The Takedown

Chapter 14

14

I blink at him, long and slow. Watch him study me. Watch him part his lips. And I could stop it here. Cut off this conversation. Retreat. But speaking to someone like this, so openly...

“Yeah,” I manage, straightening the pillows behind my back. “Yeah, okay.”

We sit closer to each other this time, computer between us on the bed. And it feels strangely intimate, in the quiet, just the two of us.

Nick tells me that the octogenarian ice cream moguls from his Instagram were his grandmother’s best friends; he visits them multiple times a week so they can talk about her. The flavor “Nick of Luck” has pistachios in it; pistachios were Nan’s favorite. I fire back with a story about my dad’s favorite ice cream shop, by Cape Hathaway Cove, where we used to feed the seagulls. I ask Nick, tangentially, if he’s ever been in love, and he says yes. With Bobbie, who broke his heart, and a mechanic named Gabrielle, who fixed her own antique cars—and we talk about our first cars, how we learned to drive, who taught us.

The clock ticks. Tells us time’s up.

We recheck the live stream—then go again. And again.

“What did your dad say?” I ask Nick, hands under my chin. “When you told him you’d joined CSIS?”

Nick inhales deeply with his chest. “He... he, uh, didn’t really say anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing that I was hoping for, at least,” Nick says with a sad little smile. “It feels like I’ve spent most of my life trying to get the guy to notice me. Got good grades, excelled in sports... I thought if I found just the right thing, he’d say that he was proud of me. Of the man I’d become. Instead, when I told him I was following in his footsteps, he immediately jumped into shoptalk. How hard the road was going to be at CSIS. Maybe that’s... maybe that’s why I was friends with Johnny at first. I was kind of desperate for acceptance. When Johnny told me I fit with his crew, I believed him.”

“Do you ever see your dad?” I ask, wincing. “Do you ever go home?”

“Not really.” Nick swallows. “My dad usually goes to Hawaii for the holidays, this big fishing trip, and I guess I’m technically invited but it never feels like a real offer. My mom sends a Christmas card from her new family every year, and that’s just about all the contact I get from her. She came to my grandma’s funeral, and there was... nothing. No affection toward me. And now that my grandma’s gone, and her house is sold, there’s really no reason for me to go back.”

“All the memories are still there,” I offer.

“True,” Nick agrees. “That can be a good thing, when it doesn’t hurt... What about you? Ever think about telling your family about your career? Must be tough, keeping that secret. You guys are so close.”

“We were,” I say.

“You are ,” Nick underlines.

“Well, either way, I have thought about it. Extensively. And I kept coming to the conclusion that this was something they couldn’t be a part of. I didn’t want to drag them into my mess. Because that’s what it feels like a lot of the time. Just a big ole mess.”

Nick nods empathetically. It’s so wonderfully odd—and therapeutic—commiserating with someone who understands the ins and outs of my world. Of our world. “What would you do if you weren’t doing this?”

“Besides sitting around all day and eating tacos?” I ask.

“No, tacos can be included.”

“Well then, I’d probably work at an international relations think tank. Eating tacos. You?”

“I’d be a dog trainer,” Nick says without hesitation, and we talk about the tricks that Sweetie Pie could learn, and how our jobs make it difficult to maintain real relationships. Who’d want to get close to someone that you categorically cannot get close to?

The timer buzzes. We go twice more. Again.

And each time, it’s like... chipping away at something. This profound, bit-by-bit relief. Finding myself, sharing myself, giving as much as I receive. After the first hour, I’m reminded that I used to be a person outside of my job. I used to be a person who baked lemon squares with my Grandma Ruby, who stayed late in elementary school to practice free throws in the gym. I lived for winter. I lived for climbing out of my bedroom window and touching the mountain of newly fallen snow, telling my sister, Let’s build a snowman as tall as the garage . I lived for this state , my neighborhood, my town, the porcupines scuttling through the bushes and the gentle glint of sunlight on Hathaway River. Getting coffee from the same place where we buy our lobster. Quiet grocery store aisles and the sense of self-sufficiency. Thick wool socks and Cape Hathaway Huskies baseball.

