Time for a little change of subject. I decided to let Cat do the honors.
“Now, how about I slip into something more comfortable,” I purred.
Turns out it felt as awkward as hell, sitting in the cozy glow of Ethan’s spotless kitchen and facing his intent stare. So I shifted gears. “Seriously, Chavez. Cut a girl a break. Do you have a pair of sweats, or maybe some satin pajamas I could borrow? I’m wearing vanilla body lotion, so I guarantee they’ll smell yummy when I give them back to you.” I took another quick shot of OJ, tamping down on the urge to giggle. I’d been weirdly flirtatious all evening, pushing the limits of his comfort zone, but now the teasing felt almost beyond my control.
Ethan put his juice down on the counter. “Just how long did you plan on staying?” he inquired with a sardonic lift of his brows.
It was obvious I was on his last nerve, but having finally stepped into the man’s secret lair, I planned to hunker down for a little stay—who knew when I’d be invited back.
“Just long enough for me to pick your brain a little.”
“Uh-huh.” He seemed skeptical. “Let me see what I can find. It won’t be satin pajamas,” he warned.
The second he was out of sight, I did a little victory dance, but I was back under control, finishing up my juice, when he returned with a pair of plaid pajama pants and a sweatshirt with “Virginia” emblazoned across the chest.
“What happened in Virginia?” I asked.
“Plenty,” he said wryly.
“Why do you have a Virginia sweatshirt?” I clarified flatly, wondering if the man could answer a single question without suspicion or misdirection. It felt like I was forever firing missiles and he was forever launching countermeasures.
“I lived there for a little while after college,” he said.
This was news to me. “Were you teaching?”
“No.” No doubt in reaction to my steely-eyed stare, he clarified, ever so slightly. “I worked as a translator.”
“Really?!” Here was an interesting little tidbit. “What language?”
“Several.”
“Look at you, Chavez! You just got interesting. A translator for whom?”
“Lots of companies need translators for their overseas operations.”
“Uh-huh. And who needed you?”
“Evidently you did,” he said, gesturing to the sweatshirt in my hands. “You going to change into that?”
I leveled him with a determined stare. I’m going to break you, Chavez, just wait.
“Fine,” I said, swiveling on my bar stool. He was throwing me scraps, and we both knew it, but I’d take them. And bide my time.
I slid the clothes off the counter with an irritated swipe and strolled down the hall to the guest bathroom. It took me all of ten seconds to slip out of my frothy dress and into the warm comfort of Ethan’s clothes. The sweatshirt smelled like him, spice and soap, and I breathed deep before padding back down the hall, dropping onto the sofa, and curling my feet up underneath me. I pulled a pillow onto my lap and waited for Ethan to mosey in from the kitchen.
“I bet we could use your expertise as a linguistics major and recently discovered translator in deconstructing the journal.”
“That expertise hasn’t been particularly useful in helping me deconstruct this conversation,” he pointed out wryly. Leaning toward me from his seat on a leather club chair, planting his forearms on his thighs, Ethan pitched his voice low, to a shiver-inducing pitch. “You’re bullshitting, Cate. You don’t want to talk about the journal. You know that, and I know that.” His eyebrow rose ever so slightly, and I gritted my teeth. “The truth is, you’re here hoping to ferret out a couple of irrelevant little details about my life because you’re on some Girl Friday kick. Admit it.”
I tipped my head slightly, keeping my eyes on him, and finally decided to come clean.
“Fine. You’ve outwitted me, Chavez. Happy?” I sighed deeply. “How about you cut me a break and throw me an irrelevant little detail?”
Ethan held my gaze, his eyes unblinking behind his lenses for an uncomfortably intense moment, before leaning back in his chair and indulging himself in a good, long eye roll. He was clearly exasperated, but he wasn’t asking me to leave, so I decided to press my luck even further. I’d exasperated him plenty of times before, often with good results.
