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)

by Jordan McCollum

  I can’t follow her in without blowing my cover, and if she’s already made the pass, no point in waiting around. I’ll report this Monday, and somebody will pick up the slack on watching her.

  The photo ID comes back: neg. We don’t have a record of this guy? I’ve only gotten a couple negs ever. I guess he could be off-the-grid and Canadian (with those jowls?), but, man — double shutdown.

  Guess it’s back to Danny’s. (Darn.) Somehow, facing his door doesn’t help my pulse slow down. I almost can’t knock. The nerves are back full force.

  Do you know how often I go on second dates — let alone ask someone on a second date? I don’t keep track, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s been years. I keep my distance from entanglements, relationships and anything that might ever turn serious, because I just can’t go there. I can’t.

  Yet here I am, going out with Danny. Heading down a dangerous road?

  No. That’s crazy. I’m safe for a second date. No commitment. Right?

  I finally knock, and he answers, smiling. I find myself smiling back, until he steps out, keeping the door close, like he’s hiding something in his apartment.

  Behind him, a woman clears her throat before the door closes all the way, and Danny sighs. He backs up a couple feet, opening the door and welcoming me in. A tall, tanned, totally together brunette a couple decades older than us stands in his living room.

  “Talia, this is my mom, Kathi Fluker. Mom, Talia Reynolds.”

  Whoa. Meeting the parents on our second date? I shake his mom’s hand, noting the conspicuous absence of a title for me. (Way too fast to say “girlfriend,” but “date” works.) Her return smile is tight and disapproving.

  It’s going well.

  Danny’s mom fastens him with an intense stare. “Can I talk to you?”

  He looks to me, but I can’t tell if his wide eyes are begging for help or pleading to appease his mother. Either way, a yellow light.

  I move back, a don’t-let-me-interfere dance. Danny’s mom seizes his arm and drags him down the hall into another room, shutting the door behind him. Which, you know, is super attractive.

  As a spy, I can’t let a conversation behind closed doors take place without me. Unfortunately, I left my spy gadgets in my other jeans, so I’m left with creeping to the doorway and regular old eavesdropping.

  “. . . no point when you’re moving back home,” his mother insists.

  “Did I say I was going back?” Danny’s voice holds a hint of challenge. (That’s more like it.)

  “Come on. You like it here, but where is your future? Canada?”

  Isn’t Danny, like, twenty-eight? Man, I’d hate to find out he’s still enmeshed in those apron strings.

  “I’ve got something good going,” Danny says, calm and firm, “and it’s just getting started. Of course my future’s here. Why would I want to leave now?”

  I’m controlling my breathing to eavesdrop more stealthily, but suddenly that’s harder. Please, please tell me that means . . . I don’t know what, but not me. Anything but me. I’m no one’s future.

  “Why do you think I came here?” Danny concludes.

  “To take a break. To get your head on straight. To come home and pick up where you left off.”

  Wish I knew him well enough to picture his posture, his expression, his unspoken retort. For all I know, he could be standing there, shoulders slumped, gaze on the floor, the picture of surrender.

  “Pick up where I left off? Let’s be honest,” he finally says, his tone weary. “This is about Kendra. All these months, you’ve been harping on me to date someone, but what you really wanted was for me to date Kendra again, wasn’t it.”

  “That isn’t fair —”

  “It isn’t happening,” Danny cuts her off. “Not now, not ever, with or without the money. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not. My future is here, and I’d like to get back to it.”

  Clearly meaning me. I don’t have time to panic. Finality rings through his words — these are his closing arguments. I take the cue to back into the living room. No, too obvious. I hurry to the kitchen where he left me, although it’s too clean to pretend to admire at anything. Danny opens the door and strides out, and I look up, the picture of innocence. I can’t tell if Danny’s flushed from the discussion with his mom or embarrassed I had to see that.

  He chooses not to acknowledge the awkwardness. “Ready?” he asks, opening the door.

