Page 7 of Jonesing for a Spy

After seeing the search results on my new renter, I packed a bag and was getting the heck out of Dodge. Of all the times and places I could bump into him, this is the least dangerous… but the most awkward. And since I’m caught red-handed in my own driveway, my stealth skills definitely need work.

Slowly pivoting on a heel, I find the man whose arms I tumbled into earlier this week—fully dressed this time—standing before me.

He’s just as handsome. No, he’s more so. Though wariness flits across his features, he’s more relaxed, as if the weight of something heavy has been lifted.

“Freckles?” I won’t get my back up over a childish nickname.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry. I”—he gestures to me—“I don’t know your name, so I called you Freckles in my head.” He points, pretending to dot my nose. A flush creeps up his cheeks. “I should stop talking now.”

He’s gorgeous, but there’s something downright cute in his mannerisms. I can tell he didn’t mean to let the words escape, and he can’t wrangle them back in.

“Mirren.” I extend a hand to shake, jolting when our palms connect.

“Strider.” His eyes lock on mine after flitting to our joined hands.

I nod. I knew that.

“Your home”—his eyes never leave mine—“is… Wait, were you leaving?”

My overnight bag weighs heavy on my shoulder. Awkward. I shrug, looking at our still connected hands, before hitching a thumb over my shoulder toward the street. “I have a thing.”

“It seems you had a thing a couple of days ago too. You were…”—his lips quirk—“unexpected.”

He’s boyish and real, not at all like the slick-talking soldiers I’m used to. His ego doesn’t arrive three seconds ahead of him.

“I’m sorry about that.” I drop my gaze, letting my hair curtain my face. No excuses. No proffered explanations.

“I’m not.” The words are quiet and sincere. “But the way I see it, you made a promise you haven’t kept.”

My spine goes straight, and my head snaps up. “How’s that?”

“Well, there was the implied promise of breakfast. Or a meal of some sort when you used the ruse to get into my hotel room.”

“An implied promise?”

“I opened the door after an explicit offer of services to be rendered.”

“Are you an attorney or something?” I know better, but what the hell?

He shakes his head, a hint of a smile playing on his perfect mouth. “Just a man who thinks the least you could do is have coffee with me. Breakfast or dinner would be better.”

“Are you”—he can’t be—“coercing me into going on a date with you?”

His smile is coy, a little crooked, and sexy as fuck. “Well, okay, Mirren. Because you asked so sweetly, I’d be glad to go on a date with you.”

I sputter. I didn’t ask. He basically linguistically kinged me in checkers and I’m left… speechless.

He gestures to my shoulder. “I don’t want to keep you from your thing. But let me get your number. Or would you prefer I contact you through Airbnb messaging?”

Exactly what I need—the site where I make my money watching the weird mating ritual between the awkward and the perpetually charming.

“Give me your phone,” I say reluctantly, extending a palm.

He unlocks it, offering it to me.

I add my number and type Mirren in contacts. No last name. No nickname. Certainly not Freckles. And hit send to my own device so I know who I’m avoiding… or avoiding poorly, in my case.

So far, I’ve managed to bump into the man twice in a handful of days. Once at my own damn house. Yeah, my stealth skills need work asap.