Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
Josie
One hour, two glasses of water, and a handful of antacids later, I roll up to the Shelton Farmers Market right on time.
The place is buzzing with activity—vendors coaxing people to try samples, kids on skateboards zigzagging between tote-wielding grandmas—and the air is alive with mingled scents of fresh herbs and baked goods.
I spot Axe almost immediately across the bustling fruit stand.
Hard not to. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and so impossibly good-looking it’s honestly annoying.
He’s carrying a huge wicker basket piled high with greens, and he looks like the farmers market version of the Brawny Man.
I take a deep breath and walk toward him, my feelings all tangled up between anticipation and doubt.
Axe spots me, waves, and flashes a grin that could light up a room, and, ugh, I can’t help but grin back.
As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something about him—an effortless charm that’s hard to ignore.
But…part of me still resists. I’m hesitant, maybe even a little wary. Sure, we’ve gotten closer, and the more I find out, the more I like. But I keep reminding myself: He’s Axe MacKenzie. Blunt, rough around the edges, and definitely not in my lane.
Honor told me that in all the years Strike’s known him, Axe has never been in love. Strike thinks he might not even do love. Like, he might be biologically incapable. Not that any of this should matter to me. I’m just here for a job.
As I approach, his smile widens even more, cranking up my pulse despite the queasiness churning in my stomach.
“A posy for Josie,” he teases in his lilting Scottish accent, handing me a big, fat sunflower from his basket. “Something to brighten your day.”
“Aw, thanks, Axe. It’s beautiful.” I pop it in my canvas tote. It feels like I’m carrying a smile.
“Did you manage all right last night? You were a bit crabbit when I dropped you off.”
“Crabbit?” I snort. “What the hell does crabbit mean?”
“You know, a little bit…um…”
“Bitchy?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that!” Axe gasps, feigning innocence.
“Wouldn’t blame you if you did. I wasn’t my normal happy self. My stomach was feeling off, but I’m better now.”
“We could do this another day,” he offers. “And, for the record, not always being happy doesn’t make you a bitch.”
“I’m fine,” I say, and instead of continuing to push, like Mom would, he drops it. Trusts me. No fuss, no fight. It’s weirdly…refreshing.
“So the tech wonks want this whole thing to feel ‘light and casual,’ ” he says, making air quotes.
“And they’ve got me wired for physiological reactions, and the mic will pick up both of our voices.
They wanted to wire you, too—but I nixed it.
I reckon we can build up to that. Bad enough that I feel like I’m part of a sting operation.
I thought my CIA days were well behind me. ”
“I thought the CIA was like the first rule of Fight Club. You don’t talk about it.” The corners of his mouth tick up, and I love that I can do that to him.
“Aye,” he says, his grin widening. “I guess you make me break the rules.”
I start to relax as we stroll through the market.
Having Axe by my side is definitely distracting me from my queasiness, and the easy flow of our conversation helps melt away some of the anxiety.
I know this isn’t my real life (my real life involves late-night praying to the porcelain gods and a cursed to-do list that never gets shorter), but this is close enough.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it: Saturday mornings like this, cool air on my face, filling a tote with fresh veggies and overpriced artisan soaps, a hot guy next to me, the world spinning just right. Like the messy parts don’t exist.
Not that it’s Axe in my little daydream, of course. When his face pops up in my mind, I push it aside.
When we pause at Chuck and Theo’s stand selling homemade jams, Axe holds up a jar of preserves, and his eyes twinkle with pure mischief.
“If I had to describe you with one of these jams, I might go with this one,” Axe says, showing me the label.
“ ‘Spiced peach,’ ” I read aloud as a hot blush creeps up my cheeks.
I shake my head. Fortunately, the man who must be Chuck—he, too, has a mohawk, like his husband, but instead of rainbow, his is somehow leopard—isn’t paying any attention to us.
“Actually, I’m more of a strawberry jam kind of girl,” I tell him.
“But for me, a good jam is less about the flavor.”
“Agree. All about the bread,” he says. “A fresh-baked, thick-sliced country white loaf, medium toasted.”
“That does sound delicious,” I admit with a shrug. “But I’m actually happy with any style of bread-shaped carb. Because, see, for me, it’s about the spread.”
“The spread?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I laugh. His accent inflects everything with innuendo.
“The jam’s got to be as even as a bedsheet, right to the edges of the toast.” I blush again, this time at my use of the word bedsheet. Probably didn’t need to bring beds into this. Much like he didn’t need to bring peaches.
