Chapter 26
CHARLIE
“Hej. Velkommen til K?benhavn,” the concierge at the hotel says, greeting us as Declan and I approach the desk.
I’m exhausted, but I can’t stay still. My eyes are wide, taking in the glimmering details around me.
The hotel we booked is distinct and refined.
Not a chain. The lobby has gilded mirrors and a marble entryway.
But my excitement for travel is dampened by the very real danger of this assignment.
We need to find Monique, Declan’s mysteriously disappearing photographer.
Sure, work is stressful right now, but I like the job itself.
And I’m not going to quit just because the job’s tough.
I don’t quit things when they get hard, only when it is medically necessary.
Declan slept for the entirety of the flight over, which left me to read case files and stay hopped up on ginger ale.
Now he responds to the concierge in what sounds to my ear as perfect Danish. “Tak, der er en reservation til Davidson.”
The concierge hands us an antique skeleton key with a tassel on the end. Very social-media-worthy, but a pain to keep on us. I hold it awkwardly as we head to the birdcage elevator, one of those old-fashioned kinds with the door and the fence.
“They’re bulky but no one can hack the room lock,” Declan says when he catches me admiring the key.
Great, now I’ll definitely be able to sleep well tonight, I think and roll my eyes. This is the most he has said to me since we landed. “Wait, where is your key?” I ask him. He must have pocketed it already.
“That’s it.” He points to the key in my hand.
One key? One room?!
“Uhh.” I try to think what to say.
The elevator stops on our floor and we both shuffle out. The walls are hung with artwork, the carpet plush.
Declan checks the hallway before whispering. “Our cover” are the two words he offers me.
I look back at him confused. This does not explain why we are sharing a room.
“Couple on a romantic holiday,” he states matter-of-factly. As if this should have been obvious. He nods his head, indicating we should move on and finish this conversation in our room. Our room!
We find the correct door and I unlock it.
I gasp. This is not a room. This is a well-appointed suite. The midday sun is pouring through the white curtains, the gilded accents on the antique couch sparkle. There are two doors on the far end of the living room. This suite is so big it has a living room!
I place my bags on the floor and resolve not to let the pretty decorations distract me for a moment longer.
“Why can’t we just be coworkers? Wouldn’t that be easier, since it’s the truth?” My brain has the priorities straight. My stomach is dancing, flipping, doing eccentric jumping jacks at the idea of sharing this room with Declan Davidson.
Declan indulges my question. “Oh, you’re on a work trip.
What type of work do you do? What company do you work for?
Why are you here on a weekend and not a weekday?
” He pauses and drops his impression voice, one that sounds a little too familiar to me.
“It invites too many questions,” he explains.
“Besides, any spy worth their salt could check the registration log and see if we stayed in separate rooms.”
I don’t want him to have the last word here, but his reasoning makes sense. “OK, but I don’t need another reason for Celine to hate me.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Declan smirks. “I do. Can we somehow get her to back off ?”
As I move further into the room, I see an incongruous modern sofa that looks infinitely more comfortable than the antique couch.
“So one of us on the couch?” I point to it, assuming that will be mine.
“Yep, you can take the bed,” Declan offers. Which is nice, but he is too tall for the couch. Also, I have yet to find the bed. I turn round, hoping I missed it. Declan indicates the doors on the far wall.
I open one and find a clean and updated bathroom. The second door leads to the bedroom. An ornate four-poster bed fills most of the small room. But at least I’ll have some privacy in here.
“Let’s get some rest and we’ll head out in an hour to establish our cover,” Declan states as he makes himself comfortable on the newer couch.
His robotic non-answers remind me of my first week on the job.
I know he’s focused on the mission. But how serious he is, is making me more anxious about this operation.
I don’t want to mess up. And I really, really don’t want to be shot at again.
“Should we synchronize our watches?” I ask, putting on an air of sarcasm. I’m trying to lighten the mood.
Declan shoots me a look that says he is not amused.
I grab my bag and move it into the bedroom. Even if we’re only here for a weekend, I want everything in its place. I set an alarm and let myself sleep. I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was until my body hit the bed.
