Chapter Fifteen
Mornings weren’t Spiker’s specialty. He was never the first one up, especially after a long night of report writing, followed by hours of staring at his ceiling fan. Today, apparently, was the exception.
He didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep. It would’ve been as successful as last night, tossing and turning and knowing how close Vanka was, alone in her bed.
Some things needed to be said, needed to be done. He’d imagined ways to ask and take and show, but he hadn’t come up with a simple way to explain what he needed and why. Without those two answers, there was nothing that could be done that wouldn’t hurt both of them in the end.
The stairs creaked when she started down them, and gave him more of a jolt than the French roast he’d already drunk. Spiker recentered his bowl and used his spoon to hunt for the marshmallow puffs in the cereal as he waited for his heartbeat to even out.
She rounded the bottom of the stairs and paused at the dining table. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” He scooped a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
“You’re up early.” She rounded the breakfast bar and made a beeline for the electric kettle on the kitchen counter.
He finished chewing slowly as he watched her select her mug and tea.
Her hair hung over her shoulders, loose and messy, and she’d wrapped herself in a thin white robe that tied at her waist and hung just short of her knees.
The robe was thin enough to outline a light-colored nightgown.
She liked to sleep in those things that came with matching accessories—eye masks, robes, whatever.
He couldn’t keep it all straight, but she always packed them when they traveled.
Before he’d met Vanka, he’d assumed that every woman slept in an oversized T-shirt.
He compared her to Mary Poppins, the only prissy British person he could think of, and she’d told him that he’d been bedding the wrong women.
They’d been fantastic partners from that day on, and looking at the situation now, maybe she’d been right.
What he wouldn’t do to untie that robe and see what might happen in the kitchen…
Then again, Vanka had the skills to neuter him with a teabag.
He wasn’t sure the fantasy was worth the risk.
She opened the refrigerator. “What were you speaking to that young man about at the museum?”
“What—” A marshmallow caught in the back of his throat. He coughed it free and turned so he could see her, but she was hidden by the stainless-steel door. “Not much.”
The door shut, rattling the obsessively organized mustards. That had been another thing he didn’t know about Vanka. Mustards? I mean, he wasn’t surprised by the systematic tidiness of her groceries. Still, he had never known her to ask for extra mustard or mayo. Hot sauce? Anything spicy? Not once.
Her head tilted in an innocent way that dared him to lie. “That was a long chat for not much.”
Spiker’s gaze dropped to the bowl of cereal. He stabbed a remaining marshmallow and let it dissolve on his tongue before asking, “What do you want to know?”
“I’m not sure.” She returned to making her tea and then sat across from him, placing the steaming cup on the table to let it cool. “I’m curious.”
“About some kid?”
“No.” She brought the tea to her lips but didn’t take a sip. “Perhaps what the kid meant to you.”
She was no dummy. Vanka possessed a sixth sense that went beyond mere intelligence gathering. “That’s a loaded question.”
Her lips curled, partially hidden by the tea. “Think of it more like a suggestion.”
Or a jumping-off point into a conversation as comfortable as steel wool briefs. He lifted a palm in a nonchalant motion. “A couple of kids were giving him a tough time.”
Quizzically, she lowered the tea. “So you intervened?”
“More like I offered him a suggestion that might help.”
“It’s probably illegal to teach random kids proper throat-chopping technique.” She took a sip. “Those things take practice before you turn them loose.”
He imagined a teenage Vanka, roaming school hallways as a vigilante, striking pressure points and sweeping the legs from adolescent bullies. “Probably.”
“You were down on your knees,” she pressed. “Eye level.”
It was his turn to hide behind his drink.
Spiker cupped the mug and leaned back. The black coffee swashed against the white ceramic like a tiny, turbulent sea of caffeine.
He didn’t want to look away. A bizarre hesitancy curled up the back of his neck.
She was asking about topics he didn’t usually discuss. “True.”
“Why?”
The walls inched closer. The room wasn’t large enough for the way he thought about Vanka, and the vulnerable memories she wanted him to share.
His mouth felt newspaper-dry, but coffee seemed likely to exacerbate the Sahara effect.
He tapped the side of the mug, then stood. He wanted fresh air and space.
Her eyes followed him to the corner of the table. “Going somewhere?”
Spiker drew his bottom lip into his mouth. Not without her. He didn’t want to leave the room, only the question. “I need to get out of here today. Do something else.”
