Chapter Twenty-Five
Noah
–Emmett: Hey, can we make our lunch a potluck?
I scratch the spot between Se?or Mittens’s ears, which earns me a soft purr, and mull over the group text that arrived early Wednesday morning. Just what is Emmett aiming for here?
The lunch he’s referring to is this Saturday, with not only the brothers but their wives and children, so Bobbi can meet and—hopefully—approve of them. It’s a major milestone in our relationship, especially since family is so important to her. I need to prove to her that mine isn’t a total loss, which is why I’m not inviting Mom or Dad. But if Bobbi tastes something Emmett brings, that’ll be the end of us. Not even a terrorist under interrogation deserves to be subjected to my brother’s food.
–Sebastian: Depends. Are YOU going to cook?
–Emmett: I was thinking about it.
–Griffin: He’s probably taken out life insurance on all of us.
Spoken like a true economist. But it’s one of the more plausible explanations for Emmett’s sudden desire to kill us.
–Emmett: Veerrry funny. No, Monique wants to try it.
Ah crap. He pulled the Monique card. Time to shut this down before my brothers start to picture our beautiful niece and cave.
–Me: I’ve already arranged for catering. Let’s do potluck next time.
–Emmett: Shit.
–Grant: Why do you hate your daughter? She’ll never forgive you if you make her eat your “cooking.”
–Emmett: She had a playdate, and some girl bragged about having a potluck lunch. Now she really wants to try it.
May the lightning strike the kids who brag about potluck lunches. Why can’t they brag about something more ordinary? Like how their daddy bought them a special edition Barbie or something?
–Me: It was probably a catered potluck anyway. Who cooks these days?
–Nicholas: Well, it might not be too terrible if we stick to things that require minimal cooking—or none at all. Like ham, cheese and crackers? Maybe caviar if we want to get fancy?
–Me: That’s cat food.
–Sebastian: Cat food? Wait a minute! You feed Bobbi’s cat caviar?
–Me: Well, not every day.
–Huxley: WHIPPED!
At least I don’t have my family conspiring against me!I don’t type it since that would invite some awkward questioning. I already made an effort to alert Huxley. If he failed to notice, it isn’t my fault.
–Me: Don’t be jealous her cat deserves better than you. I expect you to be on your best behavior this Saturday.
–Nicholas: Unlike you, we know how to woo a lady. We’re married. You’re barely a steady BF.
I make a face. I can’t even give him shit because he never treated Molly wrong or screwed up.
–Me: Yeah, well, if you all manage to act civilized on Saturday, maybe on Sunday I’ll BE engaged.
–Sebastian: So that’s why you ordered a ring from Luce?
I raise my eyebrows. Can’t decide if he’s upset or just surprised. Probably a little bit of both. Every brother so far has used Sebastian Jewelry for their rings.
But that was before Lucie became family. Why shouldn’t she get some love too?
–Me: Yeah. She has great sensibility. Love the Peery Diamonds designs.
–Sebastian: I can’t decide if I should feel insulted.
He’s too pussy whipped to be annoyed by my subtle dig. Heh. It’s sort of cute, an adjective I never thought I’d associate with my asshole brother. He’s so freaking competitive, he believes in torching the other team until there’s nothing left. That attitude almost cost him his wife, but he hasn’t changed. He just changed the direction of his focus—now whatever Lucie does is right.
–Me: Not meeting your quarterly financial goal?
–Sebastian: Ha! We’re on target.
–Me: Good. Keep making me rich.
I own a lot of shares in Sebastian Jewelry. I’m also a major shareholder at Peery Diamonds.
–Me: Besides, buying from Peery Diamonds is like paying myself money. The more I buy, the more I get!
I don’t need to be in the same room as Seb to know he’s rolling his eyes.
–Nicholas: Does Bobbi really need a ring? I thought bakers don’t wear jewelry on their hands.
–Emmett: Engagement necklace!
–Me: I’m doing it the usual way.
Bobbi is surprisingly traditional despite her independent attitude. Wants a loving, supportive husband, kids, the whole deal. And I want to indulge all her desires. If she decides she wants an engagement necklace too, I’ll get her one.
