Chapter 5 Atticus
ATTICUS
An hour later, I was standing in the walk-in closet, trying to decide between two shirts, when Brenna emerged from the bathroom in a black wrap dress that made my mouth go dry.
The fabric clung to her curves without being obvious about it, and the way it tied at her waist emphasized everything I’d been trying not to notice.
“Too much?” she asked, catching me staring.
“You look like you could buy and sell half of Silicon Valley before your morning coffee.”
She smoothed the dress over her hips. “What about you? Which shirt says ‘successful cybersecurity consultant who married up’?”
I held up both options—navy blue and charcoal gray—both with ties draped over the shoulders. “Navy makes me look like I’m testifying before Congress. Gray might be too casual for the tech elite.”
“Navy. But lose the tie. We’re newlyweds in Sausalito, not attending a Senate hearing.” She stepped closer, her fingers brushing mine as she took the shirt. “We should synchronize our story details before we’re in public.”
“Sure. Where do you want to start?” I asked, capturing her wrist and wishing I could wrap my arms around her the same way the dress was.
“Your best man was your college roommate from Georgetown. My maid of honor was my law school friend Emma.”
“Right. Keep it simple.” I released her arm and stepped back. “Ready to see if we can fool the locals?” I held out my arm and escorted her to the staircase, then once we reached the main level, led her outside.
“We’re walking?” she asked.
“Uh…”
“It’s okay. Give me a sec.” She raced back into the house, then emerged a couple of minutes later wearing different shoes. “Sorry, I can barely navigate across a room in the ones I had on before.”
My gaze traveled down to the black strappy heels that wrapped around her ankles and calves like silk ribbons, with cutouts that revealed tantalizing glimpses of skin.
They were the kind of shoes that made a man think about unwrapping presents very, very slowly.
I couldn’t even remember what she was wearing before.
Christ. I needed to get my head back in the game.
The streets of Sausalito were busy with evening tourists and couples strolling hand in hand past art galleries displaying the kind of prices that made defense contractor budgets look reasonable. I took Brenna’s hand as we headed down Bridgeway, the main waterfront drag.
“Tell me what’s not in our files,” I said as we paused to look in a gallery window. “Real things I should know about my wife.”
“I hate avocados.” She leaned closer to examine a painting of Angel Island. “Everyone in California seems to worship them, but they taste like green nothing to me.”
“Noted. No guacamole in our future.” I watched her study the artwork. “What else?”
“I collect vintage teacups. I have over forty at my apartment in DC.” She looked up at me. “Your turn. What should I know about my husband that’s not in any briefing?”
“I can’t sleep without checking the locks twice. Military habit that civilian life never broke.”
“That’s actually reassuring for this assignment.”
“And I make terrible pancakes but excellent French toast.”
Her smile was genuine. “I’ll remember that.”
Bayside sat right on the water, a sprawling restaurant complex that screamed “established money” without the flashy desperation of newer places. The kind of establishment where the bread probably cost more than most people’s lunch.
The ma?tre d’, a silver-haired man, greeted us.
“Nolan,” I said under my breath. “We have a reservation for, um, eight o’clock.” The use of military time had become so ingrained, starting with my days at the service academy, that it was one thing I’d have to be careful of while on this op.
“Mr. and Mrs. Nolan! Congratulations on your marriage. I’m Francesco, and we’re delighted to help you celebrate.”
Brenna’s eyes flared before she quickly covered her reaction, then slipped her arm through mine. “Thank you, Francesco. We’ve heard wonderful things about this place.”
“You won’t be disappointed. I have a lovely table for you on the deck with views of the bay. The sunset should be spectacular tonight.”
He led us through the main dining room, where every table was full.
I cataloged the mix of guests while scanning for potential threats—venture capitalists were easy to spot by their calculated casual attire and animated discussions about valuations, while actual engineers kept their voices lower and dressed like they’d raided a thrift store’s clearance rack.
Two men at the corner table had the posture and constant environmental scanning that screamed security detail.
Probably protecting the politician-type at table twelve.
Our table was strategically ideal—intimate but visible, with clear sight lines to three exits and solid cover from the decorative planters if things went sideways. The view stretched from the San Francisco skyline to the Golden Gate Bridge, painted orange in the evening light.
