Chapter 17 Not Going Back
NOT GOING BACK
DOMINIC
Daisy doesn’t slum. So, when she says take me out to dinner, she’s saying find white tablecloths, Michelin-star chefs, the works.
My sister was always high maintenance, and getting married to Forest has made it worse.
The man dotes on her. Anything she wants, he gets for her.
Some obscure chocolate she’s in love with that they only make in one shop in some small town in Belgium, oh yeah, it’ll be stocked in their house.
I never understood that kind of crazy love—I do now, because I’d do it for Enya.
To feed both my sister, who likes the fancy, and Enya, who likes discreet, I booked Fiola.
It’s quiet, and the staff and customers are excellent at pretending important people are just regular people having dinner.
It’s the perfect spot for a former intelligence officer sharing a meal with a florist whose father was in a high-profile scandal, and a Hollywood producer who is married to a famous judge.
It sounds like the start of a joke….
“I got her to sleep,” my sister tells me like she won an award. “You owe me, Dom.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod at the sommelier, who is happy to bring forth a 2010 Dom Pérignon, Brut, épernay.
Fucking four figures for a bottle of wine!
Did I mention my sister has expensive taste?
Good thing my sister invested the money my parents set aside for me, because I wouldn’t be able to afford Fiola on my paltry government salary. Though the private sector is more profitable, or rather will be once I start working, after the baby.
“I’m sorry you can’t drink that,” Daisy says wistfully to Enya. “But once you have the baby and you’re done being a cow, we’ll go out and paint the town red.”
Enya has taken to my sister. It’s no surprise.
Everyone loves Daisy. She charms people, no matter who they are and where they come from.
But the fact that my sister adores Enya tells me several things—first and foremost, she knows I love her; she knows Enya loves me; and she likes Enya because she’s a good person.
Daisy does not suffer assholes or fools. She’s circumspect about who she allows into her life and inner circle. The list is small, even though she’s an extrovert who is the life of a party.
“Honestly, I didn’t think I had a choice but to take a nap,” Enya says cheerfully.
Her cheeks are flushed and she’s putting on weight in all the right places. She looks like Earth mother with that belly that I keep touching—and she keeps smacking my hand for doing so.
“How come you seem to have way too many choices when I insist you rest?” I ask, as I watch the sommelier make his way to our table, chilled champagne in hand.
“Your sister terrifies me,” Enya declares in a mock whisper.
Daisy laughs. “That’s what I like to hear.”
The sommelier pours a taste for Daisy, and once she approves, he fills her and my glass.
Daisy animatedly launches into a story about how she drank some absolutely terrible champagne in Greece while working with a director she hates with a passion usually reserved for ex-lovers.
Enya hangs on to every word.
I watch her as I drink my sparkling wine.
She’s in a beautiful, flowy, light pink maternity dress. It makes her look ethereal, like a wood nymph.
Yeah, I know I thought the words: wood nymph. I’m that stupidly in love.
I adore how she puts her hands on her stomach. It’s a protective gesture and makes me want to pound my chest and say, “That’s my woman, and she’s pregnant with my baby.”
Since she started her second trimester and left morning sickness behind, she’s developed a glow. It’s almost like someone lit a light in her eyes.
She’s still hurt and angry with me, but I know she’s softening.
Partly because she’s pregnant and emotional because of it, which I’m fine with—you have to take the obvious advantages—and partly because she loves me.
I wish she loved me enough to trust me again.
I think she’s forgiven me, she understands it was the job, but she’s gun-shy of putting her faith in me.
It’s evident when she casually says, “I can’t get used to you doing things for me, Nick. What am I going to do when you leave?”
She doesn’t believe I’m here to stay.
That hurts, but I’ve earned the bruises her careless words leave.
I’ve had sex with a target before. It’s not a big deal. But I never spent time with them the way I did with Enya. We went on dates, picnics—hell, we watched bad movies on Netflix while we cuddled on Grandma Lucille’s damn uncomfortable couch.
Enya pushes her chair back, and I stand immediately. “All okay?”
She gives me a baleful look. “Yes. I need to pee.”
Since she fainted, I’m on tenterhooks, worried half the time that she’s going to pass out and the other that I’m not going to be there when she does.
I look at Daisy. “Go with her.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Nick.” Enya shakes her head. “I can go alone.”
Daisy lets out a loose laugh. “God, he’s so cute. Come on, pregnant sister-in-law, let’s keep an eye on you while you—”
“You’re both insane,” Enya huffs as she waddles away, Daisy with her.
From the back, one wouldn’t be able to tell she’s pregnant, except for how she walks.
That ass is still fine.
They disappear toward the back, and I reach for my champagne just as a familiar presence slides into the chair Daisy just vacated.
“Kiera, not now.”
I’m sick of her. Truly sick of her.
She keeps calling. Showing up at my place—something I only know because my concierge mentioned it, since I’m never there. She even stopped by Lucille’s once. Thankfully, Enya wasn’t around.
She wants me back. There’s an operation in the Middle East, and she’s convinced I’m needed for it. Director Han has floated the idea of bringing me on as a civilian contractor, as if that changes the math.
I’ve told both of them the same thing: I’m done with tradecraft. Retired. Finished.
I’m not working right now, and I don’t plan to until my baby is here and I’m ready—actually ready—to reenter a world governed by calendars, meetings, and expectations. I know myself well enough to admit that eventually my brain will need a challenge. I can’t be idle forever.
That’s why I accepted the role at Sentinel. They were more than willing to wait a few months for me to start if it meant they could announce the hire and enjoy the PR lift in the meantime.
This life—this choice—is measured. And I’m not negotiating it.
