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Summer might be my favorite season. That has a lot to do with my family. Dad likes to instruct guests on how to crack a hard-shell lobster, how to extract every ounce of meat from the spindly little legs, and Mom is always up for bike riding—especially down by the coast, on this perfect trail by the cedar beach houses. I love summer foods, too. Huge cones of moose-tracks ice cream by the lighthouse. Fresh-chopped coleslaw, with its deep purple cabbage; corn smoked on the backyard grill; and perfect, cold egg salad sandwiches. Eating on the back deck with my parents.

I wonder if we’ll ever have those carefree summers again. Mom and Dad don’t do guilt trips, but I feel it. The crushing disappointment. How they wanted so much more for me than chasing a goose around a lawn at someone else’s wedding.

When the pandemic hit, and Frida’s hit her first rough patch along with it, I didn’t tell my parents. But they knew. They could see the stress lines on my face, especially after I blew through my governmental loans. Without telling me, they sold their rental property on Long Sands Beach, the one with the bright blue porch swing and the backyard hammock. What do we need some beach property for? my dad countered when I said, No, tell me you didn’t . He thought his money was safe with me. Months later, he was refusing coffee at his favorite shop. I think about the fishing trips he’ll never take. The retirement he’ll never have. Because of me. All for my dreams.

On my way out the door, as Flynn dips into the bathroom to change, I consider dashing off a text to my parents with my non-CIA phone. That’s allowed, right? No one warned me against it. My phone’s on 12 percent battery and takes a few beats to connect to the hotel’s Wi-Fi. When it does, another text from Dad pops up: a message reminding me about Mom’s fifty-eighth birthday party next month. He’s wondering if I can make the cake, carrot cake with the walnuts —but no rush in answering, Max-a-million. Call when you can .

My fingers just hover over the keyboard. If I text him back, he’ll call immediately, then worry when I don’t pick up. If I call, he’ll hear the tension in my voice. No way I’ll be able to keep up the charade—not with him. Instead, I shove the phone into the mahogany buffet table, hating myself, and take one last glance in the entryway mirror. Sofia’s wearing— I’m wearing—a long cotton cover-up over my one-piece, my hair pulled back into her trademark bun. Classy, refined, not showing too much skin. Ready for the sand and the sea. Quick as a reflex, Gail’s words pop back into my head: Mostly, you’ll just sit in a beach chair, read a book. It’s a simple job in beautiful Italy.

Let’s put that theory to the test.

Puffing out a hard breath, I readjust the microphone-laced necklace and secure my earpiece once again, drawing a lock of hair from the bun to hide it. That’ll do. Exactly on schedule, outside in the hall, Lars greets me with another stiff nod; he’s a good actor. Even though he’s in on the decoy plot, he’s making me feel as if I really am the prime minister. Together, along with seven of Sofia’s closest members of security, we slip into the elevator, trail past the dining room and the back terrace, and head down to the sea, following the rocky stairway carved into the cliff. Rocky. Cliff. Nothing worrisome about this.

People are staring. Are they plainclothes security? Guests at the hotel?

Assassins?

Nope, Max, don’t go there.

Once the sea air tickles my face, it’s easier to pretend this is a normal vacation. Never mind the bomb-sniffing doggies and the paparazzi looming behind the gate; the sea is still the sea. The sun is still the sun. Automatically, at the bottom of the stairs, I strip off my sandals, tiptoeing over the hottest part of the shore before settling by the water. Someone’s set up a blue-and-white-striped beach chair with a matching umbrella, almost like the ones on my old restaurant patio.

“Here we are, Prime Minister,” says Lars, pretending to swipe sand from the chair, his palm coasting over the fabric—but I hold in a flinch when I realize what he’s actually doing. Double-checking the seat for…well, just about anything you definitely wouldn’t want to sit on.

Once again, I channel Sofia—her unflappableness. This is a woman who once went head-to-head with alleged war criminals at a summit in Budapest. When there was a security breach at a conference in Berlin, and someone rushed her during a speech about every woman’s right to education, she calmly reached down and fisted one of her high heels, prepared to take him on with the business end of a stiletto. I think I can plop my ass into a sun lounger. How brave.

