Chapter 26
Evie
Jake steps inside, extending his hand. “Hi. I’m Jake Ryder.”
His grip is firm, friendly. He plants himself within a foot of the front door.
“Evie Thompson. Nice to meet you, Jake.”
My voice sounds steadier than I feel. Two minutes ago I was on the kitchen counter with Gabe’s hand between my thighs, and now I’m making small talk with his colleague. The shift gives me whiplash. Gabe’s hand settles briefly on the small of my back before he steps aside to let Jake in fully.
“Shoes?” Jake’s gaze falls to the floor, checking our feet.
“It’s fine. Come on in.” I’m barefoot, having kicked off my heels.
Gabe’s still wearing his. My blouse is probably wrinkled.
I resist the urge to smooth it again—I already did that once.
Jake notices anyway. His expression stays professionally neutral, but there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—before he focuses on Gabe.
He gestures to the sitting area. “Let’s sit.”
Something in his tone makes my stomach tighten. Gabe takes a seat on the sofa, and following his cue, Jake settles into one of the armchairs. I sit beside Gabe—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.
He’s quiet for a beat, before he clears his throat and says, “This morning, when you and Brie went to meet with the senator, I went to meet someone. A retired CIA officer—Dahlia Evans.”
The name means nothing to me. I wait.
“She worked with my dad.”
Oh.
The significance of that registers immediately. Gabe doesn’t talk about his father. Not the details. Not the classified parts. Not the parts that still hurt.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She came up in Quinn’s search—frequent contact with Meridian executives.
Hudson sent me because…” He pauses. Exhales.
“Because she’s looked in on me and my mom over the years.
Signed a recommendation for me once. He thought maybe she’d talk to me when she wouldn’t talk to anyone else. ”
“Did she?”
“She didn’t show this morning. Rescheduled for late this afternoon.” His jaw tightens. “Said something came up.”
I watch his profile. The muscle working in his jaw. The way his fingers lace together too tightly.
“You don’t believe the official story about your father’s death,” I say quietly. Shot in the line of duty.
His eyes cut to mine. Surprised, maybe, that I’ve put it together, or maybe just that I’m asking.
Jake pulls out his phone and studiously reads the screen.
“No,” he admits. “I don’t.”
The vulnerability in that admission—the trust it takes for him to say it out loud—makes my chest ache.
“You think she might tell you what really happened.”
“Maybe.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Or maybe she’ll feel guilty enough to give us something useful on Meridian.”
I reach out and rest my hand over his. His fingers uncurl, threading through mine.
“You’re telling me this,” I say, “instead of going alone and deciding later what I need to know.”
His gaze holds mine. “Yeah.”
“That’s,” I stop. “That’s different.”
“I’m trying to be different.” His voice drops—maybe because Jake’s still sitting there, still reading his phone. “You were right. I was making decisions for you instead of with you.”
That tightening in my chest loosens.
“Thank you,” I say.
He squeezes my hand once. “She won’t talk if you’re there. CIA tradecraft—no witnesses means plausible deniability.”
“I get it.”
“But I’ll tell you everything she says. Even if it’s just about my dad. Even if it has nothing to do with your case.”
That promise matters more than he probably realizes.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask Jake, recognizing we’ve been having a private conversation without acknowledging his presence.
“No, thanks.” He shakes his head. “I have a few things to go over with Gabe, but when he leaves—if you don’t want me here—”
“You can set up wherever works,” Gabe says. Then catches himself. Looks at me. “If that’s okay with you.”
The question—the actual question, not an assumption—is appreciated.
“It’s fine,” I say. And I mean it.
Earlier today I would’ve bristled. Would’ve seen it as Gabe orchestrating my life. But after what happened on that sidewalk—the cold rush of fear, the certainty that someone was following me—I’m not too proud to admit I’d rather not be alone.
Not hours after.
“Kitchen’s through there if you need anything,” I tell Jake. “I’ll probably be upstairs working.”
Jake nods. “Appreciate it.”
Gabe stands, and I follow him toward the front door—away from Jake’s line of sight.
“You’re really okay with this?” he asks quietly.
“I’m really okay with it.” I tilt my head. “You asking makes a difference.”
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing along my cheekbone. “I don’t want to be him, Evie. Your father. I don’t want you to ever feel trapped by me.”
“Then keep asking,” I say. “Keep telling me the truth. Even when it’s hard.”
“Deal.”
He leans down and kisses me—slow and tender, nothing like the frantic heat in the kitchen. This one tastes like a promise.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine for a heartbeat.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he murmurs.
“Be careful.”
“Always.”