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“I’m a member of many business associations.”

Classic deflection technique—technically true but intentionally vague. He’s dancing around the truth.

“To maintain global market stability.”

The addendum is another beautifully crafted non-answer. At the agency, we called these “surface truths”—statements that sound complete but leave room for darker implications.

His hand shifts underneath the blanket, and he palms my hip.

It dawns on me that Arrow’s intel might be accurate. He’s evading.

I’m not in danger. He’d never hurt me. But what would he do to others?

“Why’d you leave the CIA?”

“I don’t believe you fully answered my question.”

He smirks. This line of questioning doesn’t concern him, or he’d be stone-faced.

“To expand on my answer, yes. There’s a group of sector leaders who share information and resources, and I’m a part of it. They refer to themselves as a syndicate, or, depending on who you’re talking to, an alliance. My father named it Obsidian, but few use the term.”

“What’s the objective?”

He squeezes my hip playfully. “Not so fast. My turn. The CIA? You left, right?”

His question is fair, given that employment with the CIA can be impossible to ascertain if secrecy is desired. But he needs to share more, so instead of answering, I ask, “What’s the alliance’s objective?”

“To maintain global market stability. My father started it decades ago. I’ve become more involved recently.” Is he giving me the blanket answer? “Is Sophia Sullivan Fisher the reason you moved to California?”

“How do you—” I stop myself. Asking how he knows Sophia’s full name is a wasted question.

He hired someone to monitor me. He told me.

There’s no harm in answering his question.

“Sophia doesn’t live in California. She lives with her husband outside of DC.

” She travels frequently for work, but there’s no point in confirming she works in the field.

“Her father lives in San Diego. She comes to California often. She’s my close friend, but no, she’s not the reason I moved to California. ”

“Why did you move? You left the CIA, right? Why?”

“That’s two questions, and it’s my turn. Would the alliance benefit from an attack on the United States or allied countries?”

He shifts back like I’ve slapped him. His jaw shifts and cracks with the movement.

“No, it would not benefit. An attack would cripple the stock markets worldwide, and that’s specifically counter to our mission.” His eyes narrow into slits, and he frowns. “Who do you work for? You’re asking these questions for your employer, aren’t you?”

The coldness in his eyes is impossible to miss. There’s no sign of flirtation. No warmth or familiarity. He’s all business now. I struck a nerve.

“Yes, I left the CIA. I now work for a private security firm based in Santa Barbara. I’m an analyst. Still.” I let the word hang there, studying him to see if my assumption that he knew my role in the CIA was accurate.

There’s no hint of surprise. My former position isn’t news to him. He probably has contacts on the Senate Intelligence Committee or within the CIA.

“When I worked at Langley, being in the field was never really an option given my past prominence in the news.” I pointedly look at him because, yes, my association with him hampers my career.

“And you left because…?”

“I had an asshole for a boss at the CIA. Sophia recommended I transition. My current employer offered more money. Santa Barbara is a beautiful place with significantly less traffic than DC. Not a difficult choice. Pretty easy, actually. Why am I answering these questions more thoroughly than you are?”

“Are you here for them?”

“Arrow Tactical. That’s the company. Sophia helped me get the job.”

“You’re here for work? That wasn’t a lie? I assumed you arrived because you wanted me to sign the divorce agreement.”

“You should’ve signed it years ago.”

“The standard Divorce.com agreement you found online?”

“I expected your lawyers would draft an agreement. I simply got the ball rolling.”

“That’s not why you’re here, though?”

“A source claims you’re behind a multipronged plan to attack the United States.”

“But you didn’t ask questions until now. What did you do? Wire my place? That’s why you were roaming the property.”

He’s talking to himself now, but his palm remains on my hip, a gentle and welcome source of warmth.

“What do you believe, Cara?”

He’s the only one who has ever shortened my name. Well, that’s not true. My grandmother tried to call me Carol, but my mother stopped that madness.

“I came here to remove you from the persons of interest list. I volunteered. I want to clear your name.”

“You mentioned a source. Who?”

“It’s classified.”

He studies me, waiting for more.

“They didn’t tell me,” I offer, knowing full well that’s what he wants to know.

“But you believe in me? You believe the source is wrong?”

The pads of his fingers climb my arms. My skin prickles. Golden brown, all-seeing eyes penetrate mine, and my breath catches as he seeks confirmation that I believe he’s not a monster.

His vulnerability breaks through my reluctance.

With one shaky confirming nod, his lips close in on mine. I close my eyes to revel in the feel, to both remember and be present.

He nips at my lip, and his tongue presses to the seam. I open for him, returning the exploratory kiss, allowing myself to be in the moment.

What the hell am I doing?

He’s always been the one who mangles my thoughts. Who robs me of reason.

But I can’t. I can’t do this. Not now, not with so much at stake, not when it would be way too easy to slip again.

I break the kiss and brush a finger over his lips.

“We can’t,” I say, ever so softly. The pain. The constant ache. I can’t go through that again.

But his thoughts aren’t akin to mine.

His lips curve into a tender smile, and that little dimple appears, shooting my heart well past the moon.