  “Yep.” I gauge my reaction by his. He doesn’t glance back at his mom as we leave the apartment. We pass the elevator ride with stilted small talk. Danny doesn’t say anything about the mom incident until we’ve reached the ground floor. “Sorry about my mother.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.” More than he could know.

  “She flew in to present me with a ‘gift,’ but . . .” Danny grimaces. The money he mentioned?

  He holds the glass front door for me, sparing him the rest of his answer — but believe me, I know all about gifts as tools for manipulation. (Surprised Mom isn’t still harping on me about her twenty bucks.)

  I’m used to closing up shop and hunkering down to weather a storm like this. Seems like that’s Danny’s role tonight. When my family’s storms were bad, one thing brought me out of my shell: Trevor’s jokes.

  “As long as she didn’t fly in to meet me because we made it to a second date,” I try.

  Danny gives me a half-grin. “Have to make sure you’re marriage material, right?”

  My gut inches toward the sidewalk, and my brain replays a highlight reel of Elliott teasing me last week. About marrying Danny.

  He didn’t send that jewelry catalog, did he? I should’ve spent my time alone in the living room searching for it.

  And my silence is making this more awkward. I need to change the subject. “Well,” I say like I’m tying that whole ordeal up, “looks like I failed. Pity.”

  Danny watches me, his face serious. Too serious. “Actually . . .”

  Actually? He’s turning this into a real discussion? About marriage? A chill bolts down my back.

  “Maybe we should talk,” he finishes.

  “Talk? About —?” I try to speak, but my tongue is dry. I can’t even say the M-word out loud.

  “Well, yeah.” Like it’s a foregone conclusion. Like all we have to do is pick the date.

  My brain jumps into hyperspeed, flashing memories of Elliott teasing me about catching the bouquet, Arjay pro-claiming we’ll get married, my parents’ story. Each memory weighs on my chest, constricting my rib cage like a python crushing me to death.

  My parents dated for three weeks. Today is exactly three weeks since my first date with Danny.

  And his future is in Canada. He’s started something good. Why his future’s here.

  He did mean me. He wants me to be his future, and he’s bringing up marriage.

  The last landslide of memories lands on me like a load of lead. Hate. Resentment. Fear. Fights, tears, screaming, all the venom that ripped apart our family and our lives.

  Air. I need air. I can barely make out Danny’s voice over the blood rushing in my ears. No idea what he’s saying. It finally registers he’s a few feet ahead of me. Because I stopped walking.

  He finally glances around for me, then hurries to my side. “Talia? Are you okay?”

  “I’m feeling —” I pant and try again. “I’m not feeling . . . lightheaded.”

  “You’re not feeling lightheaded?”

  I reach out for the stucco and steel wall next to me, but I’m too far away. My hand finds nothing. I stumble sideways and crash into the building.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Danny takes hold of my arms. “Breathe.”

  I drag in a ragged breath, but I can’t — I can’t — I can’t —

  “It’s okay,” he soothes. “I got you.”

  That’s the problem. I try to get another breath, but the air and my nose and my lungs won’t cooperate.

  “I’ll take care of you,” he says. I finally foc
us on him.

  On one knee in front of me. Pledging to take care of me. (I think? Did I hear right?)

  “No,” I gasp. “No —”

  “Do you need to lie down? Breathe in a paper bag? . . . Elevate your feet?”

  “I need to go home.” I manage the five words in a rush of air before I drag in more. “Sorry.”

  Danny helps me stand — I don’t need help — I try to pull away.

  “I’ll drive you home,” he offers.

  “No!” Now I’m too forceful, but I don’t let anybody from church come to my building. Too risky. Too paranoid.

  “Okay.” He backs away a step, but keeps one hand on my arm. “I can’t leave you like this. Is this asthma? Do you have an inhaler?”

  “No. I’m fine.” No, obviously I’m not, since every breath still hitches in my chest. “I’ll be fine.” I fish my clicker out of my pocket and point it at my car, three spaces down the sidewalk. The hazard lights flash. “See?”

  Danny’s free hand settles on my back. “Let me get you there, at least.”

