Page 26 of Jonesing for a Spy

“What is this?” I ask a bit too enthusiastically after managing an unladylike bite. “It’s delicious.”

His body shakes with laughter even if there’s no sound to it. He turns his smiling face to mine, humor lighting him up. “It bodes well for me that you like my cooking.”

I take another bite and hum as I wiggle in my seat. “You buy the house. I’ll live in the garage. You can cook and I can…” What? Protect us? Slip off to undercover operations while he maintains the house? That’s a hell no. I’m not looking for a beta, and Strider doesn’t qualify.

“And I can what?” he asks, his face genuine.

“I don’t know.” That’s a lie. “I got so stuck on the you-can-cook part I lost the thread.”

“What’s your talent? If we’re going to trade services in this fictional world, I should know what I’m bartering for.”

“Medical stuff. But I doubt you need a nurse.”

He stops chewing, shrugs and forces a smile. “Never say never.”

“Well, I’ve seen your body.” I eye him up and down to prove my point. “You need me about as much as I need more wine.”

“Wine is healthy. It has antioxidants and shit.”

“Spoken like a trained sommelier. Did you learn that at Whole Foods?”

“It was Winn Dixie. Don’t go hating on the self-educated,” he says with a cocked eyebrow.

“Self-educated? Don’t you have an MBA?”

Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. He didn’t tell me that. That detail was from my research. Seriously, I’m a damn good spy, but I’m failing Operation Strider like a newb.

He turns theatrically slowly on his stool, his knees threading mine. “I do. But how, Freckles, would you know that?”

Own it. Fall on the sword. Rip off the Band-Aid.

I suck in a huge breath and let my words flow. “I research all my renters. I’m not scared, but I’m not stupid either. Proximity and access as a single woman aren’t given lightly, so I dug into you.” I skip how deeply I went. There’s no need in poking the bear.

“I see.” He nods with one slow bob. “And what did you find?”

“Strider Anderson. Forty years old. Single. Bachelor of Business Administration at Illinois State and Masters in the same from Purdue. You’re at the helm of a successful electrical contracting business and live in Peoria, Illinois.”

“That’s… tidy.”

“Tidy?”

“Well”—he scrubs a hand down his face—“my life in a succinct summary of average facts wasn’t on my list for first date talking points.” His face returns to mine. “So, in your driveway? That was a ruse?”

“It wasn’t like I was lying to you, though, yes, I guess I did.” I set my fork down. “Here’s what I knew an hour before you were in my driveway. An unknown man booked my house as a rental. I, a single woman, wanted to be sure I was safe. I searched publicly available data to know who you were. I was just as shocked as you that you were Mister Towel from The Prestige. That was a happy accident.”

“Did you just Bob Ross me?”

“Who’s Bob Ross?”

He shakes his head and stares at the ceiling. “I forget about our age difference until those kinds of comments.”

“No, seriously. Who’s Bob Ross?”

He gestures wildly around his head. “The painter. With the hair. All his mistakes”—he makes air quotes with his fingers—“are happy accidents. Hang on.” He withdraws his phone from his pocket, types, and flips the screen to face me. “Him.”

“The meme guy?”

That gets a laugh out of the man next to me. “Yeah, the meme guy. Before that he was a painter on PBS, before that he was in the Air Force.”