Galina heads out, and I’m ready to pursue. I wait until Galina chooses a direction and follow her on my side of the street. At the first corner, Harper Street, she crosses toward me. I backtrack to avoid bumping into her. Not so stealthy.
Did she park this far away? The street’s not that crowded.
Galina continues down Harper and I keep her in my sights.
“FEATHERSTONE’s getting in his car.” Elliott apprises me.
I return the favor, pressing two fingers to my earpiece. “Yeah, walking down Harper. Be there soon.”
“We’re on Worcester, heading the other way.”
Galina turns through the glass doors of a stucco building. Nice, probably ten to fifteen years old, and close to her studio and her job downtown, translating for the US Embassy.
Could this be her apartment building? I note the street number, 277, and tail her into the lobby. High cream walls, wide white trim, everything trying to be elegant and pretty. Galina’s ten feet ahead, waiting for the elevator. My sunglasses will have to suffice for a disguise, and I give her more of a lead.
Something gnaws at the back of my mind as I repeat the address to memorize it: 277 Harper Street. Why does it seem familiar? Was it already in her traces?
Then an image of seeing that address flashes through my mind — not on the building, but on my phone. In my church directory app.
Oh, no. I pull out my phone, zip through the password to my personal stuff and open up the church directory. Campbell is the first listing that jumps out — nope, not him. I scroll through the names.
Danny? Have I checked Danny’s address before? (Of course.)
Oh, please, please, no.
The elevator dings to announce its arrival from the base-ment, and my head snaps up. The doors slide open. My breath seizes in my throat.
I’ve known him a couple months and yet I’d recognize Danny anywhere. Plus, it’s only been an hour. He’s still wearing the blue shirt with a fighter jet/maple leaf logo (Winnipeg Jets; looked it up during dinner) — and the same mask of not-quite-concealed disappointment.
Galina steps onto the elevator, and Danny nods to her, like you’d nod to someone you’ve seen in the laundry or the lobby, not your next door neighbor. So much for riding up with her.
“Hold the elevator!” a woman’s voice calls, and for a split second, I’m afraid it’s mine. Fortunately, high heels echo over the black and white checkerboard tile behind me. I duck my head, holding my earpiece to shield my face. But I can still see Danny stick out a hand to stop the doors, a Loblaws’ plastic grocery bag dangling from his wrist.
I automatically take stock of what I can see: loaf of bread, blue package inside the bag — Oreos? (Compared to the American kind, they’re just not the same.)
Crap, no, Danny’s not the one I’m supposed to be profiling.
“Don’t you have any reusable grocery bags?” Galina asks.
“Yeah, just tired of buying new ones because I forgot ’em.”
Galina nods sympathetically. The running woman breezes past me and practically leaps onto the elevator. “Oh, hey, Danny,” she pants.
“Hi, Megan.” He releases the door and it slides shut.
Even if I followed her up now, I can’t let her see me (and I won’t sneak into her place without a solid plan). I make my way back to my car and report to Elliott via comms. “Have we bugged Galina’s apartment?”
“No, only a tracker on her door.”
“We need to figure out what he gave her.”
Elliott grunts in agreement. “Still on FEATHERSTONE, going for his shop.”
I drive over there for support. “Is this everything you’re planning?” I ask as I park down the block from the barbershop.
“No, tomorrow’s his busy day at the barbershop, and we need to bug Galina’s.”
And those sounds like all-day engagements. “Tell me you’ve got support lined up.”
“Yeah, you.”
My heart sinks. That means I’ll be stuck doing this instead of seeing Danny at church tomorrow.
“Are you pouting because you’re missing church or Danny?”
“I’m not pouting.”
My passenger door opens. My pulse rate hits the roof. I scramble to grab a pen from the console, the best I can do for a weapon.
Elliott plops into the passenger seat. I throw my pen at him. “Is your face not scary enough? Now you have to sneak up on me?”
