Page 96 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“Occupation: private security consultant.”

She studies the image, then shakes her head. “No. He teaches competitive ballroom dancing.”

“He does not.”

“He was once nationally ranked, but his partner left him three days before the championship for a man who specialized in the paso doble. The betrayal left behind some emotional damage.”

I can’t help the smile spreading across my face.

Reese just gives a decisive nod. “Ballroom dancer with trust issues.”

I hand her the second photograph. In this one, my hair is several shades lighter, I’m clean-shaven, and I’m wearing thin metal glasses and a brown jacket I remember hating.

She gasps. “This man owns Pomeranians.”

“He’s a financial compliance auditor.”

She tilts her head. “Those are not mutually exclusive.”

“He doesn’t own Pomeranians.”

“That you know of. This man inherited seventeen from a distant aunt and now uses them as a tax shelter.”

“That would be exceptionally poor tax strategy.”

“He knows that, and he’s ashamed, because it’s his entire tax strategy. But he really loves Pomeranians.”

I laugh.

The third photograph shows an older version of me—a forty-six-year-old art broker with hair going silver at the temples and a small scar near the mouth. Reese stares at it for so long that I begin to feel self-conscious.

“What?”

“He’s attractive.”

“It’s me.” It shouldn’t matter that she finds a forty-six-year-old fictional version of me attractive. But hearing Reese say that about any version of me does something to my pulse.

“He looks like your sophisticated uncle who has been divorced three times and owns a vineyard.”

“He was never married.”

She shakes her head. “He kept falling in love with the same woman under different names. She was a spy.”

I crack a bit of a smile. “There was no woman.”

Reese studies it for a moment longer, then looks at me over the photograph. “That sounds lonely.” The humor in her voice softens.

She’s close enough that I can see the tiny crease between her brows. The one that shows up when she’s worried about someone. I have the sudden urge to smooth it away with my thumb.

I clear my throat. “It can be.”

My cover identities were never meant to have full lives. They have histories, habits, residences, employment records, and acquaintances. Enough details to survive scrutiny.

But the connections are temporary. A date arranged for access. A friendship created for proximity. A person who believes they know you until the mission ends and you disappear. Reese places the photograph on the table more carefully than she handled the others.

“Do you ever miss being them?”

“No.”