Chapter Thirty-Six
Thirty-Six
Josie
Axe raises a finger and mouths, One sec, then steps away down the boardwalk to take the call. I’m just standing there, frozen, my lips still tingling like they’ve been branded. What is even happening to me? I’ve never felt like this. Not with Bryan. Not with any of those awkward guys before him.
I’m literally craving him. Aching in places I didn’t even know could ache, and I have no clue if I can handle this level of…
whatever this is. I’ve got a high pain tolerance, but do I have a high enough tolerance for this?
The kind of connection where you just hand over your heart and hope they don’t drop it?
“Is it done?” Axe asks into his phone, his question carried over with the wind. The call’s timing couldn’t have been a coincidence. The universe is telling us to cool our jets, to take a step back, not to cross this line. Right?
“Aye, aye,” Axe says, and I can’t help but smile. He sounds like a pirate. I wish I’d brought a white ruffled blouse for dinner tonight; Axe would have cracked up. Maybe I can scrounge up a parrot for my shoulder.
“We’ll move on him as soon as I’m back. Nice work,” Axe says, and there’s an edge of triumph in his voice. I wonder what happened? Did he secure more funding for his project?
“Everything all right?” I ask when he ends the call.
“Yup. Just our bro Skipper calling to confirm dinner.” I look skeptical, but Axe is sticking with his story. “Sure you want to cancel the posh French place?”
“One hundred percent,” I say with a laugh, thinking about Niles and his offer of snail tartare. “Let’s keep things simple.”
—
We head back to the hotel to shower and change. Axe has been in a good mood since his call—yeah, definitely not Skip—but it’s not my place to push. If he’s lying, he’s probably got his reasons. And judging by that smug smile he keeps trying to hide, I’m assuming it’s SynthoTech-related.
We take turns getting ready in the bathroom, both of us pretending not to notice the giant king-size bed right there in the middle of the room, taunting us.
I’ve put on my navy polka-dot sheath; Strike comes out wearing dark blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a baby-blue cashmere sweater so soft it makes me want to rub my face against it.
The not-French, not-fancy restaurant Skip picked for us is called the Sock Hop Stop, a cute retro diner a block away from the Nautical Nook.
We slide into a bright red vinyl booth as “Rock Around the Clock” plays from the jukebox in the corner. The walls are plastered with framed classic posters of fifties icons and shiny records, giving the place a cute authentic vibe.
Our waitress (name tag: Sally) bounces over to us.
She’s got on a poodle skirt and saddle shoes, and she looks like she just stepped out of a fifties movie.
Shimmy Beach sure loves a costume. “Hey there, doll!” she says, her eyes lighting up as she takes in my outfit.
“Your dress is the bee’s knees! You look like you stepped right out of a vintage magazine. ”
“Aw, thanks.” I smile.
What Sally doesn’t know as she slides over our laminated menus and starts hyping up the “classics”—milkshakes (“malt’s the best, obvi”) and cheeseburgers—is that Axe and I are basically undercover.
We’ve got recording devices strapped under our clothes and little monitor stickers stuck to our chests like we’re walking science experiments.
Later, each dumb joke and awkward laugh we share will be fed into some AI program, analyzing every tiny heartbeat blip like it’s cracking the code to our souls.
This is my first time wearing the tech, and I decide my best bet is to pretend it’s not even there. I have no idea how any of it actually works; I’ve chosen blissful ignorance.
The whole point, I know, is for us to believe this date is real.
Sounds great in theory, making our reactions seem genuine, but in practice, it feels risky.
I have to keep reminding myself this is a job.
Like I’m pinching myself to wake up from a dream.
These new feelings I have about Axe are as synthetic as this diner’s corny fifties vibe or when someone declares their love on The Bachelor. Except…there was that kiss.
Even now, the way Axe absently runs a hand through his tousled hair while studying the menu is so distracting that it’s becoming way harder to tell what’s genuine and what’s not. How can anyone look so effortlessly handsome while deciding if he wants cheese fries?
As I sit across from him, every fiber of my being is telling me this is the real thing.
Hoo boy. I try to lose myself in the upbeat energy of the Sock Hop Stop and Sally.
I’d bet my paycheck she’s a romantic, dreamy Pisces.
The place is buzzing, packed with tourists all in on the corny, rained-out delights of Shimmy Beach.
The jukebox is now blasting “Good Vibrations,” and the smell from the grill is a total sensory overload, making it easy to forget that we’re being monitored.
I look up from my menu to see Axe staring at me with a smile that could light up Times Square.
“What?”
“You,” he replies, his eyes twinkling. “You’re glowing. Like you belong right here inside this timeline. I suppose an all-American girl is every Scotsman’s fantasy.”
I laugh, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks, suddenly remembering those Highland Heartthrobs books I used to binge-read as a kid.
It was a series about Scottish avengers and the women who loved them.
Tartan kilts, manly thighs, even bagpipes made the cut as sexy.
