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Chapter

Fifteen

JAMIE

After, we enjoy a leisurely breakfast at a cute hipster café with small, round tables and local art on the walls.

We take turns driving each other mad, groaning over our beverages, trading bites of our omelets, talking about our day as if we’re a normal couple on vacation.

After we finish, we take a subway to the tourist center of, and walk to the address on the shell company’s paperwork.

An unassuming real estate office between a chocolate shop and a woman’s clothing boutique.

Inside, the place is just as average. Ikea desks, white walls, framed photos of smiling relators, rows and rows of framed listings.

And, there, in the back, a framed photograph of Yorgos Davos.

A freelancer who played my husband on a few missions. Including one where we seduced a couple back to our hotel room and killed them, together.

Are you sure you don’t want to fuck them first?

Are you sure you don’t want to fuck me after?

The man makes me look demure. He’s a capable professional and a consummate flirt. He’s handsome and charming enough to get away with it too. Really, he looks like a Greek god in a suit. But, for some reason, his objective hotness never appealed to me.

It still doesn’t.

Matteo follows my gaze to the picture.

I stop staring. Watch recognition spread over his face instead. He knows Yorgos too.

Before he can speak, a tall woman in a linen vest and trousers storms from the back off to us.

"Good morning, friends.” She shakes my hand then Matteo’s. "Are you looking for a pied-à-terre?"

She takes in our casual yet expensive attire (his pressed slacks and barely buttoned shirt, my pristine natural linen dress and sandals) and smiles wider. Dollar signs fill her eyes. Finally, a commission.

The poor girl is as hungry as I am when I catch sight of Matteo’s chest.

The man is trying to kill me with his shirt unbuttoned halfway to his stomach.

I should kill him just for that.

Two weeks.

I push the thought aside. I wrap my arm around his waist and look up at him, with a smile of pure adoration. "My husband and I are thinking of moving to Greece.”

I expect him to shrink back, but he doesn't. He pulls me closer. "We don't want a typical American-style mansion." He emphasizes his British accent as he speaks. "They're not classy. No offense, darling." He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead.

Warmth floods my body. My stomach flutters. This all feels so normal.

That’s good. Effective.

So I lean into it.

I curl my fingers into his waist and rest my head on his chin. “You have to try harder than that to offend me, baby.”

“Of course. All our places are very chic. You’ll feel like Emily in Paris. Well, Emily in Athens,” the tall employee says.