“Champagne to start?” Francesco suggested.
“Absolutely,” I said, pulling out Brenna’s chair while noting the server station to our left and the emergency exit to our right. “We’re still in the phase where Thursday calls for champagne.”
“Veuve Clicquot, if you have it,” Brenna added. “My husband’s favorite.”
“Excellent choice.”
As Francesco walked away, I settled next to Brenna and took her hand. “Nice touch.”
“I don’t splurge often, but I figured if we’re supposed to be multimillionaires who are also celebrating…”
I chuckled. “Oh, so it was a coincidence.”
Her head cocked.
“It’s what I usually order.”
“I’m sure it impresses all your dates.”
“Actually, it’s one of my boss’ favorites. That’s the only way I know it.”
She raised a brow like she didn’t believe me. Which meant she was either really playing up this fake marriage or she was truly jealous. An idea that made me grin.
“What?”
Before I was forced to respond, our server appeared—a young woman who moved through the dinner rush like a caffeinated ballet dancer.
Based on her posture and the way she constantly scanned the room, she was either former military or a very well-trained restaurant security. Interesting for a place like this.
“Good evening. I’m Jessica, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Francesco mentioned you’re celebrating your honeymoon?”
“That’s right,” Brenna said, her smile radiant. “We relocated here from DC recently.”
“How lovely. Can I start you with some appetizers? The Dungeness crab cakes are spectacular.”
We ordered—crab cakes to share, followed by cioppino for Brenna and grilled salmon for me. As Jessica walked away, I raised my champagne glass.
“To new beginnings.”
“To successful performances,” she replied, touching her glass to mine.
The champagne was excellent, and our conversation shifted naturally between cover story details and authentic moments.
When the crab cakes arrived, I watched Brenna break off a tiny bit, then bring it to her mouth.
“Oh, these are very good,” she said, diving in for a bigger forkful.
With the second helping, she moaned. “God,” she muttered, closing her eyes as she savored the bite. “These are better than my mom’s.”
While her sounds of pleasure had me instantly hard, the mention of her mother effectively settled me down. “She’s a great cook. How is she, by the way?”
“Same as always,” Brenna said, breaking off another piece but stopping partway to her mouth. “Aren’t you going to have any?”
“I thought I’d wait to see if you wanted them both.”
She put the fork in her mouth, but her eyes stayed riveted to mine as she chewed. “They are that good, but it wouldn’t be very wifely of me.”
“A good husband would make sure his woman had as much as she wanted,” I said, grabbing her hand when she stuck her fork in for another piece.
Instead of guiding it to her mouth, I brought it to mine.
“Mmm,” I moaned and closed my eyes like she had.
When I opened them, she hadn’t moved a muscle.
“The crab cakes are okay, but your scent drives me mad.” I rolled her wrist and inhaled. “Intoxicating.”
Brenna let go of the fork, and it clanked when it hit my bread plate. “You’re overacting,” she said under her breath.
“Who says I’m acting?”
She picked up the fork and rested it on her plate. “What happened to me being Luke’s little sister?”
I drew circles on the back of her hand with my fingertip. “Who’s Luke?”
Just like the femme fatale who’d walked out of the bathroom earlier in her sleek black dress, the version of Brenna sitting next to me was one that had me right back on the edge of desire.
She wanted me. That much was obvious. But she was afraid of it.
Not of me. Of us. I loved the way her breath caught and how her eyes widened and she licked her lips as she gazed at mine.
Moments later, our waitress returned with our main courses. After a few minutes of me almost inhaling my salmon, I noticed Brenna’s dish had hardly been touched.
“Cioppino not good?” I asked.
“I may have overdone it with the crab cakes,” she said, setting the fork and spoon aside. “You can have some if you’d like,” she offered.
“A good wife making sure her man has as much as he wants?”
Her cheeks flamed, but my attempt at humor didn’t wipe the frown from her face.
“So, we should probably talk more about tomorrow night.”
“We should.”
“So, when clients hire someone in your line of work, what’s usually wrong with their security?”
It was a good question that related as much to what I did in real life as it did to the op. “The problem with most companies is they think cybersecurity means sticking a metaphoric deadbolt on after everything is built. Like securing the front door but leaving all the windows open.”
“Expensive to fix?” she asked.