Chapter 10
Wes
Shit. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. Shit.
The rest of the photoshoot, I’m half out of my head.
My face is smiling, I’m tilting my head and moving my limbs as instructed by the photographer, but my mind is miles away.
Or, more accurately, years away. It’s Sister Agnes.
She’s here, somehow. I don’t understand it. I can’t wrap my mind around it.
I tell myself not to look at her, but in every break between shots, my eyes find her in the room.
I don’t have to search for her. My body is aware of her in ways I don’t totally understand.
There’s attraction, sure, but I’ve been attracted to plenty of women before.
It’s something more visceral than that, this recognition, this cognizance of her, like she is some part of me that’s been missing.
A phantom limb, reminding me of its existence in the most inconvenient ways.
The last time I saw her, I was in prison, pretending to be someone else but somehow still falling desperately in love with her.
It wasn’t my first undercover mission, but it was the first time I’d been left in such a high-stakes environment on my own.
At the time, I’d been so sure that I would be able to stay focused, get what information I needed quickly, and be extracted within a month.
Then I met Agnes. Agnes, with those incredible dark eyes and that shy smile.
Agnes, who always held herself so carefully, so still, who looked like she had an infinite universe of secrets she kept locked inside of her.
She was so beautiful, even in the shapeless clothes, with her hair mostly covered.
But that wasn’t why I was drawn to her. It was because she looked like someone who was in the middle of her own story.
I don’t know how else to describe it. She was clearly a heroine in the making, but it was like she hadn’t yet realized her own power.
What was supposed to be a month of undercover work bled into two, then longer.
I needed more time. Not on the case, mind you; Big Tom, who I’d gone into prison to befriend and retrieve information from, already trusted me like a son.
I could have asked him anything, but I didn’t, because I wanted the excuse to spend more time with her.
On the day of the prison riot, I should have been at Big Tom’s side, sealing my place as his confidant.
Instead, all I could think about was what would happen to Agnes if someone found her in the library on her own.
So I went to Bible study, even though everyone else stayed behind to be in place for what was about to go down.
When the chaos started, I held her in my arms and promised to protect her.
I kissed her, and felt the warmth of her small, soft body against mine.
I cracked open that day, knowing I had lost something I would never get back.
And I never saw her again. She never did come back to the prison.
Never sent a letter, never gave me any explanation.
Once I was extracted, I tried to look her up, but the convent wouldn’t release her information, and I had nothing to go off but a first name.
Agnes. I told myself then that I had to move on, that I wasn’t going to see her again, that she clearly didn’t want to see me.
She was a ghost now. Nothing more than a memory.
Except here she is. Looking at me with big, terrified eyes, like I’m the one who left her without so much as a word. Like I’m the one who broke her heart.
So many strings were pulled to get me on Mountain Man so I could get close to Harmony Miller, and by extension, Aaron Miller. I have to stay focused; I can’t allow for even the smallest distraction.
And yet, even knowing all of that . . . I see Sister Agnes and my heart clenches. I can’t look away. When her eyes meet mine, it’s earth-shattering.
So. Yeah.
Shit.
The photoshoot stretches on for what feels like an eternity.
God, how many pictures do they need, anyway?
When I’m not zeroing in on Agnes, wherever she is in the room, I’m trying to make meaningful eye contact with Morrie to let him know there’s a problem.
Alas, Morrie has discovered the craft services table and is happily noshing away at finger sandwiches, completely oblivious to my distress. The man does love a good finger food.
Finally, the production staff calls for a break. One of the producers instructs us to eat, grab some water, and use the restroom while they pull a few of the men aside for one-on-one interviews.
Luckily, I’m not among the chosen few. As the other men amble over toward craft services, I find Agnes in the crowd. She’s carrying a tub full of the prop sunglasses and hats they had us wear for some of the “silly” poses, and is heading toward the back corridor.
This is it—my chance. After ascertaining that no one is paying attention to me, I follow after her.
The bathrooms are on the other side of the building, but I figure I’ll just claim I got turned around if anyone acts suspicious.
I really ought to tell Morrie before I duck out of the room, but he’s busy yucking it up with one of the other producers, and I might not get another shot to be with Agnes alone before she can blow my cover.
Up ahead of me, I spot her down the hallway, just about to turn the corner and disappear out of sight. “Agnes!” I call out to her.
Agnes’s entire back stiffens. Even without seeing her face, I read the indecision playing out in the set of her shoulders, the lines of her body. I can just imagine her internal dialogue. Can she play it off, pretend she didn’t hear me and still make her escape?
“You obviously heard me,” I inform her dryly. “Come on. We need to talk.”
Agnes doesn’t turn around, but she doesn’t leave, either. I make short work of the distance between us, circling around her so that we’re face-to-face.
No matter how hard I try to brace myself, it still feels like a punch to the jaw with brass knuckles when our gazes finally meet. Those eyes.
Despite everything, I think I’m doing a pretty good job of keeping my expression schooled.