“Thank you,” I mouth to Lars as he steps to the side, joining the rest of my security, and I settle, kicking my legs out on the chair, listening to the soothing pulse of the waves—and the not-so-soothing sound of other guests on the beach. From yards away, I catch a snippet of a conversation. Wild, wild whispers to the tune of: Is that really her?

Yep. Really! For real! Just don’t look at my face too carefully, or judge my mannerisms too closely, or ask me to speak.

“Take out a book,” Flynn’s voice says, out of nowhere, into the earpiece. A hot prickle goes up my spine. “I’ve run all the titles past the PM’s team. She said she’s on board with anything recommended by the Obamas.”

Bending to the side, I fish out the first novel I find, Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall , and crack open the spine. Just a bit of light beach reading at 560 pages. Good news is, if anyone does try to shoot me, this would definitely stop a bullet. And then I could chuck it at them, like a brick.

“Nice choice,” Flynn says about the book, and where is he?

Ah. Right. My head swivels as he passes. Flynn is distinctly less clothed than a few minutes ago, popping down to the shoreline in those baby blue trunks. The hem is European short, grazing halfway up his significant thigh muscle, and the buttons of his white linen shirt are mostly undone, a long V of bronzed skin open to the breeze. Without giving me a second glance, he settles directly in my vision—unfolding his beach towel on a lounger before tackling the rest of his buttons, stripping the shirt slowly off his back. A sun-kissed trail of hair descends below his waistline, the smooth ridges of his tendons popping in his forearms. Even if I didn’t know that Flynn was a handler for the CIA, I’d assume he had a job that required regularly flipping people over his shoulders. A job that also required crunches. Just…daily, or hourly, crunches. Over the top of Wolf Hall , I try not to look as Flynn slinks into the water, soft spray on his bathing suit shorts.

“I was thinking,” he says into my earpiece, voice jolting straight to my core. He’s no longer facing my direction, his toned back to the beach, but with the high sound quality, it’s like he’s sitting smack-dab next to me on a lounge chair. His microphone used to be tucked underneath his shirt. My guess, it’s now hidden in the case of his sports watch. “You never asked me a personal question, back there, in the hotel room. What I’ve been up to, what I like now. I’m going to choose not to be offended by that.”

I can almost see the confident curve of his smile, working its way up his face. Of course, he knows I can’t actually respond ; otherwise, it’d look like the prime minister’s mumbling to herself, or trying to sound out the words in her big-girl book. Like it or not, Flynn has my undivided attention. Seems like he’s going to milk it for all it’s worth.

“Let’s get to the serious stuff first,” he says pointedly. “Peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches are delicious. I agree with you on that one. However, I am now a bigger fan of banana bread than I’ve ever been before. Banana bread surpasses all other foods, no question. Sweet potato fries, on the other hand, are an abomination. Fries aren’t supposed to be healthy; they’re supposed to be from Idaho, and they’re supposed to be thin and crispy.”

Well, he’s got me there. Crispy fries are superior. On the other hand, this isn’t exactly vital information passed between handler and asset. I start to read the first line of Wolf Hall , assuming he’s finished. He isn’t finished.

“I had a growth spurt,” he says. “When I was seventeen and a half. Right after summer ended. By then, though, everyone at school had already given me the nickname ‘Pony,’ and I thought it was because I was fast and agile. A friend of mine later told me that it came from My Little Pony, because I was short for my age.”

Fighting a smile with all my facial muscles, I shake my head imperceptibly. Why is he telling me all this stuff about—

“Action films. I like them now. But only the terrible low-budget ones, with the unrealistic stunts. They actually filmed one near my parents’ place, in the mountains. They moved there a while back. Sold the Texas house and opened a bed-and-breakfast in New Hampshire. They made their own jam. Strawberry-rhubarb preserves. My mom’s name is Barbara, so they put rhu-BARB on all the labels, with her face on it, and barely anyone got the joke, but it was a big seller at the local farmers’ market.”