Axe grins. “Ah, yes. I’ll bet you spread a mean toast, Josie.”
I manage to meet his gaze, and I can’t help myself but flirt back. After all, it’s my job, right?
“Oh, you have no idea,” I say.
“Josie Marie! What are you doing out here in the sun?! And without a hat?! You know better than that!”
Oh shit, shit, shit.
I freeze, the color draining from my face as my mother appears, weaving her way through the throngs of marketgoers.
She’s clutching a large canvas @MamaBearSharon bag—swag from some ancient GoFundMe, printed with a photo of eight-year-old me with my bald head, Mom smiling behind me, looking a lot younger and cuter.
As her eyes zombie-lock onto mine, it strikes me that she looks like she’s aged a century.
Axe seems to grasp the situation.
“You must be Josie’s mum,” he says, his smile as warm as apple pie as he extends his hand. “I’ve heard a fair bit about you.”
Mom takes Axe’s hand with limp fingers, but she doesn’t bother with so much as a hello, her eyes narrowing as she looks up and scrutinizes him for only a moment before turning her attention to me.
“Josie, why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone new? Poor Bryan is going to be devastated.”
Poor Bryan? What is she talking about? It would be funny if my mother didn’t look so bananas.
Somehow, seeing her out in public, with Axe right here next to me, I can take her in as everyone else might.
Her clown-red hair matches her clown-red lips, a terrible one-two punch.
Her floral silk blouse with way too many ruffles paired with a pencil skirt one size too tight.
A thick layer of jewelry—chunky gold bangles, oversized hoop earrings—completes the look, making her appear like she’s trying too hard to dress for a life she doesn’t have.
But the worst is her bag—with my sick face on it.
Like it’s cute. Like my misery is her fashion statement.
Strength, Josie. But I can also feel my courage buckling along with my stomach. The powerful urge to bolt—to leave Axe here with this live-action hot mess that happens to be my mother—nearly overwhelms me.
“Mom, I’m fine,” I say softly. “I’m actually working right now. Can you please leave us alone?”
“Working?” She sniffs. “You’re certainly not in good enough health to work—if that’s what this is—in the middle of the day. You look awful! Green at the gills! Are you feeling okay? You should be home in bed. Not gallivanting. What are you thinking?”
“I told you, I’m fine!” My tone is sharp. Even Axe can probably tell I’m teetering on the edge of truly bitchy. My mom looks hurt at first, but then decides to just bulldoze right past that. She forcefully grabs my arm as if she’s going to pull me home when Axe’s voice growls.
“Mrs. Greene, I’m afraid you’ll need to let go of your daughter and step back. We don’t want to get security involved.”
“My last name isn’t Greene. That was Josie’s late father’s last name.
I’m Mrs. Groznok. And Josie’s coming with me—” One of the fruit stand sellers—wait, I know that guy, he was my driver from the first date—steps forward.
In a few quick strides, he reaches us and firmly takes Mom’s arm, causing her to drop mine.
“Ma’am, we have reason to believe you’re causing a disturbance. We need to escort you from the premises. Please come with us.”
“Causing a disturbance?” Mom’s face is as red as a beet. “I’m hardly—Josie, tell them.”
I’m not sure what comes over me, but I decide not to intervene.
I am working, and I am fine. I’m twenty-six years old.
My mother should listen to me when I ask her politely to leave.
And so I let Axe’s guy whisk her off with such speed and efficiency that it’s like she was never here.
I know I’ll pay for this moment, maybe for the rest of my life, but the breath I exhale after she’s gone is one hundred percent worth it.
Axe and I just stand there for a moment, processing the weirdness of her whirlwind. His eyes on me are so full of concern, I feel mortified.
“Was that okay?” Axe asks. “I figured when you didn’t speak up, you were fine with security getting involved? In my experience with this sort of thing, moving fast breaks the momentum and de-escalates the drama. But I can call him and bring her back if that’s what you want.”
“No. No. Sorry,” I mumble. “Mom can be…intense. But she’s not that bad. Not once you get to know her. She is super protective. It comes from a place of…love.”
Axe doesn’t speak, only waits for me to go on. I don’t say that sometimes it doesn’t actually feel like love. That it feels like something altogether different.
“I know I look reasonably healthy now. But we had some really traumatic years. And she was the one who kept me safe and fed and clothed and dealt with all the gazillion doctors—somehow got all my hospital bills paid, too,” I add.