Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend (Romancing the Spy #4)

CHAPTER 1 THIS IS WHY HE HAS BEST FRIEND STATUS

THIS IS WHY HE HAS BEST FRIEND STATUS

REESE

Miles Lancaster had derailed my morning before seven a.m., which is impressive even for him.

No, maybe it’s more accurate to say “impressively frequent.” Regardless of when I went to bed, I always wake up at the same time. I don’t always get ready at the same speed, though. A girl can get a little distracted.

Today, it was a news article Miles sent me about how bees can recognize and remember individual human faces.

Well, that, and the related video I tapped on, left me knowing considerably more than I needed about how they tested this, and considerably less about how late it was getting.

Especially because I was convinced my bees could recognize me even before the article.

So now, I’ve been running around like an over-caffeinated ferret as I remember that the navy dress covered in tiny foxes I wanted to wear today is still in the laundry room, and I race down the stairs to get it.

Then I race back up and change, switch my cute glasses with little strawberries on the frame for the equally cute teal glasses, and brush my teeth while grabbing my bright orange cardigan and brown boots.

Of course, my lateness has put me and my roommate, Charlie, in the bathroom at the same time, both trying to put on makeup at the same too-small counter, in front of the same mirror.

Rushing works okay when you’ve got spunky hair just above your shoulders that you change frequently, as I do. If hurrying makes it spikier, fluffier, or a little on the chaotic side, people just say, “Oh, your hair is so fun today!”

But rushing is definitely not the most helpful thing when you’re using an eyebrow pencil to convince your brows to look full instead of patchy or nonexistent.

Eyebrows do not like to be hurried. Take your time, and you leave home with your face looking natural and right.

Rush, and all day long, people will make eye contact with your eyebrows first. And then, a moment later, make eye contact with them again.

From experience, I know going too fast leaves me looking like I’m sporting goth caterpillars above my eyes, so I am trying my best to hold the pencil like it’s spun sugar, and nothing other than the lightest touch will keep it from breaking.

It’s not working.

I blow out a big breath. “Ugh. I can’t get my eyebrows to match.”

Charlie is applying eyeshadow beneath brows that are doing exactly what she wanted them to do today. Her eyes stay on what she’s doing as she says, “Well, they say they’re supposed to look like sisters, not identical twins.”

“Right now, mine look like very distant cousins. So distant that legally, they could get married.”

Charlie looks at me in the mirror, and a laugh escapes.

“I know, I know,” I say. “A strong brow game is the gateway to a strong life, and I know that right now, my life is looking more like a scrawny little fruit fly.”

“You’re not giving yourself nearly enough credit. You’re at least a moderately fed housefly.” She motions to my eyebrows. “Can I?”

I nod, and she mumbles, “This part just needs a pinch to keep it in bounds, a little smudge up here, a little push here.” Then she picks up my pencil. “A little fill-in here…”

As Charlie works, I turn my head just enough to glance at the clock on the wall and let out a little eek, followed by, “Tons better. I’m sure that’s good enough. Gotta go.” I call out, “Thank you!” as I race downstairs to make my lunch.

If I had time, I’d make a salad before all the produce I bought goes bad. Since I don’t, I’m throwing a boiled egg, a yogurt, a clementine, and a granola bar into my lunch bag when Charlie comes down the stairs and into the kitchen, giving a mournful glance at the kitchen wall as she does.

It used to be that our kitchen wall was just a wall.

But ever since we spent nearly three weeks without that wall a few months ago, Charlie has thrown many emotions in its direction.

Lately, it has mostly been longing looks for the man who was living on the other side of that wall.

Since he moved to Philadelphia two-and-a-half months ago for work, we’re down to mournful glances.

I add a can of Dr. Pepper to my lunch bag and close it. “How much longer until you’ll see Owen again?” I spin around, trying to find my water bottle.

She heads to the fridge to get out things for her lunch. “Two days. I can make it two more days, right?”

I find my water bottle on the kitchen table, hook its handle on a finger, and give Charlie a hug. Then I meet her eyes. “You’ve got this. I believe in you.”

She chuckles. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

I tell her goodbye, then hurry to the front door, grab my keys, and head outside. I make it down the steps and to the sidewalk before I realize that I left my lunch inside and head back up. When I open the door, Charlie is almost to me, my lunch in her hand.

