“Margot,” I bit out, clenching my fists together so I wouldn’t reach out and strangle her. “Do you also consider Chinese water-torture or having bamboo shoots forced beneath your fingernails fun? Because I’d rather sign up for either of those activities than go freaking speed-dating with total strangers!”
“Oh, relax.” Margot huffed. “Let’s get a drink. You’ll feel much better after a glass of wine.”
“Are you planning to roofie it?”
“Only if you continue being such a spoilsport,” she countered breezily, grabbing my hand and tugging me forward.
There was a buffet table of appetizers on the left where, thankfully, most of the crowd had gathered. A makeshift bar had been set up on the right. I beelined for it, and not five minutes later, I had a complimentary glass of cheap, boxed wine clutched tightly in one hand – in the nick of time, too, because a bubbly woman with a brunette bob straight out of the 1950s had just grabbed an electronic megaphone and stepped up onto a stool to address the crowd.
“Good evening, everyone! I’m Linda!” Her voice boomed at such a high decibel, the mic let out a piercing shriek that probably set every dog in a ten-mile radius on high alert. I rubbed at my ringing ears and took a large sip of wine from my plastic glass. It tasted horrible, but I was pretty sure if I drank enough of it, the night might become a fraction more tolerable.
“Sorry, sorry!” the woman blathered into the bullhorn. “Still getting the hang of this thing!”
Her amplified giggles made me want to hurl myself into the lake.
“So, anywho!” she continued, her voice full of excitement. “You’ve gathered here tonight because you’re all English-speaking singles looking to spice up your love lives overseas! Am I right? Or am I right, people?”
I nearly threw up in my mouth, but managed to stop myself. I wasn’t about to waste a single drop of the precious little wine remaining in my glass.
Thank god no one in the audience chorused you’re right! back at Linda. I drew the line at campy call-and-response activities.
“So, as you can see, there are twenty tables total — ten in each row.” Linda gestured to the cocktail tables, each of which was topped with a paper placard. “Where are my ladies at, tonight?”
There were halfhearted murmurs from the women in the audience. Margot giggled; I sipped more wine.
“We’ve got a great group this evening, I can just tell!” Linda gushed. I was beginning to wonder if she’d popped a happy pill — or six — before beginning her speech. “So, ladies, you’ll each be stationed at a table. Gentlemen, you’ll rotate from woman to woman when you hear this sound!”
Linda rang a small bell with so much enthusiasm, I thought her arm might snap off.
“Each round is five minutes! Any questions?”
Silence from the crowd.
“Excellent!” Linda smiled wide. “And just remember… when you hear the bell toot, it’s time to scoot! No lingering, gentlemen.”
I did throw up in my mouth a little, that time.
“Now, off you go, ladies! Find your name and table.” Linda clapped her hands in excitement. “Gentlemen, please line up over here. You’ll have a better view of the ladies as they get settled from this spot, anyway!”
I turned to Margot with a fake smile plastered on my lips. “When your body washes up on the banks of the Danube tomorrow morning, just know… you totally deserved it.”
Ignoring my words, Margot shimmied her entire body inappropriately in my direction, drawing attentive stares from several of our potential suitors. “Oh, yeah. Single and ready to mingle. Let’s get this party started.”
With that, she turned and headed off to find her table. I raised my glass to take another sip of wine and was dismayed to find it completely empty.
Damn. This night was really not going my way.
***
“So, as I was saying, I’m really just here for a few weeks. It was the next stop on my bucket list, so I had to check it out. I’ve been all over Europe — Prague, Vienna, Florence, Amsterdam. I’m gonna hit up Asia next, then maybe head to Australia for a while.” He finally took a breath. “You know, some people aren’t like me.”
What, you mean not everyone is a total narcissist? Well, thank the lord for that.
“Some people aren’t lucky. Not everyone gets to travel to fifty countries in two years,” Earl prattled on, entirely unaware of my thoughts. He smiled at me with a faux-humble grin he’d no doubt been perfecting since his boarding school days, and I tried my best not to gag. “Not everyone has a trust fund, either,” he added.
Jesus. Was this guy for real? Did women actually find this shit appealing?
Actually, given the fact that he was self-enrolled in a speed-dating service, I was going to assume the answer to my question was hell fucking no. I cast my eyes heavenward and prayed for divine intervention. Maybe a merciful lightning bolt would strike him — or me — dead. Because Earl was match number six, and, so far, he was the best of the bunch.
The first two guys had essentially stared at my boobs until the bell rang. The third had at least attempted conversation, not only revealing that he’d been traveling the world on a religious pilgrimage for the past eight months, but also attempting to convert me when I told him my parents had raised me without any formal religion — all in five minutes or less, mind you. Number four had been so shy, I’d initially wondered if, like me, he’d been forced into this situation by his friends, so I struck up a scintillating conversation about how beautiful the park was at this time of year. It seemed like an innocuous enough topic.
Huge mistake.
As it turned out, match number four was horrified to learn of my ignorance concerning the indigenous bird species that had been driven from their habitats due to overcrowding and excessive tourism. He used his five minutes to educate me quite thoroughly on the issue.