  Further protests would look more bizarre than breaking out in a rumba right now, so I snap my mouth shut and go with it, concentrating on my breathing and putting one foot in front of another. I open my door before he can and get in, but Danny lingers there, concern in the furrow of his brows. “Are you sure I can’t take you home?”

  “Very.” I look up at him, standing beside my car despite the traffic passing dangerously close.

  They’re not the only things dangerously close.

  I can breathe a little better, but the walls are still closing in inside my head. I need to go. I need to run. I need to escape. But Danny’s waiting. I draw in an exaggerated breath for show. “See? I’ll be okay. I just need to rest.”

  The concern etches deeper, but he doesn’t disagree. “If you’re really sure.”

  “Completely.”

  He closes my car door, still reluctant. Not waiting around for him to leave. I start my car and slip into the first gap in traffic. I’m home in my tiny studio apartment, searched, cleared and safe, before my ribs finally relax. I escaped. I’m free.

  I sink onto my so-not-me floral bedspread and just breathe. The cool air feels so good in my lungs it takes me a couple minutes of calming down to identify the other feeling there, cold and hard.

  Regret.

  I really blew it. And he’ll probably never talk to me again.

  My night’s been awesome. Mom dragging me off to lecture me in front of Talia, like I’m ten. Arguing with Mom and mentioning Kendra. Talia freaking out for no apparent reason and driving off five minutes later.

  Needless to say, I don’t head right up to resume the argument with Mom. Nowhere else to go, so I spend half an hour, forty-five minutes pacing the lobby and the patio. Saturday night’s usual crowd is getting rowdy around the pool, but I keep to my rounds and keep to myself, going over every minute of the Shortest Date in History in excruciating detail.

  Is she okay? How did I set her off? Am I a walking trigger for people’s psychological problems? What’s the matter with me?

  Is something the matter with her?

  My circuits and my mental circles get tighter and tighter, till I’m wearing a track into the black-and-white tile of my lobby. My phone buzzes, and I drift to a stop to check the message — Mom. Having fun?

  Nope. I sink onto a low lobby bench without texting back, not yet. But since I’ve got my phone out, I have to know how Talia’s doing. Even if she never speaks to me again, I want to know she made it home all right. So I text her. Are you okay?

  Yeah, she replies quickly. I’m so sorry.

  What, like it’s her fault she had a panic attack? Was it something I said? I hope that comes across as a joke and not clingy — classic Kendra. Talia doesn’t respond. Either I missed the mark, or something I said really did set her off.

  I settle back on the bench and review our short con-versation. When she freaked out, we were talking about Mom flying in. Then we started talking about . . . marriage. On a second date.

  Who sounds like the psycho now?

  I grab hold of my courage and my phone to text her again. Is it because I brought up marriage on a 2nd date? I promise I’m not that crazy.

  Probably good to establish this. Exactly how crazy are you?

  A joke has to be the best answer. On a scale of 1 to purple, Bernoulli’s principle.

  Ha ha.

  Every minute I wait for her responses feels longer. I should just call her. I hit the icon to dial. Takes a couple rings too many, but Talia finally answers. “Hi.”

  “Hey. Listen, I promise, I’m not insane. And I can explain.”

  She hesitates. “I’m listening.”

  No, she was listening when we sat in the half-shadows of a bike tunnel, waiting out the rain, talking about nothing and everything. Now, I can’t see her, I can’t read her expression, I can’t gauge whether I’m explaining it right. “Can we talk about this in person?”

  “Two talking dates in a row? What will people think?”

  “A gentleman doesn’t date and tell.”

  “You didn’t?” She fakes an offended tone, but I know her better. The shields in her eyes? No way. Even on our first date it took time to push past them.

  Then I remember that little moment where they dis-appeared altogether, revealing a flash of terror: when I said she’d been hurt. Like I have.

  If I told her the whole truth, she’d understand. I know she would.

  I need to see her. “I can explain better face-to-face. Meet for dessert?” I offer. “You pick the place, I’ll buy?”

