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“I want you to have it. It was—it is—a gift, Kensington.”
“Given under false pretenses.” She set the bag on the kitchen counter. I don’t want it, Cortez, just like you don’t want me.
I couldn’t tell her she was wrong, that I did want her, more than anyone I’d ever wanted. “I want you to have a full and happy life, Kensington.” I took the painting from the bag, unwrapped it, and pointed to the shape of the female. “This is the woman you deserve to be. Happy. Joyous. I know you will find the man who makes you feel this way. He’s the man you deserve to be with.” I cannot be that man. I don’t have it in me anymore.
Kensington studied me for several seconds. I longed to know what she was thinking, but she was no longer giving anything away.
She stepped closer, leaned forward, and kissed my cheek. “Goodbye, Cortez.”
When Kensington walked out of the foyer and over to the elevator that seemed to open at her silent command, I didn’t follow. If I had, I would’ve begged her to stay with me forever.
27
Kensington
The first two days after I returned to London, I spent mostly crying. And then I stopped. Two days after that, I told Casper I no longer required her services.
She looked between Teagon and me. “I need to check in with Rile.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Teagon when Casper left the room.
I knew I’d have to say the same to my best friend one day very soon, but I wasn’t ready. Every day, I prayed she wouldn’t come to me to say she’d been given another mission.
A few minutes later, Teagon walked into the kitchen where I was rummaging in the fridge for something to eat and missing the hell out of Marta.
“She’s gone.”
I closed the fridge and spun around. “What? She left? Just like that?”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
I shrugged. “Yes, but, what is it with you MI6-types? Do you always leave without as much as a goodbye?”
“Nah. She’s CIA. Or was once.”
I reached for the bottle of wine I’d opened the night before and poured a glass. “Fancy some?”
“I best not. On duty and all that.”
“About that.”
“Go on.”
“Who employs you?”
“MI6, as you well know.”
“To whom do you answer?”
“Presently, the chief, Z Alexander.”
“Am I still, officially, under protection?”
“You are, Kenzie.”
“For how long?”
She shrugged and grabbed the bottle of wine. “What the hell. One glass won’t hurt.”