By the time date number five arrived, I was thinking things might finally be on the upswing — he was attractive, well-dressed, and I’d seen him engaged in a lively conversation with Margot only minutes before. And yet… he seemed totally disinterested in me from the moment he sat down, glancing at his cellphone every few seconds and casting several unsubtle looks at the girl at the next cocktail table rather than making conversation.
Talk about an ego boost.
Hell, considering the other options, Earl was shaping up to be the most eligible bachelor of the evening.
A surreptitious glance at my watch informed me that there were still three minutes left until the bell rang. I’d spent a hundred and twenty seconds with Earl, and I was ready to jab my eyes out. I didn’t know how much longer I could last.
Thankfully, he was so enamored with himself, he didn’t seem to notice that I was no longer paying attention. My eyes drifted down the bank of the lake and, in the fading twilight, I saw an artist packing up his easel for the day. He’d been sketching the rowers on the water, his canvas streaked with the red-orange hues of sunset. His back was to me — all broad shoulders and defined muscles. He wasn’t huge, like those roid-ragey, neck-less, body-builder types who were always grunting at the gym, but there was something in the way he held himself, even from this distance, that spoke of tightly coiled power, of lithe energy and a deceptive amount of control.
I should’ve recognized him, but I didn’t.
He turned slowly, as though he felt the weight of my eyes on him. When his face lifted and I realized it was him, my stranger, I nearly had a heart attack right there at the cocktail table.
His eyes locked onto mine. Hands frozen midair, canvas hovering half-stored inside his portable easel, he stared across the expanse between us. Our eyes held for five unblinking seconds, and I felt a slow, disbelieving smile spread across my lips. My mind blanked except for one word.
Fate.
I should’ve been embarrassed to be caught staring. I should’ve looked away, as this fleeting glance between strangers had stretched on for too long. But I couldn’t.
> “Hey, you still with me?” Earl’s voice invaded the moment and my eyes flew back to his face.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said, my heart thundering in my chest. “Spaced out for a minute there. What were you saying?”
“I was telling you about snowboarding at my dad’s chalet in Switzerland.”
“Oh, right,” I murmured. “Carry on.”
Happily back on track, Earl launched once more into his monologue of self-congratulation, and I let my impatient eyes fly back to the lakeshore. But there was no easel on the bank. No brushes scattered on the ground. And no handsome artist, painting my night a little brighter with his mere presence.
Maybe he hadn’t been there at all.
Maybe I was imagining him again, like I had in the club the other night.
I sighed and turned back to Earl, my chin resting in my palm as I counted down the seconds until the next bell.
Chapter Ten: WESTON
A WATERY GRAVE
I picked this spot on purpose.
I knew she’d be here. Just like I’d known she’d be at the club the other night, and at the café last week. I was fully aware that if I sat here long enough, she’d grow so bored with whatever moron was currently chatting her ear off, she’d let her gaze wander down to meet mine.
Just because I was prepared for it, didn’t make it any easier, though.
When you jump into a really cold body of water, there’s a moment when the breath is stolen from your lungs, when the icy waves close over your head like a liquid tomb. It’s bone-chilling. It hits you like a kick to the stomach. Like knives piercing your skin. You choke in a lungful of ocean, push your way to the surface, and assure yourself that you’ll adjust. That the shock will wear off and, eventually, your body will go numb enough that you don’t feel the frigid water lapping at every inch of you.
Every time my eyes locked on Faith Morrissey’s, it was like jumping into the fucking Arctic Sea: instant shock to the system.
Except it didn’t go away.
There was no adjusting to her. No way to numb her effect or ignore her influence on my body.
It wasn’t pleasant — drowning never was. I hated her for it. I fought against her hold on me, but I couldn’t shake her. I couldn’t prevent her effect any more than a drowning man could resist gasping for one last mouthful of air when he was 10,000 leagues underwater. Though it promised certain death, that final, fatal gasp for air was unavoidable.
I was drowning in the ocean that was Faith Morrissey.
***
I let her spot me on the bank, but only for a moment.
Just long enough to peak her interest further. She was a little more skittish than most of my targets — I wanted to make sure she was truly on the line before I set my hook and reeled her in.
Hidden from view in the shadows, I watched her for another minute. Her chin was planted in one palm and her eyes glazed over as her sixth match of the night talked on.
What a prick. He was more interested in regaling her with his life story than he was in getting to know her. She could’ve been anyone — he didn’t care, so long as she had ears and was forced to listen to him talk for five, uninterrupted minutes. I knew his type. The melody of his own voice was his favorite sound in the world.
Maybe if he pulled his head out of his ass for thirty seconds, he’d realize what he was missing. He’d learn that the girl sitting across from him was bright and beautiful, fierce and funny as hell. But he didn’t. Like the five who’d come before him, he ignored her. He didn’t see her at all. And, as the minutes ticked by, I watched her slowly deflate, gradually retreating into herself as though their asinine behavior was somehow her fault. As though she was the one with something to be ashamed of, rather than those useless pricks.
Seeing her like that — diminished by this parade of assholes who’d never be good enough for her — pissed me off beyond measure. I didn’t fully understand why, but seeing this beautiful girl begin to question her own worth because of a few idiots had me ready to throttle each and every one of them, until they were bleeding and begging to apologize for their own ignorance.
