Page 73 of Jonesing for a Spy

There’s a joke in there—maybe two—but I’m so busy looking around that I miss the opening to take it.

“So, I did okay?”

She turns her gorgeous face up to me. “Yeah. I won’t argue with this.”

“Well, come on then.” Taking her hand, we check in and find our room.

She takes a couple of photos of the suite and then, with her back to the mattress, she trust-falls onto the plush cloud of bedding, with a giggle. “Seriously, shoot me straight. Did I die and they let me into Heaven? Because this is paradise.”

She is paradise, but I don’t correct her. I do, however, stalk to the bed, lean over, caging her in and take her lips in a deep, meaningful kiss. When we’re both out of breath, and she’s wrapped around me like a spider-monkey, I drop my forehead to hers. “I’ve missed you. Missed us. Thanks for coming.”

She presses her lips together, fighting a grin. When she loses the battle, the words burst from her. “That’s what she said.”

I set myself up for that. I did.

But nothing could’ve set me up for Mirren Jones. No sickness hell, no purgatory, no amount of good deeds. She’s a reward I don’t deserve. And one I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep.

“Now, baby, do you want to stay in bed, or do you want to go explore Nashville?”

She looks to the side, toward the sunny windows with their harsh glare so that nothing can be seen beyond them. “I want both. But we don’t do quick, so we’d be here all day—not that there’s anything wrong with that—but I’d like to walk around a bit if you’re cool with that.”

I press myself away from her warm body and look between us. Her beneath me is my happy place. Also, her above me, her beside me, you name it.

“Let’s go, Freckles. You can have me when you’ve had your fill of the city.” I offer her a smirk.

She takes my extended hand and falls into my chest when she stands. “I’m so glad to see you, Strider. I needed this. More than you know.”

“Me, too, baby. Me too.” It’s the truth, but more than that, I need her more than she knows.

That thought doesn’t scare me the way I thought it would. I always assumed that dependency on another person would register fear somewhere deep down… something that can be taken away or lost, never to be recovered. Instead, it’s a warmth spreading through me, waiting to radiate to the people around me.

She rubs a finger between my eyebrows. “What has you so deep in thought?”

How do I explain it? I can’t. Instead, I grasp her hand. “Nothing. Let’s go explore.”

31

the almost

Mirren

He lied. Or at least he offered a half-truth. And he’s been adamant that he hates both. That sets my teeth on edge.

We planned to head to Broadway, but the concierge asked our plans and recommended the Musicians Hall of Fame instead. One look from Strider, and it was a no brainer. His face was alight with happiness, so my yes was easy.

We walked the handful of blocks to the museum and spent a couple of hours wandering the displays, taking pictures, and enjoying some “backstage” things we’d never see elsewhere.

“Tell me about music you love,” he asked as we meandered through.

“I like it all. Rock, country, oldies. I don’t have a deep love for any one artist or genre. It’s background.”

His chin jerked back, and he looked surprised. “Nothing?”

“Nothing aside from Van Morrison. Mom and Dad have him on repeat. That and Queen. Those were our soundtracks. So 80’s rock or slow, smooth jazz. Is that what we call Morrison? Like I said, oldies.”

He took a deep breath, like he was praying for patience, and repeated the word oldies. “My parents are older than yours I think, by a bit. They always had music on in the house when we were little. Come to think of it, they don’t anymore, but I don’t know when that stopped.”

“Maybe they were drowning out kid noise?”