Page 111 of Jonesing for a Spy

She twists her neck to look up at me and nods.

“Do you want sweet or savory?”

She scrunches her brow. “I was going to make something.”

“Get that, but I wouldn’t dare ask for a sandwich after sex. Too cliché. So I’ll do it. Now… Sweet or savory?”

“Savory,” she breathes.

I pull out several ingredients, flip on her stove, and get to work as she nestles into her sofa.

“I could get used to this, you know?” she grouses from the other side of the room.

I’m counting on that. “While I’m doing this, can you tell me what’s going on at work?”

“Sure,” she replies, clearing her throat. “The property has good rentals through the holidays and into Mardi Gras. Did you know that Mardi Gras started in Mobile? Anyway, I haven’t opened the calendar past that window, even if spring break is a profitable time. I like to reevaluate every few months.”

Message received. She can’t talk. I twist her way and give my head a nod, meaning I get what she’s not saying. “So we’re here for a while.”

“We don’t have to be. I can cancel the bookings.”

“Nah.” I flip off the burner, put the final touches on our lunch, and head her way. “Keep the income. You mentioned the bills, and I know that thing”—I use my chin to gesture toward the house—“isn’t cheap. Electric alone is probably massive. That’s not counting the mortgage.”

Mirren looks sheepish. “I don’t… I don’t have a mortgage. But the family doesn’t know, so keep that between us, okay?”

47

no threat

Mirren

Well, he says he wants honesty. There’s honesty for him. From the look on his face, he’s surprised. Opening and closing his mouth like a fish, he simply nods and extends a plate to me.

How does he do this? I had next to nothing as far as ingredients and before me is a grilled sammie that looks like a freaking panini and pasta salad with extra olives.

“Olives?”

“Just don’t choke on them, okay?”

The snort that leaves me escapes without thought, and I cover my face. His hand covers mine to pull it away.

“I need to grab my clothes from Charlie’s or maybe hit the store and grab a few things. This”—he gestures to his towel—“won’t suffice with how your family operates.”

I shudder and take a bite of my pasta salad, fighting the moan that he whipped up something this good from the barren nothingness of my fridge. “You aren’t lying. The whole popping-by thing has to stop, or they’re going to have to get real comfortable with things that make them very uncomfortable. I probably have some oversized sweats you can borrow.”

He looks at me with disbelief. “That’s a no, baby. No to wearing your clothes, even your sweats. And it’s a fuck no to wearing them to your brother’s house to pick up my bag.”

I look at the clock, an idea forming. “Trust me?” I ask, taking a huge bite of my sandwich.

“Absolutely.” His eyes are soft, and his lips tip at the corner. “But I’m going to throw some caveats on that in case you’re thinking of something too wicked for my Midwestern blood.”

I smirk and wag my eyebrows twice, leaving him to stew in that. “’Kay, I’m going to run to Charlie’s while he’s at work and grab your bag. Do you have toiletries scattered anyplace? Make yourself at home. I’ll stop on my way back and pick up groceries.”

He mutters something about feeling impotent under his breath.

“Oh, honey.” I caress his cheek. “I’ll fix that when I get home.”

“Why do I feel like you’re doing all the things, and I’m stuck here naked waiting on your return?”