Page 115 of Jonesing for a Spy

“That’s not an insult, you know?” June puts in. “I like that I don’t diminish myself to make other people comfortable. I love seeing it in my daughter.” She looks thoughtful before adding, “Y’all enjoy.” She taps the doorjamb and strides away as if she didn’t just blow shit up and bounce.

I’m sure my face registers the whole scene when I look back at Harry. “You sure you want years of that in your future? Because…” His words trail off.

“Yes, sir. If I wanted average, I could find it. My life would be easier”—his gaze on me hardens—“but not worth it.”

He lifts his glass to clink with mine. “Truer words have never been spoken. And enough with the sir shit. Appreciate the respect, but my Navy days are well in the past.”

“Yes…” Catching myself before adding the now-forbidden word, I relax back into the couch as Rufus meanders up to me, placing his head in my lap.

“Now, about my daughter,” Harry launches in and we spend the next two hours talking about his love for the baby of the family, what he wants for her, what he expects from any partner of hers, and stories about her childhood.

I leave with a deeper understanding of their family dynamic, an idea for how to help on this operation she’s planning, and a fucking nickname—Bootsy.

Kill me now.

49

handcuffs delivered

Strider

Mirren’s orders have come in. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. There are no orders since she’s running her own op. But the terrorists to whom she’s given some ridiculous name are set on their timeline, meaning my woman is on the clock and coordinating.

Her mom is looped in. I’m aware of everything, even if I’m unable to wrap my brain around what all of this means. She’s reached out to a man named Fitz who will be with her. And he has people he can bring in depending on how her op builds or if it falls apart.

She leaves tomorrow morning. My anxiety is off the charts as she prepares and acts as if I should be a-okay with this. As if it’s normal. She’s mine and mine to protect and the idea of her on this op is doing bad things to my blood pressure… and every other part of me.

Everything in me wants to cuff her to the bed, remind her of why she should stay. My cock likes the idea. Hell, it’s rising to the occasion just thinking of restraining her.

But the thinking part of me—the one who knows Mirren beyond physically—knows I’ll lose her if I try. She’d play along until she realized it meant I’d clipped her wings. I trust her.

Regardless of how capable she is, I feel impotent at the mere idea of her putting herself in harm’s way. We’re not talking about a walk in a dark alley. That’s enough to make me seethe. We’re talking about her inserting herself into an insurgency plan that aims to annihilate national security.

Am I supposed to be okay with this? Am I supposed to deal with this long term? After we’re married? After kids? Am I made for a life at the side of a woman that strong?

Yes. No matter how many times I ask myself, the answer is always a resounding yes.

No other man will ever be at her side. I wasn’t lying when I said I would do whatever’s needed to give her the life she desires. But I never considered the sacrifice that would take on my part to be that man.

“Freckles?” I holler as I walk down the hall to our bedroom. I can’t sit still any longer. “Let’s get out of here.”

She looks up from an old backpack that she’s stuffing with clothes and toiletries… something about looking the part when she arrives. “Now?”

I nod to the bag. “You almost done?”

“Give or take five minutes, yeah.”

“Can I take you to dinner?”

Her face beams. “I’d like that.” She looks down at herself. “I need another five minutes.”

I scan her to make a point. “No, you don’t. You’re perfect.”

“I’ll be more perfect in ten.” She winks and returns to her bag.

I mosey back to the living room and pace, working like hell to get the buzzing energy out of me before it zaps my nervous system into oblivion. While I fidget, I stack and reposition the last few things she needs to pack—an old tablet that has deeply encrypted data behind a gaming app that shows she’s on level eight hundred and forty-two, a burner phone with one hundred fake contacts and three real ones, the three people who know what’s going on, and a broken-in paperback romance novel with a cartoon hockey player on the cover.

She noted pointedly that rugby romances are a no-go for her. When she said it, her face went sour and her whole body cringed… Something about it being too close to home.