She isn’t doing quite so well. Her face is pale, her hands gripping tightly to the tub of props.
Her eyes dart over my face rapidly before dropping downward, like she can’t bear to look at me. She’s terrified.
I swallow back the hurt of that, welcoming in the anger, instead. Way easier to cope with that emotion. What right does she have, to act like I’ve hurt her in some way, when she was the one to abandon me without so much as a goodbye?
“Not happy to see me, I guess.” I don’t bother to hide the snark from my tone. I always turn into a sarcastic bastard when I’m hurt. What other chance did I have, growing up idolizing Han Solo?
Agnes’s eyes dart up to mine, then away again. She shifts, like she’s thinking of running for it. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Ma’am, the audacity. “What are you doing here? Last time I checked, television shows don’t hire nuns for their wardrobe department.”
“I’m not a postulant. Not anymore. Not since we . . .” A flush works its way up to Agnes’s cheeks that might be distracting if I weren’t so pissed off.
Okay, it’s still distracting. I can’t help but remember the last time I saw her face this rosy, the way she pressed her lips to mine, her small hands smoothing over my chest—and that pisses me off even more.
“Made out in prison?” I finished for her, my voice nonchalant.
“I guessed you must’ve left the convent, since I never heard from you again. ”
Agnes glances around the hallway, like she’s worried one of the invisible people around us will hear her dirty little secret. Her flushed skin darkens. “It was . . . complicated.”
I shrug, like it isn’t the very memory that still haunts me when I wake up early in the morning in the throes of an anxiety spiral.
Realizing that Agnes wasn’t coming back to the Bible study.
Knowing I would never see her again. “Buyer’s remorse.
I get it. It happens. A letter would have been nice, but .
. .” I shrug again, which probably is overselling my insouciance.
But hey, she still isn’t looking at me, so what does it hurt? Aside from my heart, that is.
I’m about to call her out for her lack of eye contact when all of a sudden, her gaze snaps back up to mine. It’s another sucker punch, straight to the jaw. I can see she’s been steeling herself up to this moment by the way she sets her mouth and raises her chin.
“Why does the call sheet list you as Nate Russell?” she asks me.
Whoops.
That’s all I can think of. Because yeah, when I chased Sister Agnes down this hallway, I guess I didn’t fully plan out the conversation—how she might find it strange that the ex-con she’d met in prison was suddenly sporting a radically different look and going by a completely different name.
Probably should have thought that one through a little more.
“Uh . . .” I stall, eloquently.
She takes a step toward me, and I instinctively back up.
Which is ridiculous since she’s five foot nothing and probably weighs about a hundred pounds wet, but .
. . damn. Those eyes. “And why, when I tried to look up an inmate named Cass to write you a letter, did the prison have no record of you?” Her dark eyes search mine. “Who are you?”
This is really not a conversation for the hallway.
Now I’m the one paranoid about all the people who might overhear us—or come wandering into the middle of a discussion that requires high-security clearance.
I make a quick assessment of the corridor, spotting what appears to be a utility closet.
Without pausing to think, I take the tub out of her hands, set it on the floor, then pull her after me into the room.
As soon as we’re shut up together in the confined space, I realize my two mistakes. The first, I overestimated the size of the closet. It’s small enough that we’re going to basically have to spend the entire time trying to consciously not be pressed together.
The second is that I’ve touched Sister Agnes’s hand to pull her into the room with me, and her skin is ridiculously soft and smooth and warm. She smells good, too, dammit. Like rose petals.
Releasing her quickly, I curse out my dumb self internally.
I really should have debriefed with Morrie before attempting this conversation, but here we are.
I don’t know if I’ll get another chance at this before Agnes tells someone that I’m going by a fake name.
Sienna and Raquel are already aware of the situation, but we asked them to withhold that information from anyone else unless absolutely necessary.
That means none of the other producers, crew, or production staff know.
So if Agnes mentions something to someone else in the wardrobe department, and the rumor gets around .
. . sure, Raquel and Sienna might be able to intervene, but that won’t squash the intrigue over why I’m lying about my identity.
And I very much need to be able to fly under the radar if I have any chance at getting into Aaron Miller’s inner circle.
If I’d talked it through with Morrie, I might’ve been able to think of some plausible excuse to give Agnes as to why I’m going by a new name. Why my former name wasn’t in the prison system. Why my neck tattoo has completely disappeared.
But the combined factors of having no time to prepare and unexpectedly seeing the nun I used to love in secret? It’s all thrown me for a loop. So I just blurt the first thing that comes to mind, which happens to be the truth.
“My name isn’t Nate Russell. And it was never Cass Demonte.” Fun fact—everyone in prison thought “Cass” was short for Cassanova, but in the background I’d put together for my character, it was short for Cassian, like Cassian Andor from Rogue One. Morrie had no idea I snuck that one in there.
But I digress. Steeling myself, I take a deep breath. “It’s Wes Ackerman. I’m an undercover FBI agent.”