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Laura took a portion of the company in the divorce. And when she finally sold him the rest, offered to sever the last tie between them—
Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Sure, he prefers his cuppa without milk or sugar, but he still drinks tea most of the time.
"You look exhausted." He lifts his take-out cup. Smiles with satisfaction.
And he's wearing his fuchsia tie. The one that complements his girlfriend's teal hair.
It's a badge of honor for him. I'm in love and I make my woman come.
I'd hate it if I didn't love him so much.
If it wasn't so obvious they're madly in love.
As it is—
"You look smug." I take the cold brew. Motion to my office.
He nods of course. Follows.
The office is full, but it's quiet. This early, everyone is waiting for their first cup of coffee to kick in.
Most people ignore us. A few look twice. Ian's presence is rare enough to draw attention.
I let him into the office. Lock the door. Sip the cold brew.
It's good. Rich, strong, dark. A coolness I need.
I want to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business.
And I want to thank him for looking out for me.
I want to beg him to stay in one place. So I know where to find him. So my nightmares end.
It's ridiculous. He's been a civilian for nearly ten years. But my amygdala doesn't listen to reason.
"You're welcome." He motions to the take-out cup in my hand. Moves past me, to the leather couch.
He sits, sets the newspaper on the cushion next to his, and he waits.
Like he has all the time in the world.
"Thank you," I say. "If that's all…" I motion to the door. "I have a full day."
"I imagine."
"Don't."
He chuckles. "I'm not sure I have a choice." He pulls out his cell. Brandishes a popular gossip site. And the photo on it.
Indigo and I at the restaurant, kissing like we're madly in love, the secluded booth behind us.
"I know what I'd do after. You…"
"Is this a who's more depraved contest?"
"Hard to play with someone who doesn't want to participate." He slips his cell into his pocket. Settles into the couch. Sips his take-out tea.
He's giving me shit.
But that's his job. Even if we're both in our thirties now.
Is that all this is, some brotherly ribbing?
I try to find concern in his eyes. Or suspicion.
There's nothing. Or I'm not good at reading him.
"How's Eve?" I ask.
"Good." He smiles. "Sleeping."
"You wore her out?"
"Of course." His smile widens. "But I know you hate bragging."
"Is it that difficult, keeping news of your girlfriend's orgasms to yourself?"
"It is." He takes another sip. "Thank you for acknowledging that."
"Anytime."
Again, he chuckles. "You're tense for a man who spent the weekend with his new paramour."
"How do you know that?"
"You just told me."
Fuck. I know better than to fall for such an obvious ploy.
"You are tense."
"Surprised." I reach for a better response.
He makes that hmm noise.
"Yes?"
"You went out with Cam last week."
"And?"
"You didn't think he'd relay the news?"
I shrug as if I didn't consider it.
"You're hiding something."
"You're too suspicious."
"Probably." He studies my expression. "You're still hiding something." His gaze flits to the pictures in the paper. "These are… careful."
"Yes."
"Like you chose them."
"Maybe people are tired of labeling me a playboy."
"Maybe." He stares at me, waiting for me to expand. "I guess this is how you felt after I moved to New York."
"How is that?"
"You knew I was lying to myself, chasing something I didn't really want."
"You were," I say.
"And so were you. Or maybe you are. You've never been a—"
"Slut?"
He chuckles. "It doesn't suit you."
"I appreciate the feedback."
Again, he chuckles. "I'm not here to cross-examine you, Ty."
"Aren't you?"
"I'm not trying."
I raise a brow.
He shrugs with apology. "Old habits die hard."
"Once a spy, always a spy?"
He nods. Even though we both know he was never really a spy. Not the way people imagine it.
He wasn't James Bond, running around tropical locations, sleeping with dangerous women. (Well, not for long.)
He was the man in the office, directing the field agent, searching for information the modern way—
On the computer.
But maybe that isn't what he means. Ian's never been a paragon of trust—that's what made him a good candidate for MI6—but since he discovered his ex-wife cheating, he's been completely without trust.
I'm not exactly blameless there.
I suspected she was fucking someone else and I said nothing.
Even when she confessed to me, drunk one night, I said nothing. I thought it was best to let her be the one to tell him.
I believed her when she promised she'd tell him soon.
But she didn't.
For one month.
Two.
Six.
Even when she served him with divorce papers—
He put it together. He's not an idiot. Some part of him knew. But he managed to ignore it.
It's ridiculous how good people are at lying to themselves. Even people who swear they live and die by honesty.
