Chapter 11 - Atticus
ATTICUS
Brenna’s fingers were laced through mine as we walked along the bay path. The morning fog was already burning off, revealing Angel Island across the water. I kept replaying the words I’d whispered in her ear earlier. I love you.
Had I gone too far? Moved too fast? The rational part of my brain said yes—we’d only been in this house four days. But the rest of me knew better. It was like a supernova had detonated in my head, and I just knew. This was it. She was it. Everything made sense in a way it never had before.
I just hoped the speed of everything didn’t scare the shit out of her.
The café had a deck overlooking the marina. We grabbed a corner table where I could watch both the entrance and the dock approach. Brenna ordered tea with cream and poached eggs with toast. I went with black coffee and a southwest omelet.
“You remember that time Luke tried to teach me to surf?” Brenna asked out of nowhere, watching a couple of guys loading boards onto a truck in the parking lot.
“Which time? The one where you nearly drowned, or the one where you actually caught a wave, and then immediately ran over that kid?”
“I didn’t run him over. I grazed him. There’s a difference.” She stirred cream into her tea with more concentration than the task required. “And I didn’t nearly drown. I got caught in a riptide. Also different.”
“Luke pulled you out bodily and had to do mouth-to-mouth.”
“He did not do mouth-to-mouth. He slapped me on the back, and I coughed up water.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“That’s because you were flirting with a group of college girls and not paying attention.”
“I was not flirting.”
“Please. The redhead practically had her bikini top off, trying to get your attention.”
I grinned. “You noticed that?”
“Everyone noticed that. The beach patrol almost cited her for public indecency.” She took a sip of tea. “Luke said you dated her for a while after.”
“Two weeks. Maybe three.”
“What happened?”
“She thought the Air Force Academy meant I was going to be a pilot. When she found out I preferred intelligence work to flying, she lost interest.”
“Her loss, but I’m glad for it.”
“God, how old was I? Twenty?”
“Twenty-one. It was the summer before you graduated and were commissioned.”
Our food arrived, and I cut into my omelet, thinking about that summer. “You were different that year. When you came for graduation, I mean.”
“Different how?” she asked.
“More confident. You didn’t argue with everything Luke and I said just to prove a point. You actually seemed to listen occasionally.”
She raised her chin. “I always listened. I just also always had opinions.”
“Strong ones.”
“About important things. Like whether the designated hitter rule ruined baseball.”
“It did ruin baseball,” I agreed.
“See? We had similar opinions.” She smiled, breaking off a piece of toast to dip into her eggs. “What else do you remember about that summer?”
“Your parents had that Fourth of July party. Must have been two hundred people there.”
She nodded. “Closer to three hundred, and it got bigger every year.”
“And you helped her plan the whole thing, right?” I asked.
“Someone had to make sure the vegetarians had options beyond coleslaw.”
I rested my forearm on the table. “I remember you spent half the party in the kitchen, making sure everything ran smoothly.”
“And you spent half the party hiding from Mrs. Armentrout, who wanted to set you up with her daughter.”
I chuckled. “Christ, I’d forgotten about that. She cornered me by the garage and wouldn’t stop talking about how accomplished Jennifer was.”
“She was accomplished. Harvard law, if I remember correctly.”
“And boring as watching paint dry. I talked to her for ten minutes at your parents’ Christmas party once. She spent the entire time explaining the tax implications of charitable giving.”
“Some people find tax law fascinating.”
“Do you?” I teased.
“God, no. But I pretend to when I need to.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes, watching a seal surface near the dock. It looked around like it was checking for tourists with cameras, then disappeared again.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Brenna said.
“Like what?”
“Something from before. When you and Luke were at the academy, or after. Something that isn’t about my brother or your job or any of that.”
I thought for a moment. “I almost quit. Third year. Not the academy—the whole military track.”
Her fork stopped moving. “What?”
“There was this instructor, Colonel Richards. Real hardass, old school, thought intelligence work was for people who couldn’t hack it in combat roles. He made my life hell for a semester. Failed me on a tactical assessment that I know I aced. Told me I didn’t have what it took.”
“But you stayed.”
“Luke’s doing actually. He found out what was happening and raised hell.
He was wing commander that semester, so he had the commandant’s ear.
