Page 151 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

I ALREADY CHOSE

REESE

By the time Miles brings me home on Wednesday night, I am convinced that this day holds the record for the longest day in history. I woke at 6:17, helped coach a friend through labor, watched a baby be born, held that newborn, got kidnapped, was interrogated, acquired a black eye from a trash can, escaped through a tiny bathroom window, lost a shoe, enlisted the help of strangers, and was debriefed by the CSA.

It has been a very full day.

Charlie is already home when we get there, yet Miles still walks through the townhouse like he’s conducting a security inspection. He checks the back door, every window—even the ones upstairs—and the lock on the front door that he locked himself when we came in. He even uses his little device that checks for bugs.

There is something so attractive about watching Miles slip into hyper-competent operative mode. He’s just so good at this.

Of course, I would appreciate it more if he weren’t currently using it to avoid acting like my boyfriend.

“You know,” I say as I lean against the kitchen island, “statistically speaking, my chances of getting kidnapped twice in one day are pretty low.”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. That’s when I really understand how off he is. I noticed back at the CSA, too, from the moment his face changed when he saw the red on my wrists. He hadn’t even reacted at all to my joke about my black eye. But there were too many people around us, too many things happening, and I still had too much adrenaline coursing through me.

But here, in my kitchen, it’s obvious that Miles is being careful with me. Not like I’m made of spun sugar or anything like that—he hugged me hard enough at the CSA that I could feel the pounding of his heart. This is a different kind of careful.

We got my purse back from the hospital, and he takes my phone from it and places it on the counter beside me. “Make sure you keep this charged and nearby tonight.”

“I always do. Well, I always try to.”

Up close, I can see how exhausted he is—the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiredness around his eyes—and I have the overwhelming urge to pull him into me and make him stop holding himself so carefully apart.

“Charlie is here if you need anything. And she’ll be home tomorrow morning.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be home, too, so call me if⁠—”

“Miles,” I say, and he stops. “I’m okay.”

He looks down at the scratches on my arm. “You need sleep.”

“So do you,” I say, and I watch him retreat an inch without physically moving. Then he kisses my forehead—and only my forehead—before leaving. His mouth is warm against my skin, and instead of comforting me, it makes me acutely aware of the places he isn’t kissing me.

I stare at the front door when he’s gone. I really hope he doesn’t plan to be weird for very long.

I’ve just made it to the bottom of the stairs at 8:12 a.m. when Miles texts for the first time.

Miles: How’s your eye?

I move closer to the patio door to get the most flattering morning lighting, and then I take a selfie of me making the most glamorous expression I can manage with one swollen purple eye and send it.

Reese: I think it’s rather stunning. I may decide to keep it.

Miles: Any dizziness? Headache?

I stare at the screen. Who is this, and what has he done with my Miles?

Reese: No dizziness. Mild emotional devastation that you ignored a perfectly good black-eye joke.

Miles: How are your wrists?

I groan, drop my phone onto the couch, and run my hands over my face.

Charlie looks up from where she stands at the kitchen counter sprinkling granola on her yogurt. “That bad?”