Chapter 8 #2
She set down her fork, appetite vanishing. “Why? Maybe this is just mission adrenaline. We’re . . . we live such different lives. And this is just . . . it’s just pretend.”
“Is it?”
“Stop. Yes. It is.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. Looked away.
Sheesh. “What do you want me to say?”
He looked back at her. “I want you to acknowledge that . . . that there’s something here that’s not an act.”
She swallowed. “Yes, okay, fine. You’re . . . unexpected. And . . . cute.”
“You mean hot.” He smiled.
Shoot. So hot. She rolled her eyes, but yeah, he had this way of making everything better. Then she sighed.
“What was that?”
“It’s just . . . nothing.”
“Chloe.”
The way he said her name—patient, understanding, as if he had all day to wait for her answer—made something crack inside her chest.
“Fine.” She grabbed her water glass. “You want the whole sad story? Here it is. I date men who are fascinated by my job. Strong, independent woman fights for truth, saves the world one story at a time. Very attractive in theory.”
“But?”
“But theory only lasts until the reality sets in. Until they realize I mean it when I say my work matters. Until I miss dinner because I’m chasing a lead, or cancel vacation because a story breaks, or disappear for weeks investigating something dangerous.
I don’t go home, Skeet. Because I don’t have a home. ”
Skeet said nothing, just watched her with those steady green eyes that made her feel exposed and safe and beautiful all at the same time.
“Then comes the concern trolling.” She took a drink of the ice-cold water.
“The ‘maybe you should consider a safer career’ suggestions. The ‘I just want you to be happy’ conversations that really mean ‘I want you to be different.’ The ‘you’re too focused on work’ arguments from men who wouldn’t think of giving up their jobs, but I’m supposed to give up mine.
And I get it—because their jobs don’t involve getting shot at, but still—”
“How many times?”
“Shot at?”
“How many relationships ended that way?”
“Four. Five if you count Marcus.”
“And you think I’m going to be number six.”
It wasn’t a question. The certainty in his voice made her chest tight.
“Aren’t you?”
Instead of answering, Skeet reached for another piece of mango, chewing while she tried not to fidget under his scrutiny.
“I dated a doctor once,” he said finally. “Emergency-room surgeon. Brilliant woman. Saved lives every day.”
Chloe blinked at the non sequitur. “Okay?”
“She broke up with me because I was ‘emotionally unavailable.’ Said I used my job as an excuse to avoid real intimacy.”
“Did you?”
“Probably.” He met her gaze steadily. “I also dated a lawyer who wanted me to quit Jones, Inc., because the uncertainty was too stressful for her. And a teacher who thought my work was ‘unnecessarily dangerous’ and couldn’t understand why I chose it when I could do something safer.”
Understanding dawned. “They wanted to fix you.”
“Change me, anyway. Make me into someone they could handle instead of someone they could trust.”
She stared at him. “I trust you.”
He cocked his head. “Then why did you follow me last night?”
Oh. That. Her mouth opened.
He smiled.
“Fine. Okay. I was worried.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“We’re partners.”
He narrowed his eyes, as if assessing her words.
“What? Aren’t we? Isn’t that what together means?”
“When I was on the SEAL teams, we each had a job to do. I did mine, the guys did theirs, and we worked together. Which meant trusting each other when—”
“It goes both ways, Easton.”
He blinked at the use of his given name.
“I’m just saying that . . . if I told you to stay back, you wouldn’t do it.”
He drew in a breath and his mouth tightened.
“And yes. Fine. Of course I care about you.” She swallowed. “Probably more than is healthy. But . . . I don’t see a way out for us here.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means—”
Skeet’s phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen, and his entire posture shifted. “Coco,” he said, thumb hovering over the answer button. “This could be important.”
And it probably saved her, because she didn’t quite want to say the end of that sentence.
It means it’s over as soon as you leave.
“Take it,” she said. Looked away.
Shoot, a part of her wanted to throw the phone into the sea. Her heart and her brain needed to start working together too.
Skeet answered, putting it on speaker. “What’ve you got?”
“Hope you two enjoyed your little vacation,” Coco said, “because it’s officially over.”
Wait. But they hadn’t seen the meeting, or the participants—this wasn’t over—
Skeet leaned back. “What happened?”
“We found Volkov’s Bangkok operation. Warehouse district, near the port. But that’s not the scary part.”
“What’s the scary part?” Skeet asked, his voice shifting into mission mode.
“They’re not shipping the toxin anywhere. They’re making it airborne.”