I miss wild blueberries in the freezer, left over from summer. And saltwater taffy.

I tell Nick about all of it. And how much I used to love Christmas.

“Didn’t you say you weren’t a fan of Christmas?” I ask Nick, leaning in. The mattress creaks between us, comforter bunching.

“Yeah, I was trying to make myself believe that.” He gives me a tiny wince. “I thought it’d be easier that way. Lower expectations.”

“But you’re really a fan?”

“Sydney, let me put it this way... You know that Claymation Rudolph story about the origin of Christmas? And Rudolph learns how to walk for the first time by putting one foot in front of the other?”

“Yeah?”

“I get an actual lump in my throat.”

“ Stop ,” I say, batting him with a throw pillow.

“I’m serious! It’s emotional!”

My head cocks at him, heart lifting a little higher. “Did you really buy that christmas sweater sweatshirt at the airport?”

“Ah, now that—that is true.”

“I like that sweatshirt,” I say, a hint of mischief in my voice.

“Oh yeah?” Nick says, turning mischievous himself. He places a hand on his chin, the pad of his thumb tracing his jawline. “How much?”

“A lot,” I admit, wondering, How is this so easy, when everything else is so hard? “Possibly too much. It does wonders for your bone structure.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says with a crooked smile, then peers at the clock. It’s three forty-seven in the morning. “What are the chances you’re going to fall asleep?”

“No chance,” I say, swallowing. Honestly, I’m not sure I want our conversation to end, even though my eyes are blurring at the computer screen. “This game has only made me further awake.”

Nick seems to consider something. “Would a run help?”

—

The gym at the Ocean Harbor Inn is surprisingly well stocked. Twin treadmills, a variety of free weights, a thick red mat for sit-ups and Pilates. I packed my running shoes but no exercise clothes, so I’m wearing my pajamas. It’s almost four in the morning. Who’s going to see besides Nick?

The first minute in, he riffles through the workout equipment, finding a set of stretchy plastic bands and a brand-new pair of boxing gloves. A thick, black weight bag hangs in the corner.

“You kickbox?” he asks me.

“Occasionally,” I say, tightening the laces on my sneakers. We’ve taken a short break from our digital stakeout, leaving the record function on. “I’m more of a mixed martial arts type of person.” As I say this, an idea flickers in my belly. My eyes slowly slide toward the mat.

Nick snorts. “Uh, no. Nope. I’m not going to fight you, Sydney.”

“It’s not fighting. It’s sparring .”

“Which is a synonym for fighting.”

“Do you want a safe word?” I ask, only partly joking, then mimic Johnny’s accent: “You afraid, Nicky boy? I’m, like, half your height.” Nick has six inches on me and a good number of pounds, but I could use my shorter stature to my advantage, dipping and ducking when I need to... “Or is it that you don’t want to spar with a woman?”

“You know that’s not true,” Nick growls.

“Then prove it,” I argue, tiptoeing onto the mat.

Nick rolls his eyes and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He’s still wearing the same one from the party, with a pair of jet-black sweatpants.

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “What are you doing?”

“Hey, this is a nice shirt,” he says, whipping it open. Underneath he’s tanned and toned, that scar racing up his abdomen. A quiver goes up my own belly. “I don’t want to pop a button. Are you sure you want to do this?”

In response, I hold up my hands, palms flat, ready.

“Are you absolutely sure?” he asks.

“Jesus, Nick!”

With a faint sigh, he saunters toward me, onto the mat, and then it’s fast—a lightning-quick dip of his shoulder as he tries to plow into me, hoist me onto his back. But I’ve anticipated this. He thinks he can hook me over his shoulder? Think again. I spin, my back to his back, until we’ve changed positions. Palms still raised and flat, I inch closer across the mat.

