Page 88 of Code Name: Harbor

But I find myself challenging her. “I’m curious, Connie… how many women in Finn’s life have you had this conversation with?”

She flinches because I struck her where it hurt. She’s never seen Finn fall for another woman before.

She covers it inside of half a second and I can see the lie before I hear it. “More than I’d like to count. He’s a charming man, Josie. Charming men have a type and they cycle through it. The type is intelligent, accomplished, a little wounded. The cycle is six to eight months. I know what I’m watching because I’ve watched it before.”

I sip my wine. I watch her over the rim of the glass and she thinks I’m absorbing it.

But I’m cataloguing it and there’s a big difference. “Connie. I’m going to do you the courtesy of being direct with you, because I think direct is the only language you and I are going to have.” Her eyes flash and I can tell the only expectation she had was for me to turn tail and run. Metaphorically, that is. “You’re not wrong that this is hard and I’m fully aware that Finn’s built an identity around a thing he may not be able to walk away from easily. You’re not wrong that there’s a version of this story where it ends badly. I have thought about all of that. I’m an intelligence analyst and sitting with hard possibilities is the job.”

“Good. So you understand—”

“I’m not done. The part you’re wrong about is the part where you think any of that is news to me. I’m not a woman he’s dazzled into not seeing clearly. I see Finn very clearly. I see him with all the complications still in the room. And I’m here anyway, because I’ve spent enough time with him to know the difference between a man who’s putting on a performance for a six-month cycle and a man who’s reasoning with his life out loud in front of me. You’ve never seen that version of him because that version of him didn’t exist before. But I’m watching it in real time, and I don’t need you to manage my expectations. I’ve got it fully covered.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. She looks like a gasping fish and her cheeks turn red. I keep going, because I don’t want her to be the one who decides when I’m done.

“And one more thing. I also notice you. You think you’re warning me, but you’re not. You’re telling me what you wish. You want me to believe that there’s a version of Finn who will ultimately resent me because that’s the version of Finn who may one day be available to you. I get it and I don’t begrudge you the feeling. I begrudge you doing it in his kitchen, while I’m cooking him dinner, pretending it’s for my benefit.”

Connie blanches, then stammers, “I’m just trying to look out for him.”

“No. You’re not.”

I leave it at that and she holds my eyes intently before looking away. Then she pushes off the counter with one hand and walks back toward the slider door without another word.

When she’s gone, I exhale a long breath. That was stupid of me to do that. Connie could still be a threat and I just threw down the gauntlet.

I watch as she sits down, her jaw set stubbornly as she rejoins the conversation. She doesn’t laugh and she doesn’t joke with Finn or Marcus.

I can tell she’s not engaged.

No, she’s thinking about what I just told her, and she’s ruminating on the fact that I’m a threat to her that isn’t going away.

I stand at the island, take a long sip of wine, and let my hand go to the granite to steady myself, because the hand has just started shaking and I would rather not be shaking when Finn walks back in.

The oven timer goes off, blessedly distracting me. I pull the chicken out and I set it on the stovetop to rest, and I think about whether I’m going to tell Finn what happened in this kitchen.

The answer comes to me immediately and I decide to hold it to myself. I’ll wait, not because I’m afraid of the conversation but because tomorrow night is the run, and the morning after will be soon enough for me to tell Finn that his oldest friend tried to talk me out of him in his own kitchen.

CHAPTER 21

Finn

“That’s it, then,” I say, rolling the chart and snapping the band around it. “We’re set.”

“We’re set.” Marcus leans back, stretching. “I’ll have The Quartermaster fueled and provisioned by noon. Connie meets me at the slip at six, we’re off the dock by seven.”

“Normal clockwork,” I say.

“No worries at all,” Marcus says, clapping me on the shoulder as we all stand. “It’s a fourteen-inch piece of rock. We’ve moved harder things in worse weather.”

“I’m not worrying.”

“You’re worrying. You’ve got the face.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“You’ve got the face, boss,” Connie says with a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, telling me she’s got some pregame jitters.

We file in off the patio, the glass door rumbling shut behind us. The kitchen is full of light and the smell of Josie’s cooking. She’s at the island with a dish towel over her shoulder, wiping down the counter, looking up as we come through.