–Me: Plus I want everyone to know she’s mine. Men don’t check out women’s necks. They check the ring finger.
–Griffin: Perhaps. But the second step is checking YOU out, to evaluate the competition, before deciding whether or not they should poach.
I snort. Competition? Whatever. I’m confident I can make Bobbi happy. All I have to do is convince her over the next three months.
Speaking of which…
I should make dinner. Women love that sort of stuff. I pretend I can’t boil water without burning down the city—after all my cover is a spoiled billionaire, not someone capable of surviving anything. But I know my way around a kitchen. When I’m on assignment out in some shit jungle, it’s up to me to shift for myself or subsist on bugs. That spurred me to learn real fast.
A simple, semi-homemade pasta with roast beef should do the trick. Since Bobbi likes tomatoes, I’ll make a tomato, basil and fresh mozzarella salad with vinaigrette dressing. Unfortunately, I can’t do dessert, but I don’t want her to have to bake when she’s home. I make a mental note to grab a tub of premium hand-churned gelato.
A call from my mom pops up. Crap.
–Me: Call from Mom. Gotta go.
My brothers joke that at least it isn’t Dad or Joey. They don’t know how much worse a call from Mom can be, especially now. But then to them, Nora Blane is an eccentric travel writer, not a deadly government assassin who recruited her son to join the team.
She never calls to say hello or see how I’m doing. Even after the plane crash, she didn’t check up on me. When Mom pops on my phone, it’s about one thing: somebody needs killing.
“Yeah?” I say.
“Time to go shoot your precious cheetahs.”
“Not available.”
“What?”
“I said, I’m not available.” Maybe the connection’s bad. It’s possible.
There’s a pause. “You can’t ‘not be available.’”
“Well, I’m not. Pretend I didn’t survive the crash. Problem solved.”
“Noah, you’re a government asset.”
“Who is currently on a three-month mission of a personal nature. I’m not vanishing for a week or longer. Use someone else.”
“Noah—”
“Sorry, about to drive through a tunnel. Do you hear that sta—?” I hang up. Wish I could take out the phone’s battery and disappear, but she already knows where I am. Probably having me watched too.
Regardless, there’s no time to waste debating Mom. It’s going to be mid-morning soon, and I need to hit the florist and drop by Bobbi’s bakery so I can give her flowers in person. I’ve been doing that religiously even before she decided to give me another chance. Anything to make her happy.
As I step out of the house, spinning the key ring around my finger, my senses prickle. I look toward the porch next door. A scarred man with aviator sunglasses sits in an old rocking chair, looking slightly bored as he slips his hand underneath a mildly dingy T-shirt and scratches his belly. His shorts are denim so faded they’re almost white.
He’s the guy I saw walking around the block before, the one with the limp. Seems completely uninterested, but something about him leaves me unsettled. He’s projecting harmlessness, but there’s something lurking underneath. Something dangerous, like a sea snake hiding under the calm ocean surface. It reminds me of all the human trash I’ve had to take out.
Bobbi never had a neighbor that raised my hackles before. I checked all of them out when she inherited this place. Besides, the house whose porch he’s occupying used to belong to Mr. and Mrs. Park. The Korean immigrant couple sold their home to another Korean immigrant family, and I’d bet my left nut that man isn’t a Korean national. A black Subaru Forester sits there, the bottom half of the SUV mottled with dried specks of mud and dirt.
He looks over, noticing me. “Hey.”
I paste on my usual vapid rich-boy face. “Hi. You new?”
He smiles, flashing perfect white teeth. “Yeah. Just moved in not too long ago. You Bobbi’s boyfriend or something? I thought I heard her go to work this morning.” His eyes slide to Bobbi’s driveway, my gleaming Bugatti the sole occupant of the pale concrete.
“Fiancé,” I say with an innocent grin.
The man’s smile widens, but lacks genuine affability. Bet if I yank those sunglasses off, his eyes will be cold and flat. Does he have the hots for my woman?
“Oh. Well, congratulations. Didn’t realize she was engaged.” Conversational, inviting me to share details.
