Page 156 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

EPILOGUE ONE

SPECTACULARLY MESSED WITH

Reese

It turns out that Miles Lancaster can, in fact, get me on the sunset cruise leaving from the Finger Piers. It only took two attempts, one kidney stone, one international criminal investigation, the birth of his niece, a kidnapping, and another six weeks to make it happen.

“See?” Miles says as we step onto the upper deck. “We made it.”

I look around suspiciously. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m convinced yet.”

“We are physically on the boat. It didn’t leave without us.”

“True. But the sun is still up. A lot can happen before sunset.”

Miles slips an arm around my waist and pulls me in close. My body fits against his side in a way I have become very fond of.

“Our part in the Rooke case is all wrapped up.”

I am close enough I could kiss Miles’s cheek. “An excellent start,” I breathe.

“I’m not assigned to any active operations.”

“Also encouraging,” I say, and then I do give his cheek a kiss.

“My kidneys are functioning normally.”

“Did you get that in writing?”

Miles kisses my temple softly as the boat pulls away from the dock. “Yes, a lot can happen before sunset, but I’m feeling pretty good about our odds.”

After indoor skydiving and a terrible dinner, this was how our first date was supposed to end. Instead, we got a ghost tour and proof that Miles and I can have a fantastic time even when almost nothing goes according to plan. I’m pretty fond of that version.

But I’m also not complaining about this one. Especially because this one includes kissing. And snuggling into Miles. And a lot more kissing. Miles presses another one below my ear.

That particular spot has a direct connection to every coherent thought leaving my brain. I turn my head toward him. “You know, if you keep doing that, I’m not going to notice anything going on around us.”

“I’m willing to accept that risk.”

I laugh, give him a wide grin, and do take a look at everything going on around us. Then I look back at Miles. “Play The Village Detective with me.”

His eyebrows pull together. “What?”

I gesture around. “We have people here. Let’s pretend everyone is in an episode, and we do the same things we would if we were sitting on the couch, watching it on TV.”

“Okay,” Miles says, nodding. “I’m in. But I think we should skip the ‘Are they going to find the dead body or be the dead body’ part.”

I turn to look at the water surrounding us in the bay. “Good call.” Then, I take his hand and lead him to two open seats near the railing. We sit close enough that my thigh is pressed against his, and I start scanning the passengers.

In The Village Detective, Roxie Wallace narrates the beginning of each episode in true crime podcast-style. Miles, in doing what I’m guessing is his best impersonation of her, says, “At sunset, the water turns gold, the sky turns pink, and ordinary people gather to watch another beautiful day come to an end. But every stranger carries a story. Some carry secrets. And statistically speaking, at least a few of them have probably been committing felonies.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes. This is one of the many things I love about Miles. He doesn’t simply tolerate my nonsense—he embraces it and enthusiastically contributes his own. Then, I lean in and whisper, “Guy in the beachy short-sleeved button-down.”

Miles follows my gaze to a man in his fifties standing near the railing with a camera around his neck.

“Insurance fraud?” Miles says.

I shake my head. “Counterfeit historical documents.”