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“And you know, you need to come back, anyway. Lauren’s getting pissed at you.”
“Seriously? Did I miss something?” Yes, I’m a bridesmaid in her upcoming wedding, but I live on the opposite side of the country from her. How much can she expect?
“Well, when did you last speak to her?”
Hmmm. I probably do owe her a call.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Zane’s smug response irks me. I rub my hand over my face and make a mental note to call Lauren in the morning. “When is your event?”
“Two and a half weeks.”
Night falls on my screensaver and stars shine bright through the opening in the trees.My parents live in Killington’s neighborhood. It could be an opportunity, if I’m not assigned to a different op by then. “And I’ll have some free time? To spend with Lauren?”
“Absolutely. I’ll book you both a spa day. Maybe the three of us can go to brunch.”
There’s a tap on the door, and Fisher’s head peeks through. I hold up my finger to my lips. “Sounds like a plan. Now, let me go to sleep so I’m not a total zombie at work tomorrow.”
“You know, there are plenty of financial institutions here in San Diego.”
“But New York is New York.” He groans, and I laugh. “Goodnight, Zane.”
I end the call, and Fisher steps through the doorway. His dark, thick hair is mangled, as if he’s run his fingers through it endlessly. In only his black briefs, my gaze travels down his chiseled chest, sculpted abdomen, and muscular thighs. He’s barely clothed, it’s late, and I’m dazed. Gemma was right. And so was Lauren. Fisher’s a gorgeous specimen.
“Thought I heard voices. Everything okay?”
My gaze snaps up from the noticeable bulge in his briefs.
“Yeah, just Zane.”
“He know you’re here?”
“No.” I’d have to get clearance. Fisher knows that. “Absolutely not.”
“You wouldn’t be the first officer to tell a significant other the truth.”
“What?” My lips stretch into a grin. Me and Zane? No way. “He’s a friend. That’s it.”
“You sure about that?” The corners of his lips turn up into a disarming smile. “I remember he came around quite a lot back in the day.”
This is Fisher. He probably got reports on my activities during the duration of my undergraduate career. “We dated,” I admit. “But briefly. Didn’t take long for us to figure out we’re better as friends.”
Fisher folds his arms, leans back against the wall, and crosses one ankle over the other. The stance flexes his strong, hair-roughened legs, his sculpted biceps, and his pecs. My throat tightens, but I refuse to look away because he’s the one who entered my room in only briefs. And Gemma isn’t wrong. My fake husband is hot as fuck.
“I’m glad to see you still keep in touch with your friends.”
“You are?” Does he keep in touch with friends? Does he have a personal life?
“Yes, I am.” His lips flatline. “In this line of work, what we do, it’s easy to let the job absorb you. To lose all contact with real friends, with people who know the real you. Your whole life can, in the blink of an eye, become the job. It can be lonely.”
“Are you lonely?” A warning sounds deep within. This conversation ventures into deeper waters than Fisher and I swim together.
His guarded expression speaks volumes. “It’s not about me. You’re new. Eager. You’re going to have a distinguished career. Just don’t lose sight of what’s important. There’s more to life than a job, and the CIA is an employer. Don’t give them everything. You’re worth more than that. Your life is worth more than that.”
Thanks, Dadis on the tip of my tongue. But I bite back the sarcasm. Fisher is being real, and there’s no need to put up defenses.
“Do you have friends? Outside of the CIA?”