Hand-to-hand fights, my Farm instructor told me, aren’t won by circling each other like hawks; they’re won with full-body contact, when you have the chance to catch your opponent off balance. Off guard. Be so close that you can smell their skin, so close that you know what kind of soap they wash with, so you can see every tiny freckle on their neck.

Nick has three large freckles running down his throat.

My elbow whips out, and he blocks it carefully—almost gently—feet shuffling to the side. I dip under and, with my shoulder, plow him into the wall; he hits with a fantastic thud , rattling a framed picture of the White Mountains. The glass quivers in the frame. “Careful,” he heaves, and I am careful. I carefully pin him to the wall. And I remember the first time we ever properly spoke, in the kitchen with those gingerbread cookies, and I thought about how I’d take him down, shoved up against the wall. If I’m honest with myself, even then, something in my belly fluttered.

My eyes dig into his, passing him a message: If you respect me, you’ll fight back.

Message received.

Powerfully, he twists his arm between us, edging me back, and we start sparring properly. Like real colleagues would in the CIA. He doesn’t swing to miss—but he also doesn’t swing to harm. We’re training right now. Competitively. Block for block. This is an inn chock-full of people, and I’m hoping that all of them will sleep through a minor disruption. Our footfall is quick, swift, barely there. Until I catch him unaware, hooking an ankle behind his knees, literally sweeping him off his feet.

I pounce, straddling his hips with my thighs. Our backs flatten the ridges in the mat as we roll, grunting—real guttural stuff, scrounged up from the belly. I realize, belatedly, these are very similar to the noises I make when I’m having sex. Nick’s cheeks are flushing with the faintest splash of red, and I doubt it’s from the workout; we haven’t been wrestling that long. Neither of us is truly winded.

My limbs tangle with his limbs; his breath turns hot against my neck. “Sydney,” he chokes out, and I’m waiting for him to finish that with something like Sydney, get off of me, you weirdo , or Sydney, this is a little too intense for me , but what he says is, “Was any of it real?”

I pull back, on top of him, face over his face. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Nick says, voice strained, and I do. That’s the thing. I do.

Swallowing hard, I throw it right back at him. “Was any of it real for you?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation or a twitch of his mouth. No lies. His eyes are flaming in the fluorescent light of the gym, and I... don’t know what’s happening right now.

My chest heaves as I take in a few breaths, my hands pinning him harder by the shoulders. For the moment, his fingers are resting on my knees, the heat of him pulsing through the fabric, and I’m stressed out of my mind. Agitated. I shouldn’t be feeling... this. This! Whatever this is!

“That night in the bedroom, when Johnny almost caught us...” Nick says, so softly that I almost ask him to repeat it. “And even before then, maybe on the couch watching that terrible holiday movie. Or at the beach. Maybe earlier.”

Even earlier?

I inhale slowly. “Sometimes I thought I had you, for the mission, and sometimes I really wasn’t sure what you were thinking.” My chest goes right on pounding, even though I tell it, Stop, jeez, enough . “It was always a risk with you. When we first started, I wasn’t even sure if you’d find me attractive.”

I’m not fishing, it isn’t a line, but Nick scoffs anyway. “Sydney, I’m telling you right now, that is the last thing you needed to worry about.” He reassesses this, thick eyebrows scrunching. “Maybe not the last thing, considering the situation, but...” The rest of his words come out raw. “It’s almost unreal how beautiful you are.”

Nick’s eyes trace the edges of my face. I can feel splotches of red crawling up my neck as he looks at me. I should be able to control it—to tamp down anything that I want hidden—but there it is, the rawness in my expression reflected back in his eyes.

“What was your plan for me?” I ask, breath refusing to come out easy. “Right at the beginning?”