He smirks. “You’re pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“No, it’s cute.”
I shoot him an oh-please look. But a nagging voice in my mind whispers he’s right. Not only do I want to see Danny (and go to church), but I don’t like the one-two punch of cutting our date short and ditching church.
I have to send him a clear message to say the opposite. And I think I know exactly how.
Kittens.
My tie’s off the minute I walk in my apartment after church. I had to run to duck the usual flirt-fest, because I’m in no mood. Talia ran off at the end of our date — before the end — and then she wasn’t at church today. Even if I need to be more rational and take a step back, I’m not trying to drive Talia away from the church.
Realistically, a couple hours of talking to me shouldn’t be enough to do that when we’ve established she’s not there to make friends, but I’m still pacing.
Because I’m worried about her? Or worried about me?
No. Nothing to panic about. She’s not insane; she’s just not interested. That I can survive. Way better than if she was crazy.
Heck, I could be dodging a bullet. Or a full-fledged air strike.
I’m changing my shirt when my phone rings. My stomach bounces like a plane in the midst of a bad landing, though it’s probably not Talia calling. Nope, my mom.
Once the pleasantries are done, Mom cuts straight to her big news: “I’m coming for a visit!”
I sink onto the bed. I’m not ready for this.
“That’s great, Mom.” Except that she’ll be on my case from the minute she gets off the plane. You should be dating, you should get a roommate, you should move here, you should get your PhD there, you should cut your hair.
Because apparently I don’t know how to run my own life.
“And I have a surprise for you,” she continues.
I go for the least-likely scenario. “You’re having a baby.”
Mom laughs. “Cute, Danny. With your sense of humor, you should really —”
“Consider stand-up?”
“Be dating.”
Yesterday, I could’ve claimed to be working on that, if I wanted to use Talia as a shield with my mom, which I don’t. Today, I don’t have a defense. I sink back onto my quilt made of T-shirts from high school — one of many things I do have to thank my mom for, I remind myself — and use Mom’s tone that says my patience is wearing thin. “So you keep telling me.”
“Have you at least spoken to any nice girls lately?”
“Yep, I talk to nice girls every day.”
That puts her on pause. “Nice girls you’d take on dates?”
“I don’t think their husbands would like that.”
“Ah. Stand-up?”
At least she can be funny. And hey, she’s my mom. I love her. I just don’t always love to listen to her.
For now, I dodge her usual badgering by asking about Carrie and Sam. My younger siblings are off in newlywed- and new-parent-land, not really running for my calls. Mom doesn’t make any direct comparisons about how I’d be so much happier if I just followed their lead and settled down, because I am getting on in years, and soon nobody will ever want to marry me.
Apparently she doesn’t need to give the lecture. Got it memorized.
Once I’m up-to-date on Carrie and Sam, and Mom and Dad, and half a dozen of my mom’s friends I don’t remember from home, we’re running out of things to say.
“When will you be here?” I can sacrifice a weekend to spend time with Mom. Not
like I’ll be doing anything else.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message, but I don’t want to miss Mom’s answer. “August thirtieth through September seventh.”
I check my mental calendar — that’s two weeks away. I press two fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Generally when people ‘drop in’ for more than a week, they actually okay it with you first. Like before buying their tickets.”
“Stand-up again?” But I hear the undertone of hurt in her voice.
Guilt gathers in my gut. Great. “Sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay. Do you want me to bring ketchup and Oreos?”
Don’t think I’ve mentioned the differences between Canadian and American foods recently, so she must remember this from sending packages when I was a missionary nine years ago. “Thanks, that’d be great.”
I tell my mom I love her and get off the phone. I scrounge in my kitchen for a halfway-decent meal — okay, a sandwich and some cookies — and it’s half an hour before I remember I got a message during Mom’s call. Once I’m done eating, I retrieve my phone from the charger in my room.
The text’s from Talia. My stomach takes another bad-landing bump before I park myself on the bed again. How was church?
