Chapter 2
M aggie had forgotten all about the coffee meeting with the handsome stranger. It wasn’t the commonness of such an occurrence that made it forgettable. In fact, it was the first time in her memory a man who looked like Ridge Colton hunted her down and asked for her help. But it was that sort of dramatic un-ordinariness that made it forgetful. How could she possibly dwell on something so spectacularly odd? Literally the nicest looking man she had ever encountered in real life had come looking for her and bought her a tray of her favorite cookies. If she were a different sort of woman, she would have fallen in love with him right there, and then she would spend the rest of her life dwelling on her memories. Someday she would be in a nursing home telling the other residents about the fun evening she’d spent with the man with blindingly perfect teeth.
But, being Maggie, she instead forgot all about it. It had been an anomaly and, in her experience, anomalies were best forgotten. So she froze the cookies he gave her and, occasionally when she took one out and popped it in the microwave, he passed through her brain. Mostly she wondered if he was having fun on his trip. She hoped so. She felt an almost personal interest whenever anyone ventured to Jordan, a country she loved. If he didn’t also love it, it would feel like a slap in the face to her. But the truth was she would never know how it turned out because she would never see him again. Men like that, men who could be the star of their own television show, did not come calling on Maggie Eldridge and, truth be told, Maggie Eldridge was thankful. She was a low- maintenance woman, and she preferred low-maintenance men. Give her an average-looking accountant any day of the week, someone who worked hard, enjoyed binge watching Netflix on the weekends, and always remembered to put the toilet seat down. High-maintenance men who spent a mortgage payment on shoes and needed to be constantly entertained and adored were of no interest to her.
Now it was Saturday two weeks after the meeting and past time for Maggie to clean up her yard. Her mother, an avid gardener, had tried since Maggie’s birth to get her interested in the hobby with no luck. But today, as September waned, it was time to clean up her flowerbeds. So she dressed head to toe in the expensive gardening gear her mother had bought her, looking like a Plow & Hearth catalogue threw up on her. On her head was a giant straw hat. On her body were denim overalls embroidered with daisies. Her feet wore giant rubber clogs printed with shovels, and her hands were enrobed in leather-tipped gloves, printed in ducks for reasons Maggie had yet to discern. So far the gloves were the only functional part of the mortifying ensemble. The problem, she realized, was that with the blooms gone, she had no idea what was a weed and what was a flower. For the last twenty minutes she had been staring at the dirt wondering if the things with prickers were friend or foe.
“Hello.”
Maggie whirled so fast she toppled over backwards. The man who spoke reached down to help her up, but she scrambled crablike away from him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you,” Ridge Colton said.
“No, no, no,” Maggie said. She scrambled backwards until she bumped the house and used it to pull herself up. “I never told you where I live. How did you find me? Are you psychotic?”
“No.”
“Is this about the cookies? Because, okay, I ate them, but I can get you some more.”
“Maggie,” he said, taking a step closer.
“Ah, ah, ah,” she said, scolding him as she would a naughty puppy. “Stop. Stay or I’ll…” she scanned for a usable weapon. “Why didn’t I take that ninja class in college?”
He put his hands up, palms out in surrender. “Easy there. You don’t need ninja classes and, even if you had them, I could still disable you.”
“I’m going to scream now,” she warned him.
“I was stating a fact, not making a threat. Look, I’m standing right here with my hands up, in full view of your neighbors. I’m not here to hurt you. All I want to do is have a little conversation, and then I’m on my way, okay?”
She nodded slowly, her eyes still casting about for an escape.
“My name, my real name, is Cameron Ridge and I’m from the government.”
Her eyes bugged. “I said I’d pay you back for the cookies.”
“Will you forget about the cookies?” he said, exasperated.
“Then what? I don’t understand. I don’t speed, I’ve never pirated movies or music, I’m current on my taxes. What could someone from the government want from me?”
“I want to offer you a job.”
She blinked. “A job?”
“I’m assembling a new team, something elite with a precise focus. Your experience and language skills are exactly what I’m looking for.” She was smiling now. “What’s the smile for?”
“This feels a lot like when Tony Stark was asked to join the Avengers. Am I being pranked? Did my little brother put you up to this?”
“No.” He opened his jacket to reveal a gun in its holster. She flattened herself against the house again and opened her mouth to scream. He closed the distance between them and pressed his palm over her lips.
“Maggie, please. I’m telling you the truth. I’m going to give you some information and you can call it in to verify it when I’m done, okay? Nod yes, and I’ll lower my hand.”
She nodded yes. They were toe-to-toe and his sheer size was intimidating. “Are you FBI?”
He shook his head.
“CIA?”
He shook his head.
“MI-6?” her tone turned hopeful.
“Definitely not,” he said, smiling. “I’m part of an organization whose letters you’ve probably never heard before. After 9-11 and the Patriot Act, intelligence splintered into multiple offshoots. Most, like ours, have the sole task of focusing on one terror cell at a time.”
“And you want me, a chubby college librarian, as part of your elite task force. Will Santa and Elvis be there? Will I get a gun so I might singlehandedly take down bad guys, like Bruce Willis in Die Hard ?”
“No word yet on Santa or Elvis. You will get a gun, but nothing will be singlehanded, and Bruce Willis didn’t need a gun. As for being chubby, that’s a matter of opinion.” He touched his finger to the tip of her nose and winked.
“You’re good. You didn’t break character once and you got the prop gun and everything. I almost believed you were a spy. Are you by chance also a stripper? Because it’s not my thing, but a lady I work with is looking for someone to do a bridal shower soon.”
“Tell you what—you take this.” He folded a business card into her fingers. “Call the number and ask all the questions you want. Tomorrow I’ll be at the coffee shop at noon. Meet me if you’re interested.” He took a step back and paused. “By the way, nice outfit. My grandma has that same hat. And Samson hasn’t barked once. You should have gotten a little yappy dog—better burglar deterrent.”
“The hat was a gift, and how did you know my dog’s name?” she called. In answer, he tossed her a backwards wave.
Maggie gave up on weeding. She went inside, sat beside her sleeping Great Dane, Samson, and stared at the card. On it was a phone number in bold, black print. With shaking fingers, she picked up her phone and dialed.