Chapter 10
I’m still in pajama bottoms and a worn T-shirt when my phone rings, the sound cutting through the soft morning quiet of my apartment.
Coffee cools in a half-finished mug on my desk, the pale February light spilling across my small studio apartment in thin lines without adding much warmth to the space.
It’s not quite seven, which is early for anyone familiar with my late hours, and I grab my phone with a scowl that vanishes the moment Orien’s name flashes on the screen.
My heart stutters in my chest. It’s the first time he’s called the number I gave him.
I answer on the second ring, my free hand going still around the mug. “Hey.”
“Come outside when I arrive,” Orien says, the words as spare as always.
I wait for more. There isn’t any.
“Should I be concerned about how you know where I live, stalker?”
His chuckle fills my ear. “Just come outside, trouble.”
I peer down at what I’m wearing. “How long do I have?”
“Twenty minutes.”
I want to push, to demand at least the courtesy of a destination or explanation, but the line goes dead before I decide whether I’m going to give in to the urge.
I stare at the darkened screen, the call already gone from my notification center, and my jaw clenches around a protest that never quite forms.
That’s Orien, demanding without demanding, offering no option but to comply.
I set the phone down with deliberate care and tell myself the flutter in my chest is irritation at the presumption, and not at the memory of being left kneeling on cold tile while Orien zipped up his pants and walked out.
Not at myself, for leaving through the side entrance instead of being an adult and going back out to the floor where I’m almost certain he was waiting.
And this…whatever it is, actually comes at a good time. I’m supposed to attend a family meeting this afternoon, and I’ve been putting off dealing with a routine report because they hadn’t liked the one I sent last night about the results, or lack of results, from the data crawler.
Chugging the last of my coffee, I take the fastest shower in existence, my mind racing through possibilities. Could this be my official invite into the crew? A test job for Rowan? Information he wants to pass along from his interrogation of my fake tip?
Or maybe—
I shut the thought down before it can fully form, not letting myself hope for a moment that doesn’t include more spy work.
Once I dry off, I snap my nape guard on, the metal plate warm with condensation from the steam of my shower, and I walk out of the bathroom to open my closet.
The first outfit I pull out, a pair of charcoal slacks and a navy button-down, gets set aside almost immediately. It’s too formal, too much like what I wear for family meetings. The next option, a pair of ripped jeans and a henley with the sleeves rolled back, doesn’t feel Lee enough.
The third, a blazer and leather pants, is closer to what I wear when meeting with our contacts in the Southbank, and I drop it on the bed with a frustrated sound.
None of them are right. None of them are me. Not the me I am with the family, nor the me I’ve been with Orien. Not even the me I sometimes let myself be alone in my apartment without the risk of anyone seeing me.
I stand in front of the closet, fingers gripping the edge of the door, and breathe through the moment of uncertainty.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, and reach for a pair of high-waisted, loose-legged black trousers instead.
They hug my slender waist, and the pleats add volume to my hips and ass. A fitted cream, long-sleeved shirt gets tucked, and I pause, considering before I select a leather belt that wraps twice around my waist and buckles off center, leaving the crescent moon charm dangling just over my hip bone.
The burnt orange and cream cardigan I never wear outside of the apartment gets shrugged over my shoulders next, the fabric cloud-soft on my skin. It’s warm enough to stave off the winter chill, so I won’t need a jacket.
I leave the cardigan unbuttoned and open the jewelry box on top of my dresser.
It holds the few accessories I allow myself.
Cufflinks for formal occasions, my father’s watch, and a handful of tie clips I never use.
At the very back sits the jeweled ornament my mother gave me when I turned eighteen, a small crescent of metal meant to hook over my nape guard, the tiny gems set in a perfect curve.
My hand closes around it before I can reconsider.
The metal is cool around my throat as I hook it into place, and it settles in the hollow of my throat. My fingers pause on the sparkly hair clip. I don’t want to wear it, but if an opportunity arises and I don’t have it…
With a huff, I pull my bangs off to the side and clip them in place behind my ear.
I’m ready to go a little early, so I tuck my phone into my pocket, grab my wallet and keys from the desk, and head out the door.
As I head downstairs, I want to text Alexei and tell him I can’t attend the meeting, but there are still six hours before I need to decide.
I’m out on the sidewalk in front of my building when Orien pulls up in a dark sedan. Instead of trying to find a parking spot on the busy street, he turns on his hazard lights, stops in the middle of traffic, and rolls down his window.
“Get in.”
“So chivalrous,” I mutter as I walk to the curb and open the door, sliding into the passenger seat.
The cab of the vehicle is warm from the blasting heater, and the air carries hints of soap and the faintest trace of motor oil.
Orien sits behind the wheel in a charcoal jacket with the collar turned up against the chill, ignoring the car behind him who honks in irritation as he waits for me to buckle in.
As I settle back in the seat, he turns off the hazards and starts driving.
Silence stretches between us as Orien focuses on the road, his hands relaxed on the wheel. As the city slides past the window, I wait for him to break first.
He doesn’t.
After five minutes, I can’t take it anymore. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“No.”
I roll my eyes. “So helpful.”
