Page 57 of Jonesing for a Spy

I pace my little space, cleaning up my kitchen after my quick throw-together dinner. “Yeah. Well, I can get spicy sometimes. And I’d rather not say anything than say something I can’t take back.”

He hums a little through the line. “What if you trusted that I was man enough to take your spice—as you call it—and deal?”

“I don’t even know what to say to that. I’m not used to these levels of maturity. In myself or in anyone else.”

“I just offered a D-is-for-dick joke, so maturity might be a strong word.”

I can’t not laugh at that. When the laughter stops, I dim the lights in my kitchen and migrate to the sofa to bail under a blanket. “I accept your offer. Adult conversation plus dick jokes hits my sweet spot.”

“Your sweet spot,” he growls. He can’t know how perfect that combo is.

“Exactly. How was your week?”

“I want to say terrible but that’s not a strong enough word. Can I tell you about it another time? It’s Friday night, and I just escaped it.” He pauses before adding, “And you’re here.”

“I get it and same. So what’s on tap for you for Thanksgiving? Does your family do it big? Are your sisters coming in?”

“I’m heading to Denver, actually, to my sister and her fiancé’s. I leave on Thursday morning. Because… work.”

“Ugh. But you get to go to the mountains, so at least there’s that.”

“The camper in you is probably jealous,” he teases.

“Absolutely, but unless we were under orders from Uncle Sam, we’re expected at Mom and Dad’s for a ridiculous meal and even more ridiculous shenanigans. It’s a whole thing. Those two and their holidays. Don’t get me started on Halloween.”

“I’ve heard actually. Mikey told me it gets crazy.”

I smile thinking of my family. “That’s one word for it. Over the top, obsessive, insane. Those are more accurate.” I slump down to recline and nestle the blanket up under my chin. “Mom’s not right when it comes to Halloween. Come sometime and you’ll see what I mean.”

Now why did I say that?

“I’ll add it to my list.” His words rumble in my ears and rattle through my soul. “And she’s the same with turkey day?”

“Oh yeah. Late breakfast—not brunch, mind you, that would ruin tradition—and the Macy’s Day parade. Why, I have no clue, except we did it when we were young. Football. Board games that get stupid competitive. A huge meal that takes way too damn much time to fix and to clean up, more football and then National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. And we hear about it if we miss any part.”

“But jobs or partners or…”

“Jamie and I both got personalized guilt trips when we were in. Again, why I can’t say, it’s not like my dad wasn’t Navy or that she doesn’t get it. She just assumes the U.S. military should bow to her whims. Come to think of it, everyone should bow to her whims.”

“Is she”—he starts but never finishes.

“Is she what?” I prompt.

“Is she a narcissist?”

“Not in the classical sense. But she was one of two daughters loved by her dad, she’s doted on by her husband, and has five sons with a man who trained them to treat her like a queen. She doesn’t demand that of her family, but she doesn’t see any reason to allow herself to be treated otherwise.”

“I kind of love that.”

“You do?” my voice rises in question.

Strider

“Well, yeah. A woman who knows her worth, chooses not to shrink, and whose man makes sure the rest of the world doesn’t take her for granted. That’s exactly the kind of woman I want to be with.” And the man I want to be—one who is the biggest cheerleader for the woman at my side, the loudest proponent for her dreams, and the guy who will stand against whatever challenges her.

“Oh.”

“What’s the oh?” I raise an eyebrow.