Thanks to those books, I now know that real Scots go regimental—a fancy way of saying they wear nothing underneath those kilts.
Safe to say I never looked at tartan the same way again.
“I’m getting the burger and a Coke Zero,” I declare.
“Ah, I thought for certain that you’d fancy a milkshake.”
I repress a shiver.
“Nope. Milkshakes were ruined for me forever when I was a kid. They’d tell me barium tasted like a vanilla shake before X-rays. Lies, all lies. Can’t touch them now,” I say, and I wave my hand like I’m clearing the memory. “So, does Scotland also have theme restaurants?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Axe replies with a wry smile. “I didn’t go to restaurants much as a kid. My upbringing was…unorthodox. I grew up on a small island with an estate that looked like it belonged on a postcard. On sunny days, it was breathtaking. On rainy days, it felt like a dungeon.”
“Yes, but for this Shelton townie, that sounds like living in a literal fairy tale,” I say.
“Like weather doesn’t even matter, except maybe if there’s the occasional dragon lurking around.
” I pause, then add, “Honestly, it’s kinda hard to picture you as a kid.
I mean, I can’t imagine you as anything but this perfectly polished, in-control CEO daddy.
” I cover my mouth. I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud.
“CEO daddy?” Axe repeats, amusement dancing in his eyes as his mouth twitches with a smirk.
“You know what I mean!”
“Well, but growing up, I was a sensitive lad. I wore specs, and once the internet finally made it to our neck of the woods, I got obsessed with computers and coding. That’s how I ended up meeting Strike and eventually joining the CIA.
I was desperate to leave home and hopefully do a bit of good in the world. ”
“No way. You were a nerd?”
“A proper bookworm!” His laughter is a roar.
“Ah, you don’t believe me. But yes, the library was my hideout.
I’d camp out there for days, devouring every book I could lay my hands on.
” Honor once told me that Strike and Axe have a top secret bro book club, meeting religiously every week, with a patented algorithm to ensure diverse reading.
I thought she was pulling my leg, but now I’m not so sure.
Good thing they don’t allow outsiders; Honor and I would probably get pregnant watching those two gorgeous CEO daddies discuss literature.
“I wish I had known you then,” I say as Sally reappears to take our orders, rescuing me from my overshare.
There are no more embarrassing childhood confessions for the rest of dinner, though Axe does dive into his casual list of epic adventures, which involve hot-air ballooning over the Serengeti and scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef.
“The colors of the coral and the fish are unlike anything you can imagine,” he says, his eyes soft. “It’s a bit like playing inside rainbows.”
While I don’t have anything exotic to share, I explain my plan to get outside by sunrise tomorrow to look for treasures on the beach.
“Believe it or not, I’ve never actually put my toes near the lake before,” I admit, a little sheepishly, though Axe doesn’t need to hear it again—how my mother was afraid of everything from riptides to jellyfish to the petri dish of ocean germs, all waiting to pounce.
“You know,” says Axe, as if reading my thoughts, “I meant to tell you earlier, but for a bairn as sickly as you supposedly were, you’re surprisingly…hearty. We’ve spent an entire day together, and I haven’t seen you so much as sneeze.”
I nod as my eyes prickle. I’ve been thinking about this so much lately—how my mother’s worries, at least sometimes, might have been more about her own anxieties than my actual health. But it’s not a thought that I’m quite ready to share.
“I guess I grew out of some of it,” I say, my voice steady. “I still have to be careful, but yeah.” I smile. “It’s time to take risks and live on my own terms.” My hands are sweaty; I take a breath. Not good for the app.
At that moment, Sally returns with the check, placing it on the table with a smile. “Enjoy the rest of your night, kiddos,” she says with a knowing smile. Which is funny because I bet that whatever she’s thinking doesn’t involve haptic suits.
Axe tosses a few bills onto the table without even glancing at the total—Sally’s easily getting a 50 percent tip.
It’s go time. As we head out of the diner, Axe’s eyes lock onto mine, a flame of something exhilarating passing between us.
But reality tugs me every bit as hard. What we’re about to do isn’t just a moment between Axe and me.
Every move we make is about to be sliced, diced, and fed into the algorithm.
And I really need this job. My medical history means I have no choice but to be on constant lookout, that the threat of expensive treatments always lurks in the shadows.
I can’t forget that in recent days, I both had the stomach flu and passed out while driving.
Funny how, despite all this, I’ve never felt more alive.
I let out a small sigh, barely audible over the rain, which has started up again, as I try to ground myself in the here and now.
Axe pops open the umbrella—because of course he remembered to bring one—so that it shields us both, and he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, his touch offering a tiny moment of calm and comfort in the storm of my thoughts.
As we walk back to the hotel, I steal another glance at him, determined to savor this connection before the next-level suits and their high-tech sensors intrude. I want to enjoy this for what it is: something real—almost real?—in a world of simulations.
Even if, soon enough, everyone will have my data in their hands and know just how real it feels to me.