“Twenty questions.” I probably didn’t have a shot in hell at getting him to agree to that, but it had worked pretty well with Jake, even though we hadn’t gotten around to all twenty. “Yes-or-no only,” I offered. “But you’ve only got one pass.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing for the last five minutes?”
“Similar, but without the evasion tactics.”
“Fine,” he finally agreed. “But you only have two minutes.”
“Done,” I said, willing myself not to get overly excited. Otherwise the adrenaline was going to trip me up.
“Okay. Starting now?” My hands were fluttery.
Ethan glanced down at his expensive watch, pushed a couple of little buttons, and said, “Go.” And oh, he looked smug.
“Did your teacher’s salary pay for that watch?” I asked, winging one eyebrow up.
If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. He was enviably calm. “No.”
“Are you a trust-fund baby?”
“No.”
“Did your last job set you up for life?” I remembered the conversation I’d had with my class suggesting I could be a millionaire, teaching for the fun of it. It was going to be ironic as hell if that description fit Ethan.
“No.”
“Did you steal that watch?”
“No.”
“Get it as a gift?”
“No.”
“Is it MIB issue. . . or the like?”
“Or the like?? Seriously? Is your question, did the watch come from some sort of interplanetary protection force?”
I nodded and tapped the spot on my wrist where my expensive watch should be.
He pursed his lips, completely baffled, irritated, and exasperated. If I learned nothing at all from this inquisition, I’d always have this moment.
“No.”
“Did you buy it?” Just to confirm.
“Yes.”
“So you have another job, besides teaching and IT work at the school?”
I almost didn’t catch it, but he blinked an extra time before answering.
“Yes.”
Now we were getting somewhere. I sat up straighter, pushing the pillow away from me.
“Is it computer related?”
“Yes.” Now I heard a slight edge in his voice.
“Are you a translator?”
“Yes.”
“Do you work during the week?”
He waited a beat before answering.
“Yes.”
“On weekends?”
“Yes.”
“Is that where you were this week—at this other job?”
“Yes.”
I was on fire! Now if I could just pin down who he was working for. . . .
And then I had an epiphany.
“Other than your desire to cultivate an air of mystery, are you keeping this job secret for a reason?”
I didn’t actually see any beads on Ethan’s brow, but I had a feeling I was making him sweat, and that felt awesome.
“Yes.”
“Will you get in trouble if I pin you down in this game of twenty questions?”
He briefly considered his answer. “No.” He checked his watch, and I swooped in for the kill.
“Do you work for the government?” My head was suddenly swimming with thoughts of Burn Notice.
“Yes.”
My heart rate, which had been steadily increasing right along with the titillation involved in juicy secrets finally revealed, was beating out a rapid, encouraging tattoo.
“FBI?”
“No.” This was literally gritted out. I was closing in, and I knew it. And
so did he.
“CIA?”
After our impromptu rapid-fire Q&A, the next few seconds felt like they played out in slow motion. Ethan’s cell phone buzzed from the kitchen counter, and we simultaneously looked over at it. Then, with a quick, unreadable glance at me, he was up out of his chair to retrieve it.
“Answer the question,” I called after him.
With a glance at the caller ID, he checked his watch and announced, “Time’s up. And I’ve gotta take this. Give me five minutes.”
Before the ringing stopped, he was down the hall, closing the door to his office with a quiet tap. And I was all alone on the couch, staring after him, wondering if I’d just imagined that whole back-and-forth.
Shit.
I’d rocked that round of twenty questions, but rather than pump my fist in the air, I shifted so that my head was propped against the side of the couch. Was it possible he was playing me? Concocting a story that cast him in the role of a sexy, mysterious computer geek? Well, it had worked like gangbusters. I’d assumed the shivery thrill I’d felt as the questions started to roll fast and furious were caused by the excitement of the moment, but now I knew the truth. I was a little turned on.
Then again, it was possible I was going into shock. The way this evening had been going, it could be either. I’d gotten all dressed up for a wedding, danced under the stars; I’d sipped champagne and slipped into something very comfortable. . . . And then one of my best friends had confided that he was living a whole secret, sexy life separate from the one I knew about.
