Page 95 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

She reaches for the folder, but I put my hand over it. “After tacos.”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you using classified materials to manipulate my dinner choices?”

“I’m using unclassified materials to keep salsa off government property.”

“Okay, I’ll give you points there for being responsible.”

She buckles her seat belt, and as I pull away from the curb, she glances toward my wrist. “No watch with hidden explosives?”

“No.”

“Cufflinks that fire tranquilizer darts?”

“No.”

“Car equipped with missiles?”

I shake my head, chuckling softly. “So, this is how it’s going to be now?”

She looks entirely unapologetic. “Absolutely. I have five years of missed opportunities to make up for.”

“That’s… a lot of material.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t do it around listening ears.”

I glance at her. Her voice is light, but the promise underneath it isn’t. “You don’t know how to identify listening ears.”

“Then you should probably train me.” Her words have an unexpectedly flirtatious edge. My attention drops for half a second to her mouth before I force it back to the road. Reese seems to hear it at the same time I do, and her gaze moves toward the windshield.

We get tacos from a restaurant in Cloakwood and take them to my house, where Reese spreads napkins across the coffee table as if preparing for a surgical procedure. I place the folder beside me on the couch. She eyes it while unwrapping a taco.

“Are there rules?”

“Yes. You can look at the photographs. I will tell you the age, public occupation, and maybe the name. Nothing related to locations, mission objectives, or people connected to the identity. You can ask questions about anything visible.”

“Can I invent locations, mission objectives, and people connected to the identity?”

“What fun would it be if you didn’t?”

She grins. “Then your rules are acceptable.”

As soon as we finish eating, I pull out the first photograph of me. It was taken four years ago, and in the picture, I have darker skin, closely cropped hair, heavier eyebrows, and a beard that changes the shape of my jaw. I’m wearing a gray suit and no tie.

Reese takes the picture, and her eyes widen. She leans closer as she studies it, her shoulder pressing into mine, and I have to remind myself that I’m supposed to be watching her reaction to the photograph, not the way a strand of hair has fallen across her cheek.

“Oh, this man has secrets. What’s his name?”

“Dominic Shaw.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-three.”

“You were, what? Twenty-two?”

“Yes.”

“Bold.”