Page 3 of Jonesing for a Spy

I don’t know about that, unnamed lady. While the Gulf Coast is one of my favorite places, this trip is a mix of continuing education seminars and social get-togethers. Is that something people enjoy or is it something we simply tolerate?

I’m going with the latter. And since I’m on the board of the National Association of Electrical Contractors, it means I get to have business meetings in lieu of the social outings.

Boring. Boring. Triple boring.

I scheduled four days away from Peoria, Illinois, hoping for a refresh in the middle of a dreary fall. It turns out south Alabama doesn’t do autumn or they’re abstaining this year, so I got the break I was looking for.

Not from the classes which are dull.

Not from the meetings that are cringeworthy.

Not from the evening cocktail hour where, hours later, my eyes scan the patrons looking for the woman who collapsed into my naked chest with an oof.

She smelled like sunshine, citrus, and something a little dangerous, and acted less like a lady and more like a badass. All the while, she was so darn cute, it made my balls ache and my dick want to say hello.

Her dirty blonde hair melted to sun-kissed yellow on the ends. Her face was too remarkable to dissolve into this kind of crowd. And her presence? Her presence was commanding. There’s no other word for it.

But I’m intrigued, because Freckles—as I’ve decided to call her—is the most memorable thing to happen to me since my birthday in July. That’s a whole other story, but needless to say, it was unforgettable.

I finish my beer and head back to my room, listening to the chatter as I go. Revenue forecasting, increasing market share, penetrating new markets, new delivery options, blah blah blah.

The most interesting conversation—aside from this morning’s in my room—was one on devices that impact grid security. That’s not usually our thing. We’re not producers. We’re get-it-to-the-end-user folks.

We calculate load. We pull wire. We design schematics to have homes and businesses operate properly.

Most of us rarely suggest appliances, large or small, on the end of those loads. I’m surprised anyone here would get into those recommendations. Inputting ourselves on anything of that nature is asking for a headache that’s not worth any kind of commission.

Glancing down the hall, I think for one moment I see the woman who launched Freckles into my arms this morning. But I must be wrong. That woman was as tall as me and had dark hair; this one is strawberry blonde. My eyes or the beer must be playing tricks on me. I blame the humidity. Otherwise, I’ll have to admit I need the stupid “bump” they keep insisting would help me read shit on my phone. It comes down to bifocals, or I have to lay off the IPAs. Neither of those are options.

The next morning, I check out of the Prestige Hotel on Mobile Bay, but instead of driving back to the airport, I push out my flight and book an Airbnb in town, one I’ve dreamed of exploring since the first time I came here.

The chances of her being close are slim to none. Locals don’t book nearby hotels. But leaving here is leaving the only place I’ve felt alive in longer than I care to admit.

Her grip on my shoulders.

Her stranglehold on my mind.

The dream of her grasp on me.

And those dreams were vivid. Last night, Freckles starred in mine as I slept. She was sultry. She was funny. She was sexy as fuck. I wanted more. I needed more. I woke up hard and jonesing for a fix that I could not slake.

I need to see her again. I need one more glance at those dots dancing across her pert nose, one more gaze into those fathomless eyes. I need to feel her body pressed against mine again, but in desire and longing instead of an effort not to tumble.

And if there’s any chance of that in Fairhope, Alabama, I’ll gladly accept the choking humidity and the unending summer.

And the damn mosquitos in freaking November.

2

unkillable

Mirren

“No, Sir. I completely understand.”

“If it ever happens again...” Brody Daxton’s threat dangles, and I plop my forehead into my hand before remembering the call is on camera. So unprofessional.

Lifting my head and spearing him with my gaze, I vow, “It will never happen again.”