“Dom,” she says lightly, as if we ran into each other at a party instead of her tracking my movements like it’s a sport. “Funny running into you.”
“It’s not funny, Kiera.”
She smiles. “I know Director Han reached out to you.”
“And then you must know that I told her, ‘fuck no’.”
She eyes the bottle of Dom. I don’t offer her a glass. I don’t want her here. I don’t need her to mess things up with Enya, right when I’m slowly getting back into her good graces.
She glances toward the hallway where Enya disappeared. “She’s pregnant.”
“And?”
“Yours?” There is envy in her eyes, and I don’t like that, not one bit.
“Yes.”
She scoffs. “You knocked up a target?”
“Kiera, get the fuck away from me.” I keep my voice low.
Fiola is discreet, and my making a scene is going to draw the kind of attention that will show up in The Washington Post, especially with Daisy here.
“Come on, don’t tell me you’re going to be happy playing daddy and changing diapers?”
“You have no idea what makes me happy.”
She leans closer. I can smell her perfume. It’s wrong to compare women. My father would have my head for doing that, but I can’t help it. She smells all kinds of gaudy—nothing like Enya, who is soft and elegant.
“I know you, babe.” She puts a hand on my thigh. “I know you—”
I shove her hand off. “Crossing lines, Kiera? Don’t make me call Director Han and tell her that you’re harassing me.”
That gets her attention and her back up. She straightens. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Please stop. I don’t need help.”
She shakes her head as if disgusted. “Do you know there’s chatter. About you. About why you quit. About what you walked away from.”
My insides tighten as the old reflex kicks in—to engage, deflect, control. I shut it down.
“This is D.C., there’s always chatter, and from my experience, if you wait sixty seconds, there will be louder chatter about someone else.”
She lowers her voice. “Dom, tell me you don’t miss the work, tell me you don’t miss me.”
A dry chuckle escapes me. “I don’t miss the work or you. Happy?”
Her eyes flicker with annoyance…and maybe jealousy. “You’re throwing everything away for her.”
“What does everything encompass?” My tone is sharp. I want her to get the message. “My career at the agency? You? I don’t give a shit. I gave fifteen years of my life to my country, and now I’d like to live my life for myself, for my wife, my child.”
“Your wife?” she splutters.
“Fuck, Kiera, I don’t want to talk to you. Why can’t you understand that?” I don’t mean to be rude, but enough is enough.
She studies me, searching for the crack. “You used to be my friend, Dom.”
“I used to be a lot of things.”
Her mouth tightens.
“Kiera, you’re sitting in my sister’s chair, and you need to get going because she’ll kick your ass, and not give a damn about making a scene.” It’s not an empty warning. Daisy is not discreet.
She opens her mouth to speak when I see movement behind her.
On cue, my sister and future wife are back.
Isn’t this cozy?
Daisy clocks Kiera instantly—eyes sharp, posture shifting, protective instinct snapping into place. She knows who she is—I’ve told her about the agency asking me to come back for a gig.
Enya stills, confusion flashing across her face before recognition settles in. She remembers her—Kiera—standing in the doorway of the interrogation room at the agency.
Kiera smiles, slow and deliberate. “Hi, I’m—”
“Nobody,” Daisy cuts in coolly, placing herself between Enya and the table. “And, darling, you’re in my seat.”
I hold back a laugh because Enya doesn’t look happy—and the situation is slightly comical. My sister, my ex-colleague and fuck buddy, my future (maybe) wife and baby mama are all at the same place—which is a public restaurant in the center of Washington, D.C.
Kiera looks surprised at Daisy’s acid. She stands up slowly. Enya and I are not the only ones afraid of Daisy. She’s a force to be reckoned with.
Kiera doesn’t linger after that.
“What was that?” Enya can feel the charge in the air.
“Let’s order food first, and then we can dissect that bitch,” Daisy instructs.
Enya looks at me, searching—not accusing, but cautious—hurt held carefully in check.
“I didn’t invite her,” I say immediately. “I didn’t want her here.”
“Is she…is she?”
I won’t lie to her. “She was a colleague and, yes, we…had a sexual relationship from time-to-time. It happens during ops.”
Her eyes widen, and I groan out loud. Just like I had a sexual relationship with Enya during an op! Fuck me.
“Dom, get that foot out of your mouth,” Daisy snaps. “Good God! The man is a disaster.”
“I mean that it happened…in the past…not since I met you. There’s been no one…just my hand.”
“Ugh,” Daisy snorts. “Like I need that mental image.”
Enya’s lips twitch, and I know it’s going to be okay.
“Look…I told you that they’ve sent me feelers about doing an op.”
She nods. I’ve been trying my best to be honest without compromising classified information, so when Director Han called, I immediately told Enya about the call but didn’t give her any details.
“Well, Kiera is…she’s being persistent.”
I didn’t tell her about Kiera’s calls or the times she showed up because I worried how Enya would take it. Looking at her now, I know I fucked up. She’s taking it the wrong way—and that’s on me.
Relationships are a fucking minefield.
She cocks an eyebrow. “How persistent?”
Thankfully, the server comes then and we order. Enya has been eating up a storm these days, and I’m thrilled about it. The thing is that I’m so stupidly in love that I can watch her do pretty much anything as mundane as eat and not think I’m wasting time.
Kiera obviously doesn’t interfere with Enya’s appetite because she orders a three-course meal. Roasted New Zealand langoustine, wild-caught sea bream, and Fiola’s famous panna cotta for dessert.
Daisy looks at her with appreciation. “I really, really like you, Enya.”
Enya frowns inquiringly.
“I love a woman who loves food,” Daisy states, supremely satisfied.