Page 39 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“Miles, you’ve got an early day tomorrow. Lots happening.”

“That’s tomorrow. Tonight, right here is where I want to be.”

I roll my eyes a bit and let out something that’s a mix between a chuckle and a sob. “Because you like my chaos.”

“No, because I love your chaos.”

I join him, sitting at the head of my bed, and he wraps an arm around me, holding me. I rest my head against him, and he just sits with me. Being here for me.

And I let him, without trying to convince him that I’m okay. Without trying to make him laugh. Without showing any of the facade I try to keep pulled in place when I’m around anyone. I’m just… me. In his arms. Feeling safe. And I want to stay here.

I don’t know how long we sit like that. I don’t even realize I’m getting tired before I’ve drifted off to sleep.

I wake, and my room is much darker. I’m still at the head of my bed, and Miles is still here. He still has his arm around me, and I’m still lying against his chest. I light the screen of my watch—it’s 4:03 a.m.

And Miles is still here.

He showed up without me asking, just because Charlie told him she was concerned.

He held me.

He saw the meltdown version of me. The spiraling me. The not fun me. He didn’t even flinch.

And he didn’t try to fix me or minimize my feelings. He was just here for me. He stayed. Even though I know he has a big day at work tomorrow—today, now— and needs to prepare.

He’s such a steadfast presence.

I shift just enough so I can see his face in the bit of moonlight that’s coming through the space between my curtains. His expression is so calm, relaxed, and peaceful. He’s just so… perfect. I can’t stop staring at the way his lashes rest against his cheeks, and the moonlight catches the bridge of his nose. How one side of his mouth curves faintly upward, as though he’s having a good dream. Or the way his hair curls slightly where it has fallen over his forehead. It’s all I can do to not reach up and run my fingertips along the spot where the moonlight falls on his brow.

But I don’t want to wake him. I just want to sit here, snuggled into him, feeling the comfort of his arm holding me close, and take all of him in. To marvel at this man who is the perfect best friend.

And to wonder if that’s really how I want things to stay.

CHAPTER 10

A SEAT AT THE TABLE

MILES

By the time I step aboard the Aurelia, I’ve already been Maxwell Shaw for forty-three minutes.

That means my hair is several shades darker and swept back in a style I’d never choose for myself, my eyes are hazel instead of brown, and a carefully fitted prosthetic has changed the bridge of my nose just enough to throw off the proportions of my face. Add the closely trimmed beard, slightly different teeth, and Abraham’s talent for making a twenty-six-year-old look comfortably into his thirties, and the man looking back at me from reflective surfaces tonight doesn’t look much like Miles Lancaster.

Which is the point.

Maxwell likes well-fitted suits, private aviation, expensive watches, and women whose names he has no intention of remembering in the morning. He recently sold his interest in a freight logistics company for an amount vague enough to be impressive and difficult to verify. He grew up with money, made more of his own, and has never once waited in a line without assuming someone made a mistake.

He also did not spend much time sleeping last night.

That part is all me.

“Mr. Shaw.” The woman standing at the top of the boarding ramp gives me a professional smile as she searches for my name on the tablet in her hands. Behind her, the yacht shines in the evening sun against the Chesapeake’s water, with five decks of glass, white steel, and understated excess. Music drifts from somewhere above us, accompanied by the low hum of voices and the soft clink of glasses. “Welcome aboard.”

In my earpiece, Nora says, “Danielle Lyon. She works for the charity itself.” My button camera sent her face to Nora, who ran it through facial recognition and found the name in seconds.

I give the woman the smile Maxwell Shaw reserves for competent people whose jobs he respects, even if he assumes the rules of those jobs don’t apply to him. “Thank you, Danielle.”

Her eyes flick up from the tablet. She isn’t wearing a name tag.