First of all, what the hell? I’d known the man for two years, during which he’d been in the loop on virtually every aspect of my life while I had been shut out of everything but school and Scrabble. Had he been intentionally keeping secrets from me, or had I simply been too self-involved to pay attention? The significance of this suddenly hit me full force: Ethan has an alter ego. Admittedly it was as a computer geek, but still. It made me wonder if he only wore his glasses to teach, stripping them off for top secret. . . translations. . . or upgrades. . . I shut my eyes in exasperation. I still had no freakin’ idea what the man did. I just knew he did it for the government. And that my head was starting to hurt.
Ethan was going to be back in probably three minutes, and I was going to have to sit here and look at him, and finish out the twenty questions, and hide the fact that in my head, I was wondering if computer geeks who worked for the government in real life were as buff as they were in the movies.
I let my mind float. Away from the surreal quality of the entire evening and onto a little mini-vacation. I checked into the Hotel San José, a cool oasis nestled at the heart of South Congress. I’d never actually stayed there, but it had been the site of many little escapes, with its boxwood-trimmed bungalows, crisp, cool sheets, and calm. . .
Next thing I knew, I smelled coffee, and pearly light was waiting just beyond my eyelids to be let in. I had a crick in my neck, and my bra was MIA. And as curious as that was, it paled in comparison to the reality that I’d spent the night at Ethan’s, and the slightly fuzzy memory that I’d uncovered some rather juicy little secrets.
When I finally staggered bleary-eyed into the kitchen, after a quick search-and-rescue mission involving my bra, I was charmed to see that Ethan had set a mug out for me. Realization came swiftly: He’d no doubt hoped to curtail any potential snooping. Smirking ever so slightly, I filled the hefty navy blue mug halfway up with coffee and then scrounged through the refrigerator looking for something to use as creamer. Skim milk was the closest thing I found, and that was disappointing. Next I rifled through various cupboards and every shelf in the pantry (so much for not snooping) looking for sugar and ended up utterly exasperated. I was well aware that Ethan drank his coffee black, and it was now obvious that he wasn’t prepared for guests. At least those who took the liberty of inviting themselves.
I took my first warming sip and felt my tongue try to reject it—this brew had run roughshod over the pale, thin dollop of skim I’d added. I looked down at the mug of coffee, giving my mouth a chance to acclimate, seriously thinking about checking the freezer for some vanilla ice cream, and that’s when I noticed.
In bright white relief against that handsome navy blue background, a seal stood out on the mug. A shield, topped with the profile of an eagle’s head, was encircled with the words “Central Intelligence Agency, United States of America.” I stared as my synapses slowly snapped to attention, pondering the possibilities. I took another sip of coffee and nearly gagged. Slipping onto the nearest bar stool, I set the coffee down, pushing it slightly away to save me from myself.
When Ethan had found me asleep on his couch last night after he’d finished his phone call, had he decided to steal the thunder of Question #18 by leaving this mug for me to find? Or had Ethan found this at a souvenir shop and been amused by the implications? Impossible to tell. I’d just pretend I hadn’t seen it and pick up where we’d left off as soon as Ethan found his way out of bed. Until then, I had every intention of making myself a coffee milkshake.
My hand was literally on the freezer door when Ethan appeared, wearing the same pajama bottoms, now paired with a CIA T-shirt. As I stood staring, sizing him up, my eyes jerking from his face to his chest, Ethan propped a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, scrunching up the “C” and “A,” while the “I” stared back at me.
“Morning,” he said, looking me over.
I ignored my rumpled state and answered in kind. “Good morning. I couldn’t find any sugar or creamer, so I was checking for some vanilla ice cream. Do I have a prayer?” Refusing to wait for an answer, I whipped open the freezer door and tipped my head forward, letting the frigid air cool my face and the search give me a moment to regroup.