The words hit like ice water. “Airborne how?”
“The building schematics in the files I downloaded are for ICONSIAM. Busiest retail center in Thailand, thousands of people every day.”
Chloe looked at Skeet. “How will they attack?”
“We don’t know. Ham is sending the team to Bangkok. You two need to get there now. We need to confirm what we’re dealing with before we can plan an intervention at the mall.”
“Send me the coordinates,” Skeet said, already reaching for his shirt. “We’ll be on the road in twenty minutes.”
“Already done. And Skeet? Be careful. If we’re right about this, Volkov is developing a bioweapon.”
The line went dead, leaving Skeet and Chloe staring at each other across the remnants of their interrupted lunch.
“Vacation over,” Skeet said, but his tone was flat, all the warmth from their conversation evaporated.
Chloe nodded. “We should pack,” she said, getting up.
“Right.”
They moved toward the cabana’s exit, the romantic paradise suddenly a farce. At the entrance, Skeet paused, his hand on her arm.
“Chloe.”
She looked at him, her heart thundering.
“This conversation isn’t over.”
The promise in his voice made her pulse skip. And shoot—again, no coordination between her brain and heart, because she said, “Okay.”
“Good.” His fingers squeezed gently before releasing her. “Because when this is finished—when we stop Volkov and save those people—we’re going to figure out what comes next.”
She gave a nod—a nod!—but said nothing else as they hurried back to their rooms, as she threw clothes into her bag with shaking hands, as they checked out of paradise and headed toward whatever waited in Bangkok.
Because if she was honest, she didn’t want the honeymoon to end.
Surveillance was just an excuse to eat street food and avoid important conversations.
At least, that’s what Skeet was going with after six hours of silence and humidity as they parked outside the warehouse Coco had found near one of Bangkok’s industrial wharves.
The rental car reeked of sweat, coffee, and lemongrass.
Chloe had found some spring rolls and pad thai earlier, and now the containers sat in the back seat, souring in the sun.
That and the diesel fumes from passing trucks mixed with the smell of welding from a nearby shop and the funk of river water all swilled into an industrial cocktail that made his eyes water.
Beside him, Chloe lowered the binoculars and rubbed her temples. “Still nothing.”
He adjusted the rearview mirror for the hundredth time, watching the warehouse district shimmer in Bangkok’s twilight heat. The Chao Phraya River curved beyond the industrial zone, its muddy waters reflecting the concrete and steel that lined both banks.
The district sprawled along the river’s edge—corrugated-metal warehouses, loading docks jutting into the brown water, and truck terminals where 18-wheelers maneuvered between buildings that had seen better decades.
Massive cargo containers stacked like LEGOs created a maze between the water and the main road, while overhead cranes arched, skeletons against the hazy sky.
Longtail boats puttered past barges loaded with rice and construction materials.
“Patience.” The word came out rougher than intended. Hard to sound Zen when your nerves felt like live wires.
What does that mean? Maybe he’d cut her off because he didn’t really want to know the end of that sentence. Because somewhere along the way, she’d started to mean more to him than just . . . well, a partner.
Like he’d said in Bangkok—they were far, far from partners.
They’d left the resort yesterday afternoon—paradise to this in less than twenty-four hours. Last night at the Bangkok Airbnb had been all business. He’d rented a car, found them an Airbnb big enough for the team, grabbed some winks, then met her for breakfast before finding the warehouse.
The stakeout had started at noon. Now the sun was sliding toward the horizon, painting the warehouse walls orange.
And still, Chloe hadn’t finished her sentence. It means . . .
It means she didn’t feel the same things he did. It means that when this was over, well, he’d go back to America.
Pretend this never happened.
Right.
“Volkov should have been here hours ago,” Chloe said. “Maybe Coco’s intel was wrong.”
“Or maybe our guy’s being careful.” Skeet reached for another container of som tam Chloe had just picked up from a vendor three blocks away. The lime-and-chili burn helped keep him alert.
“True.” She accepted the plastic fork he offered, their fingers brushing in the exchange.
That simple contact sent too much heat up his arm.
Stop it. So what if she was attractive? And smart. He was clearly back where he’d started—letting his emotions distract him from his mission.
They weren’t teenagers playing footsie in study hall. No more flirting, no more games.
Except the way she’d looked at him during their spa conversation yesterday kept replaying in his mind. The vulnerability in her voice when she’d talked about her failed relationships. The moment when she’d almost said something important before Coco’s call interrupted everything.