17. Three Covers and a Confession #3
For one beat, there is no reaction. Then her mouth parts slightly.
Her eyes search mine as though there must be another interpretation hidden somewhere in the sentence.
I don’t let myself soften it. Don’t turn it into a joke or give her an easier way to misunderstand.
I want her to understand, regardless of what happens.
“I’m in love with you, Reese. I have been for a long time.”
Her breath catches, and she stares at me. Reese is rarely silent. Even when she isn’t speaking, she usually hums, taps, shifts, or reacts to whatever thought is moving through her.
Now she is utterly still.
Finally, she says, “You can’t say something like that and expect my brain to continue functioning normally.”
“I don’t.”
“How long is a long time?”
“Years.”
Her eyes grow wider. “That is not a comforting answer.”
“Why?”
“Because I now need to retroactively analyze five years of conversations, and I don’t have the necessary supplies.”
“What supplies?”
“Color-coded pens. A timeline. Possibly Charlie’s wall of monitors.”
“I don’t think she’ll let you use them for that.”
“Then she lacks commitment to friendship.”
A laugh catches in my chest, but I don’t let the moment turn completely. I have to remind myself that I knew it would take a bit to sink in, and that Reese would turn to humor as she was processing.
Reese looks down at her hands. “You’ve been in love with me for years.”
“Yes.”
“And you never said anything. Why?”
There are dozens of answers. Her face when I asked her to the Winter Ball.
The relief I saw on her every time I mentioned going out with another woman.
The player persona I built so she would never worry that my friendship had expectations hidden beneath it.
My job. The danger. The knowledge that losing Reese would leave a void in my life that would be impossible to ever fill.
“I tried once,” I say, and her head lifts. “In college—I asked you to the Winter Ball.”
Her brows draw together. “You asked me as friends.”
I shake my head. “I was asking you on a date.”
She blinks rapidly. “But you said you were going to ask—”
“I said another name because you looked horrified when I asked you.”
“I was horrified. But not because I didn’t want to go with you.”
A bit of hope rises in me. “Why, then?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. “I don’t know if I can explain that tonight. I need some time to think about how.”
The hope doesn’t disappear, but I force myself to loosen my hold on it. “It’s okay. I don’t need every answer right now.”
She looks relieved.
“I thought you didn’t want anything romantic with me,” I say. “I was worried asking had threatened the friendship. Our friendship means everything to me, so I made sure you never had to worry that I expected more.”
After a beat, she says, “Ahh. The parade of women.”
“The parade was less extensive than you think.”
She tilts her head, studying me for a long moment. “You used spy dating to reinforce your fake player persona, didn’t you?”
I blink a few times. “I might have, yes. I wanted you to feel that our friendship wasn’t in jeopardy.”
“By making sure I thought you were romantically unavailable?”
“It seemed more logical at the time.”
Her gaze wanders to the coffee table, then whips back to mine. “Wait. Your family believes the whole player thing, too.”
“I never worked especially hard to correct them. It stopped them from asking why I wasn’t looking for something serious. Or trying to find it for me.”
“You have five siblings and a mother who directs covert operations.”
I give her a small smile. “So, you understand the threat level.”
“The revelation that you are a spy was pretty incredible, but this…” Our eyes meet, and I swear hers are misting. She blinks rapidly, then shrugs as the corners of her mouth turn up. “Miles, what you said tonight is the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
The best thing she’s ever heard. The feeling of relief is so great it catches me off guard. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks are flushed, and I have never wanted to kiss her more than I do this exact second. “Go on a date with me.”
She blinks.
“One date,” I say. “Not a promise. Not a five-year plan. Dinner with me where we both know it’s a date, and we’ll do something fun, too. I want to do this right.”
“We eat dinner together constantly. How would it be a date?”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“You always pick me up because you don’t trust me not to take corners like I’m in Formula One.”
“I’ll bring flowers.”
Her expression softens. “That could do it.”
“So, is that a yes?”
She looks at me for so long that my pulse begins counting the seconds. Then she nods. “Yes.”
The word is quiet. Almost cautious. But it’s a yes, and my heart is thudding against my ribs.
She leans back against the couch, looking dazed. “My best friend is a spy who has apparently been secretly in love with me for years. I’ve had calmer Mondays.” After a beat, she meets my eyes and says, “Pick me up on Saturday, Agent Lancaster.”
Saturday. I have just over four days to plan one date that feels different from every dinner, movie, and late-night drive we’ve shared as friends. Something that shows her romance doesn’t have to cost us what already works.
That shouldn’t feel like an operation with an unacceptable margin for error, but it does.
After the intelligence operative reveal and tonight’s confession, she deserves one experience with me that is simple, uncomplicated, and perfectly designed entirely around her.
I can do that.
Then Reese smiles at me—the same smile I’ve loved for five years, except now I’m allowed to hope it might mean something new.