By the time I resurfaced, without ice cream, Ethan had set a tiny little canister of sugar out on the counter.
“Where’d you find this?” I demanded.
“In its normal spot,” he said calmly. “Ready to talk, or are we pretending last night never happened?”
This sounded so off in my head that I was distracted all over again, imagining—for one harmless moment—that we’d spent the evening on other, more hands-on means of discovery. I imagined that would have made this conversation considerably more awkward, so it was lucky the option had never presented itself. I stared again at his chest and then pulled my gaze farther up to his expectant smile.
“Oh, it happened,” I assured him. “What’s with the props?” I said, gesturing between the incriminating mug and T-shirt.
“Thought I’d save you a question.”
“How thoughtful,” I said. “If only I could trust T-shirts to give me the whole story.” I paused for effect and was surprised to find myself suddenly caught up in a wave of shyness. “So, you really work for the CIA?”
“Yes.”
“For as long as I’ve known you?”
“Yes.” His voice was soft but level. And suddenly I wasn’t overawed with him any more—I was irritated. And hurt.
“What the hell? Were you ever planning on telling me? And don’t you dare tell me I’m over my limit of questions.”
Now Ethan looked slightly uncomfortable, which was just fine with me.
When he didn’t immediately answer, I snapped, “Yes or no.”
“Yes.” That one little word felt like it had been wrenched out of him. I felt pretty wrenched myself. But I rallied.
“Okay!” I said, turning and tipping my coffee out into the sink. “Pretty painless, huh? I am going to change back into my own clothes and then jog home for a real cup of coffee. Because I really need my coffee.” I plastered on a bracing smile and dodged past Ethan on my way out of the kitchen.
Seconds later, I was back, looking considerably rougher than Grace Kelly at her absolute worst. Turns out I could slip into the dress as easily as I could slip out. Good to know. I came out babbling, not really wanting Ethan to get a word in, because right now, I wasn’t ready for anythi
ng he had to say. I ended on, “Not sure about Scrabble tonight—call first!” And then I was hoofing it up and down the hills of Travis Heights, all dolled up, walking home in the sharp glare of a Sunday morning.
Chapter 11
I couldn’t decide if I wanted to think about it or if I wanted to avoid thinking about it. I’d stormed up the steps, a woman on a mission, and beelined for the kitchen. Brewing myself a cup of hazelnut coffee and dousing it with crème brûlée creamer, I’d traded the dress for a sweatshirt and pj’s of my own and dropped down onto the couch to take the first steadying sip.
Better. I breathed deep and let it out slowly, trying to relax.
Now came the dirty work. I was essentially going to have to go through a post-date analysis, and Ethan wasn’t going to be able to help me with this one.
Rather inexplicably, I’d had a change of heart. Last night I’d been psyched, thrilled to have finally cracked the mystery of Ethan Chavez wide open, and this morning, not so much. Maybe I’d been floating on the bubbles from the champagne, maybe I’d been distracted by the chance to flirt with Jake again, or maybe I’d simply been thrown for a loop when I’d entered Ethan’s secret lair. I didn’t have a clue.
All I knew was that I now felt unbearably awkward. Ethan and I had been friends for two years—good, close friends. Before this morning, I would have said best friends without the slightest hesitation, but now I couldn’t. How could I? Friends don’t keep gargantuan secrets from each other. Yes, I had toyed with the idea of keeping my sexy new alter ego a secret, but that had lasted less than a week, and for all I knew, Cat Kennedy might not last out the month. Ethan’s situation was soooo different from mine, notably because mine was more or less make-believe, and his was seriously real.
Never would I have imagined Ethan as a Darcy, but I did at that moment as I self-righteously slurped down my latte. The Pre-Smackdown Darcy, before he gets a taste of the force of nature that is Elizabeth Bennet, when he’s unfeelingly dismissive, intolerably arrogant, and oblivious to everything that matters. I took another, steadying sip of coffee. How could he possibly imagine I’d be cool with being made to look like a complete idiot?
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