Page 122 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

I’ve spent years entering Reese’s place without kissing her. I just come in and say hi like a normal person. Now I’m standing on the porch holding the loaf of French bread she asked me to pick up, wondering whether there is some universally understood transition period before kissing becomes part of the greeting.

This should not be complicated. I have talked armed men into putting down weapons. I can figure out kissing my girlfriend hello.

Except Reese is not technically my girlfriend. We agreed to date. We kissed. I’m not sure whether there is a step between those two things and girlfriend.

I knock.

The door opens three seconds later, and Reese smiles at me. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

For half a second, I just look at her. At the loose strands of hair around her face, the warmth in her eyes, the mouth I now know exactly how it feels to kiss. Whatever the official protocol is, I suddenly have a strong preference.

I step inside, close the door behind me, and give her a brief, soft kiss. It’s completely different from last night because Charlie is somewhere in the house and I’m holding a loaf of bread between us. It is still amazing.

When I pull back, Reese’s eyes are still closed.

Then they open and gaze at me. “Mmm. I like you greeting me with a kiss,” she says.

Relief moves through me. And, okay, a bit of a thrill. “Yeah?”

“Very much.” She grins and takes the loaf from me. I follow her toward the kitchen in an exceptionally good mood.

My workday has involved Julian Rooke, three shell companies, two suspicious financial transfers, and a network map Emerson insists is becoming clearer despite increasingly resembling a bowl of spaghetti.

Normally, all of that would have my full attention. Right now, it has competition. Reese kissed me last night. Then she asked me to come over for dinner. And now, she says she “very much” likes me greeting her with a kiss. The world has rarely been more cooperative.

Charlie is at the stove stirring something in a large pot when we enter. “Bread?”

Reese holds it up.

“Excellent.” Charlie looks at me. “Hi, Miles.”

“Hi.”

Her eyes move to Reese. Then back to me. Nothing unusual about that. Except Charlie is working very hard to appear as though there is nothing unusual about that.

I set my keys on the counter. “What?”

Charlie’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You did with your face.”

Charlie turns to glance at me. “This is my normal face.”

“No, your normal face is much less committed to looking normal.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She turns back to the stove.

I look at Reese, who is studying the contents of the refrigerator like she’s attempting to determine whether mustard contains classified information.

Something is coming. I don’t know what, but something is definitely coming.

For the next ten minutes, Charlie behaves almost perfectly normally. She complains about Owen being gone. Reese tells me about a seventh grader who attempted to use the library printer to produce fifty-seven copies of a single Pokémon card. Charlie asks whether that technically makes him a counterfeiter.

I cut the bread and put butter and garlic on it before putting it in the oven; Reese finishes the salad and puts it on the table, and Charlie works on the pasta. And every few minutes, Charlie glances at Reese. Not long enough for Reese to notice, but long enough for me to.

By the time Charlie spoons pasta onto three plates, I’m certain the dinner invitation has a second purpose. It’s confirmed by Charlie holding her plate and saying, “I’m going to eat upstairs because I have some stuff to finish.”