“It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise,” I repeat.
Surprises are rarely a good thing in my line of work.
Orien doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement.
We leave the downtown core behind, traffic thinning as we move west into Ashford Heights proper.
The buildings around us get lower, then older, brick and stone replacing the steel and glass of the financial district.
Street vendors sell coffee and breakfast to early morning workers, and kids with backpacks wait at corners for school buses.
Orien turns into a strip mall parking lot, pulling into a space near the back before cutting the engine.
I sit up straighter, head turning to take in the space around us. “What are we doing here?”
He climbs out without answering.
With a huff of frustration, I follow, pulling my cardigan tighter around my shoulders. The strip mall is mostly closed, a few shop windows lit for early morning business, but at the far end of the lot—
I stop with my hand still on the door handle, the sound dying in my throat.
A pop-up fair spreads across the asphalt, lights strung between rented stanchions.
Folding game booths line the edges of the lot, painted plywood and hand-lettered signs announcing chances to win, and they even have a roller coaster and Ferris wheel.
The aroma of fried dough and popcorn cuts through the cool air, cinnamon sugar, frying oil, and corn dogs making my mouth water.
A hand-painted banner reading Ashford Heights Community Fair sags between two poles, the edges rippling in the morning breeze.
I say nothing, not trusting my voice.
Orien circles the front of the car, his hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders set with what might be discomfort. “It’s not much, but I thought—”
“You thought what?” I ask when he doesn’t finish.
He shrugs. “That you might like it.”
I look back at the small fair.
I’ve been to a thousand functions in my life, charity galas and fundraising dinners, gallery openings and private showings, every kind of event where important people gather to see and be seen. I’ve worn tuxedos and three-piece suits, made conversation with politicians and mob bosses.
I have never been to a community fair.
“Come on,” Orien says, and starts across the parking lot.
I trot to catch up to him.
The fair is just opening, staff still setting up some of the booths and checking equipment. A woman with a clipboard stands at the entrance, and Orien hands her cash for two tickets.
She stamps our hands, a star for him and a moon for me, and we step inside.
Orien’s hands stay out of his pockets, but he doesn’t reach for mine, and I don’t want to risk being rejected if I try, so I keep my hands at my sides.
We stop at the first booth to read the hand-lettered sign.
WIN A PRIZE!! THREE THROWS FOR FIVE DOLLARS!!
I study his profile. “You’ve never been to one of these, have you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re reading the instructions for a dart throw.”
He doesn’t answer, which is its own answer.
“I haven’t, either,” I admit, and he cuts me a sharp look.
A toddler in a puffy teal coat careens out of nowhere, bounces off Orien’s legs, and sits down hard on the asphalt.
The wailing starts immediately.
Orien crouches without hesitating, and I go still.
“Hey, buddy.” The greeting carries a softness I’ve never heard before. “You’re not really hurt, are you?”
The wailing cuts off on a hiccup, and the kid blinks up at him.
“There you go.” Orien slides his hands under the little boy’s arms and sets him back on his feet. “Now. Where’s your adult?”
A woman comes rushing over, breathless. “I’m so sorry!”
Orien waves it off. “Not a problem.”
She takes the boy’s hand and steers him away toward the funnel cake, and the whole thing is over in under a minute.
As they head off, Orien straightens and brushes his palms over his jacket.
He catches me staring. “What?”
I give myself a shake and hook a thumb toward the dart booth. “Play me for funnel cake? Whoever loses has to buy.”
“The person who initiated the date buys,” he says with a stern frown.
My eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t realize this was a date, seeing as how you didn’t ask.”
He scowls. “It’s a date.”
“Still not an ask.” With a smirk, I spin on my heel and approach the booth, pulling out my wallet.
Orien gets there first and slaps down a five-dollar bill.
He casts me a smug look as the teenager manning the booth sets out six darts.
“Still doesn’t mean this is a date,” I say as I return my wallet to my pocket.
Orien picks up the first dart. “Loser pays?”
“Them’s the rules,” I agree.
His grips the dart too far back on the barrel, wrist angled like he’s never held anything like it before. I keep my mouth shut, because I recognize the tactic.
“The inner ring,” I tell him helpfully. “That’s the one you want.”
“I can see where the rings are.”
“Just making sure.”
He throws. The dart lands just outside the inner ring, quivering in the canvas. The second throw lands in the outer ring.
“Huh,” I say.
“It’s not as easy as it seems.”
“Is that so?”
He picks up the third dart and throws. The dart lands wide.
Orien steps back from the counter and turns to me. “Your turn.”
“I’m terrible at darts,” I lie.
“Can’t be worse than I am.”
We’ll just see about that.
I pick up the first dart and throw it wide. The second catches the outer ring and drops. I take my time with the third, the way I would if I were trying in earnest, and put it inside the inner ring, close enough to Orien’s two for the teenager to lean closer and compare them.
“You won by one point,” the kid points to Orien, already back on his phone.
Our eyes meet, and I shrug. “Guess I’m buying the funnel cake.”
“One more game,” he says, gesturing to the booth next door.
And because I’m not ready to stop playing yet, I agree.