“I just... wanted you,” he admits, voice gravelly, gaze backing up his words. “I thought I’d do everything I could to make you open up to me, and I was trying to convince myself it was for the assignment. Only for the assignment. But it wasn’t. It never was. Most of it was just... you.”

Instantly, the air between us changes. Heats up. I’m in my pajamas, my hair in a half-mangled ponytail, beads of sweat dripping down my unwashed face. Nick doesn’t care. There’s an undeniable hunger in his gaze that crosses the boundaries of our cat-and-mouse game.

Or maybe we’re playing a new game now.

Hesitantly, pulse pounding, I answer him with another move of my own, letting my fingertips crawl up his neck. They draw a line up his throat, to his mouth, and soon I’m dragging a finger across his bottom lip, tugging, before slipping the tip of it into his mouth. The gentle bite of his teeth sends a pulse right down my arm.

No one’s sparring now. No one’s joking around. Together, we’re silent except for the slight hitch of his throat, and the breath that we’re sharing. His lips close around the edge of my finger, sucking, and my mouth falls open. That’s when I realize: I’m not a little bit turned on. I am incredibly turned on.

Through my pajama bottoms, I feel the sudden hardness of him as a growl builds in his throat; this time, it’s from a different kind of frustration. Gently, Nick grabs my wrist, bringing my palm to the smooth edge of his face, and he sits up, hitching me onto his hips. I’ve seen him move. Just now, when we were sparring. I’ve seen how his body works. All the taut lines, the lean cords of muscle. And I can’t help but picture it, how he’d move on top of me.

Nick swallows noticeably, his throat bobbing up and down, and when I lean my head back, his mouth drags a trail across my collarbone. It’s hungry. Carnal. This is still a game. Who can make the other groan first. Who can make the other beg.

“Sydney,” Nick says. My name is tender in his mouth. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

—

Are you sure?” Nick says, back in the hotel room, a muscle feathering in his jaw. I nod as he inches closer, hips hovering above mine, his hands reaching up to cup the sides of my face. Warm fingers. Tender touch. With each little caress, anticipation fizzes in the center of my belly. That parachute feeling. Diving in. If this isn’t trust, I’m not sure what is.

With one slow sweep, Nick drags a thumb across my bottom lip, like I did to him in the gym, his eyelashes dark and blinking, and my breath hitches. I’m almost shuddering. I’m realizing with a heart-palpitating, can’t-feel-my-face sort of sensation that Nick might know me better than any man has for years. And this is... not like before. Not like days earlier, at the beach. There’s no hesitation, no questions, no Is this too early for the mission? We aren’t using a kiss for a calculated cover. When Nick leans forward, I barely think, his breath hot as he parts my lips. The kiss is tender, urgent, like he’s taking his time even though he doesn’t have nearly enough of it. And that makes me even hungrier. Instinctively, I arch all the way into him, his hands wrapping around the base of my neck, thumbs imprinting into my cheeks—and god , he tastes good, like the toothpaste brand we share.

Words skate up my throat. “I had a dream about you. That first night.” This elicits the smallest grin, right in the corner of his mouth, and I kiss it, managing, “You were in the shower. You were wearing that Christmas sweatshirt.”

He laughs, my palm coasting down his chest, and then it’s like he’s reading my mind; he grips my hips and hoists me on top of the dresser. “You weren’t kidding about that sweatshirt,” he whispers, nuzzling into my neck, his lips grazing a pathway up my throat. Goose bumps break out all over my arms. They’re the good kind, the best kind, the ones that travel down my stomach, down my thighs.

There’s an intensity in Nick’s eyes that I’ve never seen before, his pupils steadily widening. Something in him is... unraveling. When Nick kisses me again, it’s even (how do I describe this?) greedier. The word is greedier . He dives in, his tongue sweeping against mine, and this— this —is a whole different kind of sparring match. I’m not sure who’s winning, but I do know that my muscles are tightening everywhere .

Nick kisses even better than he fights.