  She hesitates. “Can’t say no to that. You know Choconilla? It’s on Durham Street.”

  “I’ll find it.” Shouldn’t be too hard. The street’s only a couple blocks over, but she doesn’t need to know I’ve been moping like a loser since she left. “Meet you there in ten?”

  “Fifteen.”

  I consult my mental map and draw a fifteen minute driving radius from the street she picked, but that doesn’t do much to narrow down where she lives. “See you there.”

  Talia reaches the busy restaurant a few minutes after me, and she inspects the crowd like a scared rabbit. I wave, urging her to join me in the long line — last hurrah of summer, I guess — and I think the trepidation leaves when she sees me.

  “Hey,” she says. Hope I’m imagining that she still sounds breathless. “Sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  “Have you had frozen custard before?” She gestures at the gleaming silver ice cream machines behind the counter.

  “Yeah. Ever heard of Culver’s?”

  Talia concentrates on that a little too hard. “Don’t think so.”

  I wave it away. “Anyway. It’s good.”

  “Yeah. And I like this place because they’re really into keeping the food fresh. Never save the custard overnight and serve it again, fresh ingredients every day, and they’re pretty strict about who can touch the machines. Saw a manager yell at a guy for going behind the counter once.”

  “Whoa.” Not a quality I usually look for in a restaurant, but I guess freakish devotion to your food has its pluses. We reach the counter: I get vanilla with crushed Kit Kats, and Talia opts for the flavor of the day, maple cinnamon roll. We take the last open table in the back corner of the crowded restaurant.

  “Okay,” I start with a deep breath. “I’m not a psycho.”

  “Uh huh. And Whoever’s Principle is your definition of sanity.”

  “That’s not crazy. It’s the concept all flight is based on.”

  She contemplates that and takes another bite of her custard. “Human flight is not my idea of ‘sane’ either.”

  “No, you know what’s insane? How far we’ve come in just over a century.”

  “Gonna take more than that to get me hurtling through the air in a pressurized metal tube.” She scans the restaurant.

  I file her aviophobia away under my Talia tab and turn back t
o the subject at hand. “I wasn’t talking about marriage.”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “You said we should talk. The topic was marriage.”

  “Okay, yes.” I shut myself up with a spoonful of frozen custard — man, this is good, thick and smooth and sweet — before I restart the topic. “I was talking about marriage.”

  Talia fixes on her bowl, swirling a pattern into her custard with her spoon.

  “I was trying to tell you I don’t want to talk about marriage.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I want to take it off the table.” I finish with a slicing motion, like I’m knocking that subject off our actual table — and my spoon between my fingers flings a big drop of half-melted frozen custard at her, hitting her square in the chest.

  Do I always have to be an idiot? “Sorry.” I hop up for napkins, but let her work on cleaning it off.

  Talia scrubs her gray shirt for a minute. I wait until she’s done — or given up — before I repeat my statement. “I want to take marriage off the table.”

  She says nothing. She doesn’t protest or support my statement, waiting for further explanation.

  Here comes the tricky part. “I just . . . I’m not in a good place for that now.”

  She stares at me for a long minute, then slowly nods. Like she doesn’t quite get what I’m trying to say.

  I immediately begin editing my story into the safe version, the one I can share, the one I can put into words. “I went through a bad breakup last year — but the last thing you want to hear about is your date’s ex.”

  “Everyone’s been hurt.” She uses the same words we said on our last date, after that moment of fear when I came way too close to the truth. Too close for both of us. I watch her face, but she isn’t trying to tell me my pain doesn’t matter just because other people are hurting more. Deep in her hazel eyes, I can see that truth, alongside the fear: she’s been hurt, too. She’s not judging me. She understands.

  No. Nobody quite understands, no matter how much they want to. I eat some custard, and then some more, but my cup’s almost gone. I pick out the safest, most neutral way to say it. “My ex was. . . really crazy, and she kind of took it out on me. When I broke it off, she went off the insane-stalker-Richter scale.”