t ask. Instead, I let my imagination whirl with possible scenarios and thrilled at having Ethan firmly established in my life again.
And then I laid down my tiles to spell “DAZED” on the triple-word score, feeling that “dazzled” would have been more appropriate. Either worked. And forty-eight points was very respectable.
Chapter 17
Thanksgiving was a lovefest. Everyone but Gemma and Dmitri was coupled up, and from the looks of things, the two of them were chumming up nicely. Mom had decided to skip the turkey and cook up beer-butt chickens instead, a task she had delegated to the “boys.” This basically involved them drinking beer and sitting on their butts, warming themselves near the grill while the “girls” prepped
the rest of the meal in the kitchen.
“It’s sort of ironic that things ended up the way they did,” I said, rolling out homemade pie crust. “Okay, maybe it’s not ironic. Maybe it’s just weird that I envisioned a beer-butt Thanksgiving and imagined Rodney would be in charge of the bird.” I glanced up at Mom from beneath my lashes, curious to gauge her reaction. “Maybe I have ‘the sight,’ but it’s only one-eyed.”
She stopped whipping her bowl of sweet potatoes, let go of the spoon, and propped her hand on her hip. “Do you know that I introduced him to my Zumba instructor, and now they’re going out! I could have invited them, but I think I heard they were going to eat at IHOP today.”
“No,” I admitted, shaking my head in bafflement at the world in general and my mother specifically. “I didn’t know that.” And I wished I still didn’t.
“She’s twenty-six, so if I’m a cougar, what does that make him?”
“Young at heart?” Courtney suggested from her position at the sink, peeling potatoes. “You could use that term too.”
“Oh, I like being a cougar, sweetie. It gives me a little edge.” She winked at Courtney, Gemma, and me in turn. Any more winking and I’d wonder if she had a nervous tic. I held back my grin as I rolled the crust up onto the rolling pin and rolled it back off into the ruffle-edged pie plate.
“Sugar daddy?” Gemma proposed. She was supposed to be arranging a plate of crudités, but mostly she was just crunching loudly on carrot sticks. “Showboat? Casanova? Fan of flexibility?” I pinched the edges of the crust, spinning the pie plate until I’d gone around, cringing all the way.
That last one had us all laughing. Except Mom, who, troublingly enough, had a comeback for that too.
“It’s funny you should say that, Gem. Because I recently quit going to Zumba—”
The three of us glanced at one another, wondering where this was going. I latched the can opener onto the can of pumpkin pie filling and twisted, waiting to hear the rest.
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