A Spy Worth Jonesing For

1. Less Like a Lady

less like a lady

Mirren

“Hurry, Mirren.”

“Shh. Seriously?” I rip my elbow from Mom’s grip.

“What—you think the walls are listening?” Her words are in direct contrast to her actions, seeing as how we’re rushing from the elevator room toward the emergency exit stairwell several doors away.

Red-and-gold patterned carpet—the kind only found in luxury hotels—is thick and lush beneath our feet, but most importantly, it muffles our hurried footsteps.

“Of course they’re listening.” My words come out on a hiss.

Or they should be if they know what they’re doing.

She knows. She knows. Why is she playing this so fast and loose? She’s too smart for this. But she’s amped, and Mom high on adrenaline is an untamed beast. Or, rather, an untamable one.

“Act natural.”

Act natural? As if I don’t know what I’m doing. As if I need her direction and coaching. Again… Or still.

“I can handle myself.” I whip my gaze up to hers. “Can you?”

I’m rethinking telling her about this op. More so, I regret allowing my handler to bring her in. Sure, she’s seasoned, but she’s getting caught up in the thrill and forgetting the job. And we’re too close to home to allow for either.

Hell, that’s the reason we were called in—proximity to the event and experience in the field being the primary two. Even if she’s long-since retired.

The thrill of the hunt can never shift our focus from the objective. Priority one is staying alive. Priority one-point-five is catching the bad guy.

My bosses would say the opposite, but I don’t care. It’s my life, so I’ll protect it at all costs. At this point, I need to protect my mom’s, too, since she’s reliving her glory days without the caution or wisdom the experience afforded her.

At the sound of voices coming from around the corner, she looks over her shoulder, the hair of the dark wig fanning out around her.

Without another word, she does the unthinkable.

She knocks on the door directly in front of us and, with a fake broken accent, says louder than is strictly necessary, “Room service.”

The whole undercover, never-be-seen-or-heard thing vanishes.

The door swings open to— Wow. Just… wow.

A beautiful man stands in the doorway, a white towel slung dangerously low on his hips.

He’s fit in the way a runner is with long, lean muscles.

His biceps bunch as he rubs a smaller towel through his wet hair.

Water runs in rivulets over his defined pecs and into the dips made by his impressive abdominals.

Confusion mars his handsome face, but it wars with curiosity... and appreciation.

“I didn’t order—”

Mom propels me through the door on a shove and yanks it closed behind me with a loud clunk, no doubt scurrying away.

“Room service,” the man finishes as I tumble into his broad chest, careful to not steady myself by grabbing onto the towel at his waist.

Heat flushes my skin. And not because of embarrassment.

Attraction? Sure.

Anger? Definitely.

My mother just sidelined me on my own op. She’s off making a mess—no doubt something that will require me to do clean-up and owing an explanation to the agency—while I’m pressed against a man who smells like soap and bad decisions.

He’s everything that draws me in. Healthy, handsome, with crystalline blue eyes and lines that radiate from their sides as if he’s spent plenty of time smiling, and a hint of a cleft in his chin. Enough that he has an edge to his face.

“I’m sorry.” Not that I should be apologizing, but manners in this part of the country are engrained.

The sun is hot. The tea is sweet. Football is life, and manners are expected no matter what. I hold his gaze. “I could kill her.”

I don’t add that she’s my mother.

Or that I’m working.

Or that places are tingling that shouldn’t…

Because there’s shit to do.

Strider

If this is the kind of room service the hotel provides, color me intrigued…. And weirded out. I didn’t think a place in coastal Alabama would serve up a beautiful woman with coffee. Minus the coffee.

The woman in my arms is young, gorgeous… and pissed, if the color in her cheeks is anything to go by.

Mostly to herself, she adds, “I might kill her, actually.”

She squirms from my hold and returns to the hotel room door. But instead of running for her life from a strange man she doesn’t know and is essentially trapped with, she presses her ear to the place the steel kisses the frame and leans in.

“No offense, but—”

She holds up her hand in a gesture somewhere between wait and shush.

And I shut up. I don’t know why. Well, I do. And I’m annoyed by it.

One, I didn’t order room service. Two, this isn’t room service. Three, I’m in only a towel that allows the air-conditioned breeze to flow dangerously near my dick while a beautiful woman is in my hotel suite.

And she’s shushing me.

Of all the odd things a work trip could bring, this is the last I would have ever imagined.

I grab my underwear and pants and head into the bathroom. “Excuse me,” I offer as I close myself in.

Did I really just pardon myself in my own room from the woman who barged in? I’m too nice. More aptly, I’m too polite.

I dry off my exposed skin, as dry as one can get when the humidity outside is the same as inside the shower, and pull on my boxers and khakis.