I lift both arms for him to peel off my shirt. He tugs, but the fabric’s tight, too formfitting; it gets stuck just under my armpits, my head like a turtle tucked, and now both of us are laughing. “I wasn’t thinking,” I say, tugging myself free, which is true in more ways than one. I wasn’t thinking that I’d get stuck. Wasn’t thinking we’d be doing this. Wasn’t thinking, for a moment, about anything but him. In these seconds, Nick Fraser is all-consuming. He is my entire vision: those eyelashes, that scar I’m running my finger across, the look he’s giving me now that my shirt’s tugged off. Casting a glance down my body, across my stomach, over the lace of my cami.

“Never had a fighting chance, did I?” Nick says, breathing hard, pressure building in both of us, and I’m starting to wonder the same thing about myself. How could I ever think I wouldn’t fall for the target when the target was him ?

Heat spreads in my belly, working its way between my legs, every inch of me begging for him. One strap of my cami slips down, gravity, movement, and Nick lets out a ragged sigh, helping the other strap on its way, until the stiff peaks of my nipples hit the air, and— fuck , it’s freezing in this room, but Nick’s hand is warm as he palms one of my breasts, leaning over to flick his tongue across my nipple.

I liquify. I am snow, melting.

“You like that?” he rasps out, and I whimper, Yes, extremely, yes .

“For the record, Sydney,” he says, voice dangerously low, “if you’d come up to me that first night and said, quote, ‘Nick, I don’t have any panties on, and I want you between my thighs,’ yes. Yes, that would’ve had an effect on me. Just the sound of my name in your mouth...”

“Good to know,” I breathe, pawing at his shirt with almost-shaking hands, and his own fingers carve a line down my back, sending a full-on shiver down my spine. It’s frenzied, carnal, before he dips his head and kisses the freckles underneath my breasts, working his way down the middle of my stomach; at the waistline of my pajamas, he hesitates, as if to say, This all right? May I? Having this powerful man between my legs, staring up at me, asking for permission... it is by far the hottest thing I have ever seen. “We can stop,” he breathes out, “anytime you want.”

His gaze rakes over my face, possibly searching for those nonexistent tells. But I don’t want to stop. I want to watch him slowly tug down my pajama bottoms, revealing that while I might be wearing underwear, I also very obviously want him between my thighs. When Nick drops the rest of the way to his knees, slipping the thin lace aside, I’m slick. “So goddamn sexy, Sydney,” he rumbles, and I get it now. My name, his mouth—I really, really get it. Then he’s kissing me, tongue parting me. His lips hum against my most sensitive spot, making the breath rise quicker and quicker in my chest.

When he slips in a finger, it’s heaven. When he slips in another, my hips buck, needing more . “Condom?” I manage in an inside voice.

“In my wallet,” Nick says with a husky rasp, then seems to catch himself. “It wasn’t for you. It wasn’t for, I mean, I didn’t plan—”

“I know,” I gasp as he stands, digging out protection from the depths of his parka, and I undo his pants, plunging my hand into his briefs. Nick closes his eyes when I wrap my fingers around the solid heat of him, pumping slowly.

“If you want that Christmas sweatshirt,” he grits out, “it’s fucking yours .”

“Noted,” I breathe out, swallowing, my breath tremoring into the crook of his neck, and— right, the condom . I snag it from his grip, tearing it open as Nick steps out of his pants, stroking a hand over his significant length. “Do that again,” I say, hoarse, a little bit out of my mind, because I want to see how he touches himself when no one’s around. With a tighter grip this time, he strokes his cock up and down, a few tendons straining in his neck, and if I don’t get this man inside me, I think there’s a good chance I might explode. I roll on the condom, our foreheads pressed together. His hands reach to cup my ass, hoisting me up onto the dresser again as my legs wrap around him, pulling him closer. Our noses brush, both of us looking down as he slides into me with a thick, delicious thrust.

“ Sydney ,” he says at the same time I cry out, “ Yes , Nick.”