And “hit” is indeed an apt word. Not “bounce’,’ not “flop.” Because this mattress is as hard as a rock.
I realize now that Declan opted for the modern couch not out of some kind of chivalry but because he knew which option would be more comfortable.
I roll my eyes, accept my torture, and fall asleep.
When I wake, a few moments before my alarm, I remind myself of where I am.
That this is an opportunity to prove myself in this new job.
More than that: a woman’s life is on the line.
And potentially the lives of whoever will be on the wrong end of these weapons.
This isn’t about sightseeing. It’s about
keeping people safe.
Declan Davidson
In the lobby.
It’s a text from Declan.
I change out of my plane clothes for our outing. The weather here is cooler than Florida, but it is still summertime. I have on a butter-yellow sundress and a blue cardigan. I look like a tourist, which was my only instructions when packing for the trip. I hurry out of the room to find Declan.
He stands up from one of the richly upholstered couches when he sees me cross the lobby toward him. He’s in well-worn jeans and a fitted black Henley shirt, his lean muscles visible. I’m grateful for the prescription sunglasses I brought so he can’t see me checking him out.
Declan indicates with his head that we should move outside. He holds the front door open for me, while he does a visual sweep of the street. Scanning for someone, something. Or just keeping an eye out. He dons the baseball cap that was in his hands, TAMPA BAY embroidered on the front.
He wordlessly navigates us down the sidewalk; he must have an idea of where we are going. The temperature outside is perfect, the afternoon buzz of the city giving me all the jet-lag-fighting energy I could hope for.
As we cross the street, Declan moves his hand protectively, reflexively, to my lower back.
I look over at him, but his gaze is focused ahead of us.
It dawns on me for the first time that I am massively complicating this mission for him.
Because of me he has an unfamiliar cover, which I have to help maintain.
He has to watch both his back and mine. I remind myself to stay sharp.
If we get trapped somewhere, Ian can’t come and let us out. It’s only the two of us.
This should make me more nervous. Before we left, I was on edge. Like I was being watched. I haven’t been able to shake that feeling ever since the shooting. But in a foreign city on a secret mission with Declan, I’m relaxed. I think maybe it’s Declan whose presence is soothing me.
“Well, honey,” I say with emphasis, “let’s get something to eat.”
I’m hoping that sitting at a café where he has a view of the entrance and the street will put him at ease. Instead, he leads us into an open-air market.
“Way ahead of you, sweetheart,” Declan says. His voice is lighter.
This place is amazing. Food, flowers, drinks.
The aromas from various stalls create a mouthwatering medley in the summer air.
But to a spy, even a novice like me, this is a nightmare.
Faces, people everywhere. Lots of areas operatives could hide, the buildings that surround the square could be the ideal cover for a sniper.
I may never view the world the same way again.
We head to a stall and order sandwiches. My body hums with excitement and a tinge of anxiety.
“I thought you were gluten-free?” Declan asks as he hands me the food.
I take a bite and let the flavor hit my tongue. Four years without gluten. FOUR! “Shhh, I’m going to enjoy this.” I let out a moan that my body has never created before, never. Not even with my college boyfriend.
I chew slowly and open my eyes to find Declan studying my face, curiosity dancing across his eyebrows.
He is ruining my vibe, but I don’t mind explaining.
“I’m gluten-free because it can cause inflammation.
” I decide not to tell him that inflammation can exacerbate my condition.
Because he’ll ask what my condition is. “A lot of travel forums I’m on mention that people who have issues with gluten, dairy, or meat in the US can usually enjoy them symptom-free abroad,” I lie.
It wasn’t a travel forum. It was an autoimmune support group.
But the anecdotes were plentiful enough to have me enjoying this sandwich guilt-free.
I take another bite, and I can’t help it. I do a little hop.
“Do you need a moment alone with your sandwich?” Declan asks.
“You said we’re a couple on a romantic trip, well, this sandwich is now part of our throuple,” I say between bites.
Declan’s eyebrows raise before he barks out a laugh. “Should we get you some brunsviger too?”
I nod enthusiastically. “YES!”