I run my fingers through my towel-dried hair and pull open the door to find the woman staring through the peep hole, a cell phone in one hand, her thumbs flying over the keyboard without even a glance down.

“Excuse me,” I repeat, more forcefully this time, sliding my glasses on. This time it’s not in an effort to be polite.

When she doesn’t acknowledge me, I consider what it would take to get her attention and, coming up with nothing, press my ear to the door, facing her.

We’re inches apart, our breaths mingling, and I stare at her as she gazes away, deep in concentration.

“What are we listening for?” I whisper, noticing too late the pounding of my heart, the cold of the metal pressing into my shoulder and neck, and the freckles that tiptoe across her button nose.

Her eyes flit to mine. They’re an odd gray-green—neither hazel, nor blue. They’re captivating. And they’re doing their job, because I’m held hostage in their depths.

She studies me, her eyes roaming me from hairline to chin, making me wish I hadn’t shaved before my shower. Maybe I’d look more rugged or at least less boyish. I thought this baby-face thing would’ve faded by my age. I was wrong.

Forty, single, and cute wasn’t where I saw my life going. Then again, being alive is enough on most days.

“They’re gone.” Her words are quiet and sure, but her gaze never leaves me.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your morning.” She moves back and pulls open the door. “Enjoy your stay in Fairhope.”

She studies me for one more moment—appraising me with an appreciation I’m glad I didn’t experience earlier—and is gone.

Enjoy your stay in Fairhope.

I don’t know about that, unnamed lady. While the Gulf Coast is one of my favorite places, this trip is a mix of continuing education seminars and social get-togethers. Is that something people enjoy or is it something we simply tolerate?

I’m going with the latter. And since I’m on the board of the National Association of Electrical Contractors, it means I get to have business meetings in lieu of the social outings.

Boring. Boring. Triple boring.

I scheduled four days away from Peoria, Illinois, hoping for a refresh in the middle of a dreary fall. It turns out south Alabama doesn’t do autumn or they’re abstaining this year, so I got the break I was looking for.

Not from the classes which are dull.

Not from the meetings that are cringeworthy.

Not from the evening cocktail hour where, hours later, my eyes scan the patrons looking for the woman who collapsed into my naked chest with an oof.

She smelled like sunshine, citrus, and something a little dangerous, and acted less like a lady and more like a badass. All the while, she was so darn cute, it made my balls ache and my dick want to say hello.

Her dirty blonde hair melted to sun-kissed yellow on the ends. Her face was too remarkable to dissolve into this kind of crowd. And her presence? Her presence was commanding. There’s no other word for it.

But I’m intrigued, because Freckles—as I’ve decided to call her—is the most memorable thing to happen to me since my birthday in July. That’s a whole other story, but needless to say, it was unforgettable.

I finish my beer and head back to my room, listening to the chatter as I go. Revenue forecasting, increasing market share, penetrating new markets, new delivery options, blah blah blah.

The most interesting conversation—aside from this morning’s in my room—was one on devices that impact grid security. That’s not usually our thing. We’re not producers. We’re get-it-to-the-end-user folks.

We calculate load. We pull wire. We design schematics to have homes and businesses operate properly.

Most of us rarely suggest appliances, large or small, on the end of those loads. I’m surprised anyone here would get into those recommendations. Inputting ourselves on anything of that nature is asking for a headache that’s not worth any kind of commission.

Glancing down the hall, I think for one moment I see the woman who launched Freckles into my arms this morning.

But I must be wrong. That woman was as tall as me and had dark hair; this one is strawberry blonde.

My eyes or the beer must be playing tricks on me.

I blame the humidity. Otherwise, I’ll have to admit I need the stupid “bump” they keep insisting would help me read shit on my phone.

It comes down to bifocals, or I have to lay off the IPAs. Neither of those are options.

The next morning, I check out of the Prestige Hotel on Mobile Bay, but instead of driving back to the airport, I push out my flight and book an Airbnb in town, one I’ve dreamed of exploring since the first time I came here.

The chances of her being close are slim to none. Locals don’t book nearby hotels. But leaving here is leaving the only place I’ve felt alive in longer than I care to admit.

Her grip on my shoulders.

Her stranglehold on my mind.

The dream of her grasp on me.

And those dreams were vivid. Last night, Freckles starred in mine as I slept. She was sultry. She was funny. She was sexy as fuck. I wanted more. I needed more. I woke up hard and jonesing for a fix that I could not slake.

I need to see her again. I need one more glance at those dots dancing across her pert nose, one more gaze into those fathomless eyes. I need to feel her body pressed against mine again, but in desire and longing instead of an effort not to tumble.

And if there’s any chance of that in Fairhope, Alabama, I’ll gladly accept the choking humidity and the unending summer.

And the damn mosquitos in freaking November.