Page 1 of Jonesing for a Spy

1

less like a lady

Mirren

“Hurry, Mirren.”

“Shh. Seriously?” I rip my elbow from Mom’s grip.

“What—you think the walls are listening?” Her words are in direct contrast to her actions, seeing as how we’re rushing from the elevator room toward the emergency exit stairwell several doors away. Red-and-gold patterned carpet—the kind only found in luxury hotels—is thick and lush beneath our feet, but most importantly, it muffles our hurried footsteps.

“Of course they’re listening.” My words come out on a hiss.

Or they should be if they know what they’re doing.

She knows. She knows. Why is she playing this so fast and loose? She’s too smart for this. But she’s amped, and Mom high on adrenaline is an untamed beast. Or, rather, an untamable one.

“Act natural.”

Act natural? As if I don’t know what I’m doing. As if I need her direction and coaching. Again… Or still.

“I can handle myself.” I whip my gaze up to hers. “Can you?”

I’m rethinking telling her about this op. More so, I regret allowing my handler to bring her in. Sure, she’s seasoned, but she’s getting caught up in the thrill and forgetting the job. And we’re too close to home to allow for either.

Hell, that’s the reason we were called in—proximity to the event and experience in the field being the primary two. Even if she’s long-since retired.

The thrill of the hunt can never shift our focus from the objective. Priority one is staying alive. Priority one-point-five is catching the bad guy.

My bosses would say the opposite, but I don’t care. It’s my life, so I’ll protect it at all costs. At this point, I need to protect my mom’s, too, since she’s reliving her glory days without the caution or wisdom the experience afforded her.

At the sound of voices coming from around the corner, she looks over her shoulder, the hair of the dark wig fanning out around her. Without another word, she does the unthinkable. She knocks on the door directly in front of us and, with a fake broken accent, says louder than is strictly necessary, “Room service.”

The whole undercover, never-be-seen-or-heard thing vanishes.

The door swings open to— Wow. Just… wow.

A beautiful man stands in the doorway, a white towel slung dangerously low on his hips. He’s fit in the way a runner is with long, lean muscles. His biceps bunch as he rubs a smaller towel through his wet hair. Water runs in rivulets over his defined pecs and into the dips made by his impressive abdominals.

Confusion mars his handsome face, but it wars with curiosity... and appreciation.

“I didn’t order⁠—”

Mom propels me through the door on a shove and yanks it closed behind me with a loud clunk, no doubt scurrying away.

“Room service,” the man finishes as I tumble into his broad chest, careful to not steady myself by grabbing onto the towel at his waist.

Heat flushes my skin. And not because of embarrassment.

Attraction? Sure.

Anger? Definitely.

My mother just sidelined me on my own op. She’s off making a mess—no doubt something that will require me to do clean-up and owing an explanation to the agency—while I’m pressed against a man who smells like soap and bad decisions.

He’s everything that draws me in. Healthy, handsome, with crystalline blue eyes and lines that radiate from their sides as if he’s spent plenty of time smiling, and a hint of a cleft in his chin. Enough that he has an edge to his face.

“I’m sorry.” Not that I should be apologizing, but manners in this part of the country are engrained.