“Don’t tease me with the potential of another field trip.”
He laughed. “You know what I mean.”
Her eyes danced. “I know.”
Of course she did. She didn’t miss much, which was why he shouldn’t have talked to that kid when she was within a fifty-mile radius, and why he needed to stay the hell away from her bedroom.
“You could go for another run around the city,” she suggested.
“Nah. Not in the mood. Do you want to go for a hike?” The outdoors always helped clear his head, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t what he wanted to do. “I don’t know. What’s something you do when you can’t sit still?”
“I can always sit still.”
He rolled his eyes. “Then what about when you need a total reset?”
“I garden.”
“Bigger than gardening, princess. Hit me with your best suggestion.”
She sipped her tea and beamed. “I have an idea.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Excitement radiated from her smile. “You’ll have to trust me.”
“It’s a secret?”
“A surprise, but I promise, it will be a total reset. Are you game?”
“So long as we’re out of the house” —and away from beds and deep conversations— “I’m all yours.”
The Audi fit into the last open space in the small parking lot off of King Street. An old-fashioned railway station awaited their arrival. Vanka couldn’t wait to start their trip. She killed the ignition. “Ready?”
That he hadn’t jumped up with an enthusiastic “absolutely” only made her excitement grow. “We’re going on the Metro?”
“No.” She opened her door and waited for him to join her. “King Street Metro’s on the other side.” They walked into the one-story Federalist Revival-style terminal. “This is Union Station.”
Spiker squinted and glanced around. “Nope. It’s not.”
Vanka tugged on his elbow and led him to a placard confirming its identity as separate from the nearby commuter hub, Washington Union Station. “It simply goes by Alexandria.”
“You’re a local history buff?”
“That’s a trite phrase that never seems to encompass what history is.”
“Oh,” Spiker mouthed. “This is another one of those learning field trips, huh? I’m going to enjoy it, but you’ll make sure I learn something too?”
“No.”
“Yeah, it is. Like broccoli with cheese. Anything to get me to eat my veggies.”
Vanka’s rolling eyes landed on his torso and upper chest with a pointed stare. “I think we both know you eat your Wheaties.” Color rose to his cheeks, which made warmth rise into her own. “You said you trusted me.”
Spiker lifted his chin. “That’s what I said.”
She checked the time.
“So we’re going somewhere,” he pried.
Vanka tried to tamp down her smile as she led them across the mostly empty waiting area. “We are.”
“Where are we going?”
She ignored his question. “Do you want to know something interesting?”
“Does it really matter what my answer is, princess?”
“Not really.” But for his sake, she’d keep her appreciation of the terminal’s aesthetic to herself.
The walnut-colored benches weren’t made for a society that needed personal space and phone charger plugs.
Instead, they backed up to radiators that provided warmth during the drafty winter months.
The black-and-white-checkered tiled floors had staying power that came from another era.
There were no elevators, ATMs, Wi-Fi hotspots, or baggage carts.
The window panes and wood trim were stained the same deep, chocolate-hickory shade of brown as the exposed wood rafters and dormers.
“This station was opened in 1905. It was built in a Federalist Revival style that was very popular decades before.”
“Huh.”
“Hence the revival.”
“Ah.”
“I originally thought they avoided the more contemporary style of classical buildings because of the Masonic Temple on the hill.” She gestured to the soaring monument across the street. “This town does love to show off its love of George Washington.”
“In general.” He gestured to a colonial painting that hung on the wall. “This country appreciates the guy. The first president and all.”
“Have you ever considered how young this country is?” she asked.
“Not once.”
“Federalist architecture evolved because everyone here was so busy with rejecting all things British.”
“All things British? Like the way your people built their houses?” He hummed. “I don’t know about that. Sounds a little paranoid.”
“That’s idiotic. Federalist comes from federal, as in”—she made air quotes—“the new republic.”
“I mean,” he continued, “y’all did get spanked in a little something we like to call a revolution.”
“Sorry.” Vanka gawked. “Did you just say y’all?”
He winked.
The overhead speakers announced an incoming commuter train to Baltimore. She ignored the call and asked, “Would you like to know something?”
“Always.”
“You pay far more attention to what you think is my country of origin than I ever have to yours.”
“Would you want to kill me if I said something like, ‘but you have an accent, and I don’t’?”