I didn’t recognize these unfamiliar emotions raging inside me — I had no name for them, no experience to compare them with. All I knew was that I was so mad, I couldn’t think straight. So angry, I was out of my fucking mind. The tightly-reined control that I’d counted on for as long as I could remember suddenly fled and, for a moment, I lost myself.
That was the only possible explanation for what I did next.
Because when Linda, the obnoxiously enthusiastic brunette in charge, rang her bell to signal the end of round six, I didn’t slip out of sight and leave the girl behind, as I’d planned to. I didn’t walk away. Instead, I found myself emerging from the shadows, heading determinedly for the cocktail table I’d been watching for the past thirty minutes.
Asshole number seven was reaching for the stool, but I cut in front of him and quickly slid onto the seat. I set my easel case on the ground, propped my forearms on the table, and turned to face the shocked girl seated across from me.
Her eyes were wide with disbelief. Her lips were twitching as though torn between two expressions — unsure whether to stretch in a smile or part in shock. I grinned wolfishly at her and was pleased when, after a few seconds, her lips curved up in response.
“Hey, Red,” I said casually.
“Hi,” she breathed, her eyes scanning my face. “You’re here.”
My grin went crooked.
“Um, hello? Excuse me?” The insistent male voice was an unwelcome intrusion on our moment. I glanced dismissively at the short-statured man who should’ve been Faith’s partner during this round, before turning my eyes back to her.
“So, where were we?” I asked her. Before she could speak, I launched in. “Ah, yes. Speed-dating. Well, I’m Wesley Adams — though, only my mother is allowed to call me Wesley. To everyone else, it’s Wes. Twenty-five years young. Capricorn. And yes, before you ask, I do in fact like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.”
Her mouth dropped open and her whisper was full of breathy outrage. “You broke the first rule of stranger club!”
“This is not an official stranger club meeting — this is speed-dating.” I managed to laugh, but inside I was kicking myself. I couldn’t believe, of all the names in the world, I’d given her that one. My entire cover story had been there, poised on my lips. I’d had it prepared for weeks.
I was Joshua “Josh” Collins — stationed here on business for the next year. A pharmaceutical researcher studying the healing properties of Hungary’s famous thermal springs, as well as their applications for modern medicine. Unmarried. Originally from a small, oceanfront community in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. A stand-up sort of man, with a safe set of interests — golf, sailing, skiing. I was the stereotypical New England WASP, who’d gone to a good, solid college and was looking for a good, solid woman.
Except, when I’d opened my mouth to reveal my name, the cover I’d carefully rehearsed hadn’t come out. Because I didn’t want to be Josh Collins when she looked at me. I wanted to be myself — or, at the very least, some close derivative of myself. So, I said Wesley Adams.
Wesley. Fucking. Adams.
Might as well have blown the whole fucking mission wide open and told her my real name.
Hi, I’m Weston Abbott, the CIA operative attempting to infiltrate your life. Wanna grab a coffee?
I was such a fucking idiot.
I could’ve tried to justify it — could’ve told myself I’d only chosen a name similar to my own because it would be easier to remember, that lies were always more convincing when they held a grain of truth. But that was all bullshit. I’d changed my cover at the last second for one reason only: because when I finally heard Faith Morrissey say my name, I didn’t want it to be fake. I didn’t want it to be a lie.
And that was the most dangerous, reckless thing I’d ever done in all my years dodging bullets and running for my life on
this job.
“Excuse me!” Match number seven was really getting flustered now. “You’re in my seat! I’m supposed to be with her this round.”
I looked up at him once more. “Are you sure? I think you should go check with the brunette with the bullhorn. She looks like she’s a good mediator.”
“But, I—”
“Dude. You’re hovering.”
“But—”
I turned back to Faith, who was barely managing to contain her laughter as the man stormed off to find matchmaker Linda. “Anyway, where was I?”
“Breaking all my rules,” she muttered darkly, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms over her torso.
“And my own,” I added under my breath.
“What?” Her brows lifted in question.
“I did warn you that I had no intention of following your rules the last time we spoke,” I pointed out.
She huffed. “I don’t like you.”
I shrugged and grinned. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. You were right.”
“I usually am,” she said humbly, her smile reappearing. “But, pray tell, what about this time?”
“Fate,” I said quietly.
Her eyes went liquid with warmth. “So you believe in it, now?”
“No,” I said carefully, gaze still on hers. “But you do.”
The skin around her eyes crinkled when she grinned. “I told you — you just had to have a little faith.”
I caught her play on words, but didn’t let on that I understood. “So, we have approximately two and a half minutes left. Let’s get cracking. I want to know your deepest secrets, fears, and dreams.”
“In that order?” she asked, laughing.
“Of course. That’s what speed-dating is all about, right? Really getting to know someone? Every detailed facet of their personality, each nuance that makes them special, what really makes them tick…”
“Oh, of course.” She snorted, her voice heavily laced with sarcasm. “All of the men I met tonight now know everything there is to know about me. Five minutes is really all it takes.”
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