She must think I’m ignoring her. Okay, I text back. No talks on marriage.
She doesn’t respond — probably busy. Maybe her major crisis is ongoing. Man, am I glad to have a job I can leave at the office when I want.
I don’t know how long it is before my phone vibrates, jarring me from the nap I hadn’t meant to take. Another text from Talia. Then I’m sorry I missed it.
Work still?
Always.
That response makes me frown. I know she’s dedicated to her work, but what does a lawyer do that takes twenty-four straight hours on a weekend?
Then again, if she’s avoiding me, she’s doing a crappy job. Unless this is all part of her head games.
Before I realize it, I’ve set the phone down and picked up my laptop. I start reading through the lesson I’m supposed to teach at church next week.
Wow. Been a long time since I’ve been this desperate to distract myself.
What, about nine months? Since my last crash-and-burn?
Now I have something else to distract myself from. I scroll through the lesson, highlighting a quote or two, until my phone buzzes again. And again. And again. Before I touch my phone, I jolt to sitting up straight. Urgency floods my bloodstream. I’m supposed to be somewhere. I need to go, I need to get to — Kendra’s. Because she’ll lose her temper if I take too long to change clothes after church.
Calm down, self. I take a breath to release my tensed muscles. That’s not what a flood of texts means anymore. But suddenly I’m a lot less excited to hear from Talia.
She won’t say, Where are you why don’t you love me anymore don’t I mean anything to you????? Talia’s not that unbalanced. Right?
Four texts. Anyway, this is just a heads-up, says the first one. Because . . .
A picture of a tiny kitten yawning and stretching, with the message You’re!
A kitten hopelessly tangled in yarn, looking forlorn, with the text Gettin!
Three fluffy kittens curled up together, sleeping, with the text Kittens!
Another breath. The joke’s lame, but in a “so bad it’s good” way. I can play along with this. I should contact the ASPCA, I type. Before I send it, I switch it to the CSPCA, though I’m not sure that’s a thing.
? is all she says.
Canadian Society for the Protection of Cute Animals. I smile at my own cleverness, but the smile fades. We’re playing a game — the good kind — but I need this to be real. I need to know she can be real, too. We’re old enough to be real. So I drop the pretense, while still trying to keep up the game.
But first, Talia texts back: You’re the one dying without pictures of cute kittens. This is a mission of mercy.
You’re exploiting those poor little kittens, using them to flirt with me.
Feels like an hour ticks by before she responds. Is it working?
Did I say it wasn’t?
Whew.
All right. Awesome. We’re both totally upfront about our flirting. She likes me, I like her, and the kittens could be a cute inside joke for months.
Now’s the part where I ask her on a second date. All I have to do is say something.
Wait — months? I’m getting way ahead of myself here. If I’m not careful, I could fall for her way too easily.
I scroll back to the kittens pictures. Remind me why shouldn’t I fall for her?
Then I see the time stamps, in quick succession — and remember the reaction they triggered. Ice creeps through my veins, and I set my phone down. Why shouldn’t I fall for her? Seriously? I know exactly why not. I already like her — a lot. If I fall for her, I’ll lose all rationality. All objectivity. I’ll ignore my good judgment, justify all the warning signs, sweep them under the rug or dismiss them, until I wake up one day, married to a vicious banshee.
I turn back to my lesson, even when my phone buzzes again. It takes every gram of self-control I have — and then one flash of a memory, a pair of raging eyes. Not Talia’s, but they did belong to someone else who I thought was sane. Those eyes went from normal to nasty in less than a blink — could Talia’s?
Could Talia turn into that? I don’t know. And I don’t want to find out.