With our stomachs full and a few hours to burn before our planned intercept of Monique, we stroll through the city.
Declan explains that his contact in Denmark – who we will not meet in person so that their cover is not compromised – was able to confirm that Monique is meeting someone at a bar not far from our hotel this evening.
“You think she’s going to sell the evidence?” I ask.
“I hope not,” Declan says.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him say the word “hope.” Maybe he’s thought it, but he’s never expressed it aloud. I wonder at how much losing X.C. messed with his head.
We arrive at the most photographed place in the entire city.
The famous statue of the Little Mermaid.
If I was visiting this city for fun, I’d be doing all the Hans Christian Andersen book-nerd things.
But this is work, and I’ll take the opportunity to see the iconic statue since we’re here anyways.
You’re not supposed to touch the statue, so Declan and I stake out a good spot to watch her as tourists continue to clump and break away for photos.
“Are you supposed to make a wish when you see her?” I ask. And then I realize that the man standing next to me is the last person who would care about such things.
“I don’t know. I guess you can, though. I won’t stop you,” he answers and crosses his arms. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing his forearms. They’re tanned from hours in the sun riding his bike, his dark arm hair, his lean muscles, all inviting mental images that I should not be thinking about.
“Alright,” I say and squeeze my eyes shut. I let my wish run through my mind and open my eyes. I peer up at Declan, and his eyes are closed too. “What did you wish for?” I ask before I can stop my invasive question.
“Haven’t you heard that if you share your wish, it won’t come true?” He shakes his head. “I guess I’ll risk it,” he says. “I wished for us to find these weapons, get the Order behind bars, and put an end to this madness.”
“That’s a hefty wish,” I say, guilty for my much more selfish desires.
“You?” he asks, glancing over at me.
The stubble on his face is darker than I’ve ever seen it before and his brown eyes are probing mine.
Is he trying to guess? His nearness is making me feel things.
His attention is confusing my body. He can’t be attracted to me, right?
I need my body to calm down and stop acting like I have a schoolgirl crush.
I have a grown-woman workplace crush that will never come to anything. Very big difference.
“I wished for what she wanted.” I nod to the statue.
“I wished for my legs,” I say, my voice low so I won’t start to cry.
I might explode in tears because my wish was selfish, especially compared to Declan’s.
But, also, because I never really thought about her pain before.
The mermaid’s woes. Her longing for a body that would allow her to live on land.
And now that I compare it to my own desire, it’s like I’m experiencing my pain all over again.
My body is totally different now. I’m weaker.
I’m at the same weight but with much less muscle and suddenly I have hips and curves.
I like how my body looks now, but I loved how I felt in my body then.
Now it feels like something foreign, something I can’t fully trust. I keep telling myself that white-knuckling this condition is working, but the anxiety of it, always wondering when it will flare up again, is exhausting.
Declan is watching me. Can he tell what I’m thinking?
I explain myself a bit. “I miss the drive and the pain and the adrenaline of finishing first. Of pushing and pushing, pumping my legs, pounding my feet. Giving it everything I have until I crossed the finish line. It was a beautiful rhythm. Push. Pump. Pound.” I look up into his eyes and see something.
An appreciation from a fellow athlete. And something else.
Because ohmygod! I think back on what I just said and it sounded so incredibly dirty. My neck and cheeks are suddenly ablaze; I’d guess they’re as red as the Danish flag. Declan bites down on his lips, fighting a smile.
I try to recover. “I liked being in my element. Running was my thing. Now.” I pause, realizing I’ve officially launched into a pity party.
“This can be your thing,” Declan says, finishing my sentence, saving me from more embarrassing rambling. “Travel the world. Put on badass endurance events. Do what you can to save innocent people.”
A swell of appreciation builds in my chest. That he could sense I was veering into a topic that I’m not comfortable talking about. That he is inviting me into this world with him. That he didn’t dismiss anything I said or try to lecture me on keeping my head in the game for this mission.
The sun is setting and the sky is moving between yellow and orange to pink. It’s time to head back to our hotel and prepare for the real reason we’re here.
All I need to do now is prove myself.