My mask doesn’t falter. The grin I give him is full of amiableness, which he matches. We might as well be in a competition to see who has the cheesiest smile.
“Yup. Now you know.” Even my voice is congenial. I should get a medal.
“Where are my manners?” he says. “I’m Trey.”
“Noah.”
“Nice to meet you.” He shrugs like he’s slightly self-conscious. “Probably noticed the scars. Got ’em in Afghanistan.”
Slid that little nugget in, did you?“Oh, wow.” I feign being impressed. “Thank you for your service.” Assuming you served. Guys sometimes lie about things like that. You immediately get some respect and cred, and how many people will actually check your service record?
“Second tour. Didn’t go as well as I hoped.”
“Sorry to hear that. Why can’t the bad guys just surrender when we show up, huh? It’s so stupid we have to actually fight.”
“Seems like some folks are just plain stubborn.”
I nod. “There’s gotta be an easier way. I say press the button and turn the whole region into a sea of glass. Then punch a hole in it and drain off the oil.” I flash him my best simple-minded-rich-moron grin. “I mean, why have all those nukes if we aren’t going to use ’em, right? It’s like living on a ranch and refusing to eat beef.”
“You might have a point there.”
“Sure. It’s a waste, is what it is. We need to use what we’ve got. I’m not paying taxes so they can sit on stuff while good men like you get hurt.”
“Well, I appreciate that.” But he can’t quite hide a slight sneer.
I shake my head. “Yeah. Welp, time to go see my fiancée.” I give him an oblivious wave and head to my car.
Then, pretending to fiddle with the sound system, I pull out my phone and hit one of the “social media” apps. I enter a few strings to verify that it’s me and look up the property details of the house next door. Still owned by that immigrant family. This guy must be renting. Trey is too common a name to get a decent hit. I raise my phone as though checking my texts, then take a shot of his face and upload it to the app.
I drive to the florist, which should have a magnificent bouquet of pink peonies ready, while face recognition AI does its magic. The technology is scarily accurate now. People think a pair of shades or a mask can hide your identity, but that’s not the case. There are billions of people running around with their phones, snapping shots of you without you realizing. You could be in the background of some stranger’s picture, and it’s fed into the system that scours the Internet.
The AI returns six possible matches in SoCal. The scars on his face are problematic. Isn’t that convenient?
Two served in the military. Both did a tour in Afghanistan and got injured there. So he checks out…sort of. But why does he give me the vibe I get whenever I first see a target in person?
As I pay for the flowers and return to my car, a text from Mom pops up.
–Mom: Are you stalking Bobbi’s new neighbor? If you have time for that, shouldn’t you take the job?
–Me: Are YOU stalking ME?
–Mom: I’m keeping an eye on you. For obvious reasons!
Yeah right. She’s just upset I declined to go blow the brains out of somebody of her—well, the government’s—choosing.
–Me: He’s new and I wanted to make sure he was okay. I just got a weird feeling from him.
–Mom: He’s probably wary and not doing a good job of hiding his nerves around you. He’s trained to kill. Or maybe he’s wondering what the hell he was doing overseas, sacrificing himself to protect somebody like you. You can lay it on too thick at times, so much so that even I feel embarrassed to say you’re my son.
She’s probably rolling her eyes, while spinning a knife between her fingers to relieve tension.
–Me: Still not going. I’ve rearranged my priorities.
A moment of silence.
–Mom: You can’t quit.
–Me: Nobody does this forever.
–Mom: You’re too young.
–Me: Bobbi wants to have babies. You could be a grandmother.
–Mom: That’s disgusting.
–Me: You’d be able to make Nikki insanely jealous…
Mom despises Nicholas’s mom. Calls her too fickle. Unreliable. Annoying. Poor Nikki has no clue, though. She’s under the impression that Mom adores her, the belief encouraged by my mother who has a policy of being friendly to everyone because you never know when you might need to use them.
–Me: I can’t talk to you now anyway. I have to cook.
–Mom: Cook? As in, prepare food? There are no sanctioned targets in the city.
–Me: Very funny. Now go away before I do something to the pasta and kill someone. Think of the paperwork!!!