Never. It is never like this.

Normally I’m in my head, withdrawing to that place where I’m in the driver’s seat. Only me. Only showing what I want to be seen. Or I’m on top, completely in control, with the guy just lying there watching. Nick is in it. He’s active. He’s so firmly wrapped up in me, and I’m so wrapped up in him, that each thrust of his hips is a revelation. It’s a fucking gift.

Everything’s going a bit hazy. I don’t even know where it’s coming from, this new kind of noise I’m making—halfway between a whimper and a groan, like Nick is literally feeding me air; I can’t get enough of it, I keep taking. Small gasps. Bigger. My hands tumble through his hair, which is soft, so soft, gentle waves springing between my fingers.

“You aren’t unknowable,” Nick rasps, rolling against me, and I almost miss it. What he’s said. The other gift he’s given. “You aren’t. Unknowable. Sydney.”

His lips draw a tender line up my throat.

And I rush over the edge, my fingertips pressed hard into his skin; waves of relief rock my core as Nick groans into my shoulder, following me into the abyss. He trembles, muscles quivering, his breath just as unsteady as my own, and I’m clinging to him, like I’m afraid of what might happen if we fly apart.

I’ve always hated how my body reacts to an orgasm—that uncomfortable loss of control. The rush of pent-up emotions spilling out. With other guys, I’m able to stem it. Halt it. Go back to that bulletproof Sydney who walked through the bar door. But with Nick? I’m not exaggerating when I say I want to cry.

“I’m okay,” I say quickly, shaking my head as he searches my face. “It was good.” More than good. I’m just about to elaborate, about to open up even more, but humor feels safer. “I meant it about the Christmas sweatshirt.”

Nick’s laugh is rough and easy. Moving slow, he tucks a stray hair behind my ear and caresses my collarbone, breath floating in waves across my skin. “Take it. It’s yours.”

My chin crooks over his shoulder, and—“Oh, shit .”

Nick takes a step back, eyes widening. “What?”

I spin him around by the hips, gaze landing on the purple trail of bruises crowding his spine. “I thought you didn’t actually have an injury. I legitimately thought that. I am so sorry. You sparred with this?”

Shrugging, he tenderly presses around the area with his fingers. “I’ve had worse.”

My heart does a big, uncomfortable leap. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Besides ow, my ass ?”

“I meant tonight.”

He shrugs again. “Didn’t want to.”

That’s when my phone dings . Finally. Finally, some communication from Gail. Any news on the FBI mole? Nick and I both jolt, snapping us straight out of the haze, and I lurch for my phone on the nightstand, swiping up the screen to reveal—

That Dishies, the Italian restaurant in Cape Hathaway, is finally going to start serving pizza in the New Year. There’s a coupon, inexplicably, with a dancing beaver on it. I’m not even sure how they have my number.

I blow out a breath. “False alarm.”

Nick drags a hand across his forehead. “Maybe we... maybe we really should try to sleep. We’re no good in this state.”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, “yeah, okay.”

I’ve never required an after-sex debriefing before. Never wanted to stick around and suss out the details because there were no details. It was clear what would happen afterward. I’d go home. Back to my apartment or hotel room. Return to work without complications. Mission first. Job first. But now I’m wondering, What happens? Where do we go from here?

What was this to me? What was this to Nick?

I don’t ask. We pass each other one last breathless look before shuffling around the room, gathering our clothes, yanking them on with varying degrees of efficiency; my sweatshirt goes on backward at first. I twist it, jumping into my pajama bottoms at the same time, as Nick reties the waist of his sweatpants. I realize he’s as unsteady on his feet as I am, as shaky and wrapped in that post-sex haze. Wordlessly, neither of us takes the floor or the couch. We just slip into the cool hotel sheets, flicking off the lights.

For once, I’m in a hotel room and I don’t have to leave the TV on for the voices.

Someone’s with me as I fall into an uneasy sleep.