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Me?
I was programmed to disrupt.
So far, I’d lived three lives, or at least that’s how it felt, and I was in the process of embarking on a fourth.
“Do you think our luggage made it?” Paulo asked, checking his hot-pink wristwatch. “We left the plane nearly an hour ago. What if my clothes got left behind in Newark? I hate layovers.”
“They have systems in place, hun. I’m sure it’s just a little delay.”
Actually, I knew for certain that our cases were halfway between the plane and the terminal. The tracking app on my phone told me so. But I couldn’t divulge that to Paulo because firstly, Darla wasn’t the type of woman to put a tracker in her luggage, and secondly, it was mildly entertaining watching him freak out about a potential lack of clean underwear. Second rule of travel—always pack a change of clothes in your cabin bag. The first rule was obviously to carry as many weapons as possible. I’d gone one better and sent anything important to Virginia aboard Emmy Black’s private jet last weekend.
Darla was my third incarnation, a laid-back caregiver turned craft store owner with a disturbing love of muumuus. I’d adopted the persona four years ago out of necessity, and at first, living like an everyday American had been a novelty. A relief, even. Darla had given me breathing space, but in the past year, the tedium of small-town life had started to grate. I’d even begun to hanker after my second life, the years when I’d travelled the world as a top-tier assassin, doing my master’s bidding. Which was why, when Emmy had offered me a part-time job on her Special Projects team, I’d grudgingly accepted. That and the fact that I was fucking her personal trainer, and Alex had a weird loyalty to the crazy English bitch.
Which was why I was currently at Richmond International, ready to build another layer on my cover story. My excuse to spend more time in Virginia. Emmy had offered whatever resources I required to set up a new branch of the Craft Cabin, including assistance with staff recruitment so I’d be able to step back from the place and focus on my real job.
But first, we needed to get the place up and running.
Hence my trip with Paulo. And I’d also need to fake a meet-cute with Alex because admitting that we’d first met on a military helicopter in Russia almost two decades prior wasn’t an option. Paulo would be a useful witness, an unwitting participant in the story we were writing.
I grabbed a luggage cart while Paulo flitted around the conveyor like an over-caffeinated toddler, and I guess I could understand the sentiment. Luggage theft was always a possibility, although any two-bit criminal would be disappointed when they got past Paulo’s woefully inadequate padlock and found a collection of hand-knitted cardigans, assorted thong underwear, and six types of hair product. Ten years ago, give or take, I’d caught a woman my age wheeling my Louis Vuitton suitcase toward the exit at Khrabrovo, and once I’d explained the error of her ways, I’d gifted her boyfriend—the airport security guard who’d put her up to the task—a first-class ticket to the hospital. I never bothered to find out whether they’d managed to reattach his finger, but I doubted it.
My phone buzzed.
Alex
What time will you get to the store?
Me
Should be there by eleven.
My heart leapt at the thought of seeing him, although it was irritating that I’d have to share him with Paulo. Still, this was better than the alternative of not having him at all. Short-term pain for long-term gain. Once Alex’s presence in my life was established, I wouldn’t have to sneak around so much; I’d be able to make phone calls and go on dates like a normal person. Well, kind of. Alex had invited me climbing at Seneca Rocks, and I couldn’t imagine most people found scaling a cliff romantic.
Good thing I wasn’t most people.
“That’s one of my bags,” Paulo announced. “See? The pink one with the rainbow strap.”
“You want me to grab it, hun?”
“No, I can do it.”
I swallowed a laugh as he dragged it off the conveyor and dropped it on his foot, then I grabbed his other two suitcases and my duffel while he hopped around cursing.
“Maybe you should wear steel-toed boots next time?” I suggested.
“That’s a fabulous idea.” Of course, he couldn’t wait. He pulled out his phone and tapped at the screen, then pulled a face. “Urgh, they’re all so ugly.”
“Why don’t you customise them? You did a terrific job with Sara’s shoes.”
On Tuesday, he’d stayed up most of the night sticking thousands of crystals onto her Cinderella-inspired pumps. The final product was blinding when the light caught it, but his efforts meant he’d slept like the dead on the flight from Oregon, so as far as I was concerned, he could customise anything he wanted to.
“I suppose I could do that.”
Thanks to a cab driver with a death wish, we made it to the Craft Cabin by half past ten, and I hauled the bags inside while Paulo hobbled on ahead, oohing and aahing over the work so far. And I had to concede that Bradley’s team had done a reasonable job. And a fast job. When I opened the first Craft Cabin in Baldwin’s Shore, it had just been me, working all hours on a shoestring budget. Emmy and her husband apparently had numerous property-related investments, which necessitated having their own maintenance team, and Bradley had thrown them at the problem. The fabric of the building was in a good state. The plumbing, the drywall, the floor tiles, all done. The bathrooms were functional. The walls had been painted white, a blank canvas, and the kitchen was half-complete. Bradley assured me the kitchen installers would be finished by the end of the week. We just had a fuck-ton of furniture to assemble, plus Bradley and Paulo’s favourite part: the decorating.
Alex
We’ll bring the shelves after lunch.