I give her a sheepish grin and say, “Thanks,” as I take it.

I’m turning back to the door when she says, “Wait,” and hands me my Cipher Springs Middle School lanyard.

I grab that from her, too. “I’d forget my own shadow if it wasn’t following me around.” Because honestly, I would’ve misplaced that thing years ago.

When I pull into a spot in the school’s faculty parking lot that by afternoon will be in the shade of a maple whose colors are just starting to change, it’s 7:48.

Just three minutes past my goal arrival time.

See? I can be running super late and still almost be on time.

I am a pro at racing the clock in order to outrun the consequences of my own actions.

Probably from all the experience I have.

When I get to the media center inside the school, I unlock its doors, flip on the lights, and turn on the row of computers as I head to the circulation area to set my stuff down.

Then, I do what I do every morning—I head to the stacks, close my eyes, and put my arms out, soaking in the feeling of being in a completely organized space.

I breathe slowly, taking it all in, feeling it deeply in my bones.

I crave this kind of organization in all parts of my life. I just can’t seem to pull it off.

I also take a moment to revel in having a job where I get to be surrounded by books and kids at the age where they’re still figuring out who they are, all while pretending as if they’ve got it all figured out.

Of course, the media center isn’t only about well-ordered books, supplies, and technology.

My job also includes teaching library lessons, helping students with research projects, troubleshooting Chromebooks, making displays, processing new books and weeding old ones, meeting with teachers, helping students find books, running book clubs, and about a million other little things.

I’ve been standing here for probably a minute, and already I’ve thought of three things that need to be added to my to-do list.

I go over to the U-shaped checkout space, pull out yesterday’s one-third finished to-do list, and write down two of them before forgetting what the third one was. I’m sure it’ll come to me again.

If there’s one thing I almost always am, it’s an optimist. So, every morning, I wake up assuming that I gained some kind of superpowers during the night that will allow me to get more things done on my list than history has shown I could ever accomplish in a day.

And yes, today is the day that I’m going to absolutely slay this list.

In fact, I’m feeling so confident that I snap a picture of it and send it with a text to Miles.

Reese: Want to be my accountability partner?

Miles: No, but I will be your wish list dreaming partner.

Reese: This is not just a wish list! And it is going to be completely crossed off by the end of my workday.

Miles: Ahh. I see you started off the day with superpowers again.

Reese: Yep. I think it was finding out bees really do recognize human faces that did it.

Miles: So, I helped bring on the superpowers. Nice. This is why I have Best Friend status, isn’t it?

Reese: I don’t know. Best Friends offer to be accountability partners.

Miles: Well, I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my standing, so consider me your partner in accountability.

I tuck my phone into my pocket as my assistant, Marjorie, walks in.

She’s got silver hair cut in a perpetually neat bob and reading glasses that hang from a beaded chain.

She spent thirty-eight years as a librarian here before retiring.

Then she got bored and came back, which I consider a win.

I got the job I always wanted, and I still get her expertise and memory (and dry sense of humor).

“Good morning,” she says as she heads into the circulation area and sets her floral lunch bag and travel mug on one of the shelves below the counter.

Seeing it reminds me. “Oh, my lunch bag! I left it in my car again!”

Wordlessly, Marjorie points at my lunch bag, which is still sitting on the counter, right where I left it, along with my water bottle and keys.

“Oh, yeah. Points to me for getting it into the building.”

“A bold first step.”

A student walks in. Then another. Then seven more.

For the next twenty minutes before school starts, kids are reading, doing homework, talking with friends, and asking for help.

I’ve got five kids around me saying, “Miss Wilder?” at any given moment, and I’m helping them all nearly simultaneously.

Marjorie has another three around her. This place is a hive of activity, and I get to be the Queen Bee.

Some kids come for books. Some come for Chromebook chargers. Some come because the cafeteria before school is basically a human blender. And some, like Anna, come because they want someone to be happy to see them.

I am always happy to see them.

And I really like Anna. Actually, I really like all of them. They’re old enough to have opinions about world events, yet still young enough to believe armpit noises improve almost any situation.