Page 116 of Jonesing for a Spy

There’s also something I hadn’t seen before, a map, circled in places where there are substations. “To keep up the farce,” she’d said.

On second thought, how fast can I get handcuffs delivered to the apartment?

My phone dings. My sister’s fiancé isn’t chatty so if Liam is messaging, he found something.

Liam

Man… Something’s not right

Understatement… at work at least. Everything is damn near perfect under this roof.

Does that mean you found something?

I know I have something because I got cock blocked by NSA.

What the hell? Whatever is going on is big.

I already know that since Mirren’s employer is involved.

So nothing?

Nothing worth getting picked up by the feds.

Sariah was thwarted at every turn too. We’re working but sad to say we have nothing to report.

I can’t thank you enough. I already felt that way with you saving my sister, but this is above and beyond.

Don’t mention it.

And he means it. I’m staring at my phone as if I can see through it to the puzzle pieces that won’t quite fit together when the bedroom door opens.

“Do you mind helping the new tenants check into the big house when I’m gone?” She walks down the hall, fidgeting with the back of an earring, and stunning me speechless. Freckles is always beautiful. She’s cute too.

But standing before me is a stunning woman, in a black onesie pantsuit. It hugs every curve, hints at what’s below while only teasing me with the what-if, and makes me want to fall to my knees and crawl to her. That’s when I see the strappy, very high heels that still won’t bring her to my chin.

“Those stay on tonight,” I growl, before thinking better of it.

She flips one up. “So long as you’re okay with them digging into your back.” Mischief overtakes her expression. “Or your shoulder blades.”

“I’m not hungry anymore and neither are you,” I start, only to be cut off by my stomach rumbling. Loudly.

“Come on, honey. The sooner we eat, the sooner we can get home and get naked.” She loops her hand through my elbow and turns us for the door.

Mirren

Why in the world is everyone in town at Fat Bottom Grill on a Wednesday night? I wanted comfort food, and Strider was bemoaning he’d only been here twice. Queenie is that good, so it was an easy yes. Until the entirety of Fairhope decided to dine in and make the wait ridiculous, except for one high-top in the corner of the bar area. So that’s where we are, being served by Tom, and eating delicious Creole cuisine at the hands of a master.

“Think I can learn to make this?” Strider uses his spoon to point to a bowl of dark seafood gumbo.

“I bet if you asked, Queenie would show you. But if you set up a food truck, she’ll make your stellar body the next thing on the menu. And get a Michelin star doing it.”

His eyes bug out.

“She’s Southern. No, she’s a Louisianan. You do not mess with women raised in the south, especially those south of Lake Pontchartrain. Even SEALs aren’t trained for that level of feisty.” I pat his hand resting on the black leather tablecloth. “Trust me, honey. An Illinois man would be at a loss from the jump.”

“So, no food truck then? Got it.” He shakes his head like he’s trying to dispel the thoughts running through them.

I pop a forkful of savory crab and shrimp bread pudding and fight yet another moan when the flavors hit my tongue. I extend a bite to Strider while I’m still chewing.