Turned out Richards had a reputation for discouraging those he deemed ‘wannabes.’ He got a permanent change of station, and I got my grade corrected, and”—I shrugged—“here we are.”
“I never knew that.”
“Luke never told you?”
“No. He kept your secrets, even from me.” She smiled. “Especially from me, probably.”
“He was protective of you.”
“Still is.”
“Can you blame him?”
She considered that. “No. But it does get exhausting sometimes, being the little sister. Your parents’ baby girl. The one who needs protecting.”
“I don’t see you that way.”
“No?”
“I see you as the woman who became the youngest prosecutor in her division at the DOJ. Who got promoted three times in five years when most people are still figuring out where the coffee machine is. Who jumped into this insane undercover situation without hesitation.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Finch.”
“Earlier, you said it wouldn’t, Austen. However, I’m just speaking the truth.”
After breakfast, we took the main drag back to the safe house rather than the bay-side path. The walk took us past boutique shops where owners watered flowers in window boxes and set out sidewalk signs advertising sales on things nobody actually needed but tourists would buy anyway.
Once at the house, we settled into work mode. Brenna spread her stuff out on the dining table while I took over the kitchen island.
Our cover was solid. Seven years of strategic investments, starting small with seed funding for cybersecurity startups.
A few spectacular failures that made us look human.
Enough successes to justify our current supposed net worth.
Alice had even created social media histories, photos from industry events we’d never attended, and testimonials from CEOs who didn’t exist.
“I need to review the investment structures Alice sent,” Brenna said. “Morrison’s going to expect us to speak fluently about our portfolio.”
“And I should go through our supposed client list. Make sure I can name-drop appropriately.”
“How are things looking?” I asked an hour later.
“If you mean with our investments, they’re believable. We turned down two companies that Morrison later invested in.”
“Why?”
“The valuations didn’t make sense.”
“Smart.” She highlighted the text on her screen.
I moved to look over her shoulder, trying not to get distracted by how good she smelled. Like vanilla. And roses. And sex. I cleared my throat.
The way she was looking at me, lips slightly parted, eyes dark with heat that had nothing to do with arbitration clauses, made me forget what we were talking about.
“We should probably—” she started.
“Yeah, uh, practice pretending we’re happily married?”
“Right. Pretend.” She started to walk away, but I pulled her into my arms instead.
“Because tonight, at the party, I’m going to have to touch you. Hold you. Look at you like you’re my whole world.”
“I know.”
“I need you to understand—it won’t be acting.”
“Mason—”
“However I look at you or touch you, it’s real. All real.”
“We should shower.”
I raised a brow. “Yeah?”
When Brenna nodded, I lifted her in my arms and found her mouth with a kiss. It was everything—desperate and tender, hungry and careful. Her hand gripped the front of my shirt, and I raced up the stairs.
“You sure you want to shower now?” I asked, walking into the bedroom.
She glanced over at the bed. “We should probably get dirty first.”
“Now, you’re talking.”
What happened next was a blur of heat and need. Clothes disappeared, hands explored, and we got lost in each other’s bodies. Searching, learning, pleasuring. Then, repeating.
At four-thirty, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting my tie for the third time.
“You look good,” Brenna said from the doorway. She was wrapped in a towel, her hair still damp from the shower.
“So will you.” I pulled her against me and threw the towel away. “Though I prefer you this way.”
“Morrison might find it a bit casual for Maison Blanc.”
“Morrison can go to hell.”
She laughed. “Go downstairs. If you stay here and watch me get dressed, we’ll never make it to dinner.”
She had a point. I went down to the kitchen and poured myself a scotch—just enough to take the edge off, not enough to dull my senses. We’d need to be sharp tonight.
When Brenna descended the stairs a few minutes later, the dress she wore made my mouth go dry. It was black, elegant, and understated. Her hair was styled in a simple twist, and she wore diamond earrings that shimmered in the light.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“Can you blame me?”
Maison Blanc occupied a corner lot in downtown Atherton. The valet took my keys, and when we went inside, we found Emma and Kodiak—Jordan and Sarah—already sipping martinis.
“Well, hello. Don’t you look gorgeous?” said Kodiak, earning a glare from me.
“Watch it—”
“Gentlemen, ladies.” Morrison’s voice cut through my warning. He approached with Liu and Castellano flanking him like lieutenants. “So glad you could make it.”