Page 25 of Jonesing for a Spy

My mouth crashes down on hers. Taking. Needing. Owning.

Her moan spurs me on, and I pull her tighter into my body, lifting a hand to her head to take better control of the kiss. She does the same, and something in me ignites. She’s not trying to take over, but Mirren Jones is certainly no wallflower.

One wrong twist and my glasses mash into the bridge of my nose. Oof.

I pull back enough to look down at her, before kissing her forehead. “Hi. Did you have a good day?”

Everything in her body softens as if the spring was allowed not to be coiled so tightly. She nods as her hands slide over my pecs. There’s familiarity—almost knowing—in her touch that’s something only time offers.

“Yeah. Work stuff. Dull, but worth doing.”

“I’d think landlording wouldn’t be…” I cut myself off because I won’t mansplain a thing to this woman. “Well, I don’t know.” I slide back, returning to my place at the island, and scatter the chopped veggies on the salad. “You didn’t mention allergies.”

“No allergies,” she comments, slipping onto a barstool across from me. Looking left and right, her nose scrunches.

“What is it?”

“It’s weird to be a guest in my own home. You there”—she gestures as if I’m unaware of my position between the island and the stove—“and me here.”

“Well, I’m not assuming your property. I wish I could.” Why do I feel shy admitting this? “I drove by this place each time I made a trip here. She’s a stunner. I’m thrilled I got to see inside.”

“You did?”

I bob my head and toss the salad. “Yeah. What you’ve done with the place is incredible.” My eyes take in the modern touches on the historic place. “It works. The character remains while offering people an escape from the realities of historic homes.”

She exhales and drops her eyes to the huge white island. “Yeah. It was a labor of love, but so worth it.”

“If you ever want to sell, hit me up. Not that it would be reasonable for me.” Ever. But I don’t add that. I’d kick myself for not considering it. “Maybe I’ll retire here.”

“It’s a lot of house.”

I hold her gaze and wonder what she’s not saying.

“Well, since it’s not a today you problem or a today me dilemma, I’ll put that part out of my mind. Are you hungry?”

Her eyes hold mine, and I can’t help but wonder if her one-word answer has double meaning. “Starving.”

11

lies, deception, and bob ross

Mirren

There must be something on my face, because he holds my gaze a little longer than expected before turning to open the cupboards and pull out plates.

On the smaller ones, he places mounds of rich green salad. “Wine?”

Huh? “What?” My eyes find his after staring way too long at his hands.

“Would you like wine? Water?”

“Wine please. Red?”

He slides two stems from the back of the counter. Was he a Boy Scout? Is he always this prepared? Or is this for me? Two generous pours later, he comes around the counter, placing a glass in front of me, and dips his mouth to mine for a warm chaste kiss that lingers.

He returns a moment later with our salad plates and forks and drops onto the stool beside me. “Dig in.”

I’ve never been accused of not eating, never been delicate about food. That was before the Army when mess was a sport or the desert where it was a luxury. And when I like it, I eat with gusto.