Our mission Sunday was riveting. Half an hour to lure Galina’s upstairs neighbor out long enough to place the bug and six hours of watching men walk in Vasily’s shop with shaggy hair and walk out with slightly less shaggy hair. Americans, Russians, Canadians, etc. Between surveillance there and dance rehearsals with Elliott (and that pesky law internship), I haven’t had a whole lot of time to brood over Danny’s disappearance from our texts. Or the two other times I’ve tried to text him this week. Still, I wasn’t planning on spending Friday night with Elliott. Especially not for his little “surprise” that requires me to dress up.
Exactly how stupid is Elliott? What would he spring on me? We park in front of a brick church, and I start recalculating his idiocy.
“Seriously?” I ask. Please, please tell me he isn’t here to drag me through some sort of wedding rehearsal torture to tease me. “When you said surprise, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“That’s what makes it a surprise.” Elliott grins; I glare.
Okay, dancing may not be the real reason I’m grouchy today. I won’t blame Danny for the crappy mood I’ve been in all week, but ever since he ditched our text conversation Sunday night, nothing’s seemed to go right.
Elliott clears his throat, dragging me out of my thoughts. “You okay?”
I heave a sigh, but I’m not about to lay out my dating problems to Elliott’s mercy. “Depends on what we’re here for.”
“We’re performing.”
I wheel around to the church again. “Performing what?”
“Just a little exhibition. Rahim has one every week. Good way to practice with an audience — for fun.”
“Who’s Rahim? An agent?” Meaning is he spying for you? and do you trust him?
“A DJ. You’ve never heard of Rahim’s Salsa Fridays?”
“I gave up dance after college. Haven’t done a lot of clubbing between my two full-time jobs.”
“And your uptight church.”
Now that’s out of bounds (and ironic, given where we are). Both my eyebrows raise along with the mercury in my temper thermometer.
“Hey.” Elliott slaps on his don’t-hit-me-you-know-I’m-just-kidding smile. I suck in a cool breath and remind myself this guy’s my best friend, the person I turn to when I need help, the man who’s saved my life.
And he’s also the guy who loves to get a rise out of me — he’s just discovered a new way to do it. Two, if you count Danny.
But maybe neither of us should be counting Danny. My gaze falls to my black skirt.
“You’re fine,” Elliott reassures me. “Well, mayb
e a little overdressed. Last time I was there, the girl performing wore those short-shorts . . . Spanx?”
I do not think that word means what he thinks it means. “Spanx?”
“I’m good, thanks,” he says, like I’m not asking but offering.
I groan. Hard to believe Elliott has ever spoken to a woman, let alone gotten one to agree to marry him.
He glances at my legs. “If only we had that view to distract people if you mess up.”
He doesn’t pull the grin defense fast enough, and I punch him in the arm. (That’s gonna leave a bruise.) “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Let’s get in there and arrange the music.”
The prep time for the performance flies by with one quick run-through while they teach a lesson for beginners. As the regular start time approaches, the audience streams in, filling the room the same way nerves fill my lungs. I focus on the rafters overhead, like that’ll amplify my prayers.
Elliott appears by my side. “Stay by the DJ’s table.”
I follow him over there, trying not to scan the crowd gathering around the dance floor (and failing). Elliott turns to the DJ — and then one man, short and blond and red-shirted, edges through the crowd. My blood slows in my veins.
Vasily.
I grab Elliott’s arm, but Rahim cuts me off with his opening announcements. Next he’ll introduce us. Please tell me Elliott gave Rahim our cover names.
Okay, damage control. Vasily knows we’re Ottawans too. As long as we’ve got our covers, we’re good. If Vasily has any reason to think he’s drawn suspicion — like other dancers using two names — he’ll roll up his spy ring and escape.
Rahim booms his intro for the guest DJ, Lance. He takes the mic and pumps up the crowd. “Tonight,” Lance continues, “we’re happy to have new performers with us, fresh off the amateur competitive circuit!”
Applause interrupts him. My tongue goes dry, but my palms are sweaty. Did Rahim pass along the right names? As long as Lance announces us with our cover names, we’re good.
Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 23