Despite my efforts, the very corner of my mouth turns up. I’d buy that jam.

At the same time, it makes me a little sad—that I didn’t know any of this. That he doesn’t remember that I remember Barbara. Flynn got his travel bug from her. Every summer, she’d take their family somewhere new, somewhere by the water—Nags Head, Cape May, Ogunquit, and then, one summer, my little town.

Flynn keeps chatting through the earpiece, seawater on his skin, and while I refuse to drop my guard with him, my jaw does untense. My pulse treads into neutral territory. Right now, I’m relieved not to be obsessing about Sofia’s ominously ambiguous note, floating somewhere in the Positano sewer system, or the crush of photographers outside, or those profiles in the folder marked A for assassin .

That’s the point, isn’t it? Why Flynn’s going on and on.

Or adult Flynn just likes to hear himself talk , I think, as he finishes a soliloquy about the importance of farmers’ markets that is only slightly shorter than the book in my lap. When he’s done, he turns around in the water, sunlight threading through his hair, and it strikes me with renewed intensity that, in a short number of hours, we’re going to be trapped together—all night—in my suite.

Luckily, the novel’s another distraction. It’s exceptional. Sweeping and sumptuous and surprisingly easy to get into, even if you’re the type of person who normally reads cookbooks. I used to have a whole stack of cookbooks by my bed at home: Ottolenghi Flavor , La Grotta: Ice Creams and Sorbets , The Art of Simple Food . I like reading the stories behind the recipes, the way chefs develop a dish, from conception to table.

After the first chapter, the heat has soaked so thoroughly into my skin, my cheeks have turned pink—and the sea starts calling my name. Would it hurt to take a quick dip? Just wade in up to my knees? Slowly, I make my way to the shoreline, wondering if anyone’s going to stop me; it’s bathwater warm but still so refreshing, the quick crash over my feet, my ankles, my thighs. The edges of my cover-up are going to be tinged with salt.

Flynn’s a couple yards away, and I can feel his eyes grazing over me as I tread a bit deeper, the ocean floor cool under my toes.

“See?” he tells me quietly into the microphone. “Nice, easy vacation.”

“Sorry that you don’t get more danger, Secret Agent Man,” I volley back just as covertly, facing away from the hotel.

“Hey, there could be a rip current,” he says, checking behind me to ensure that no one can see us talking. Satisfied, he relaxes. “In all honesty, I will take a low-key mission any day.”

“What, do things get hot and heavy out in Iowa?” I ask.

He chuckles softly. “You did not just say ‘hot and heavy.’?”

“Seriously,” I press, “is your job mostly this chill? Like…your last assignment, whatever it was. Did it feel like a vacation, or an easy work trip?”

Flynn wades a little farther into the sea, and so do I, until both of us are almost floating—separate but together. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

I frown, keeping my back to the beach. “You’re going quiet on me now?”

A long, weighted pause tells me that he’s debating something, his hands swishing through the sea. When he finally speaks again, a bit of the lightness is gone. “I can’t actually tell you much about my last assignment. One, because it’s classified. And two, because I woke up in the hospital a week later.”

The thought of Flynn lying in the hospital—and me not even knowing about it—twists my stomach. I’m actually dumbstruck, the water suddenly cold around me. “What happened?”

“It was a very different assignment than this,” he says, backtracking a step, his voice warm and reassuring once again. He scoops up a palmful of seawater, running his fingers through his hair—and tries to cover up the confession with humor. “?’Course, I did learn a lot about myself. That whole your-life-flashes-before-your-eyes-right-before-you-die thing? Total bullshit. Do you know what my last thought was before everything went black? ‘God, I really want a sandwich.’?”

A stiff little laugh comes out of me. It’s pretend; all I’m thinking is, Wait, dying? You almost died? “What kind of sandwich?”

“Pastrami. Sauerkraut. Swiss cheese.”

I nod, a lump in my throat. “That’s a good one.”

He pauses. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Your death-sandwich order?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, skipping over my attempt at humor.

“Don’t apologize,” I say, mirroring him. Against the horizon, I spin to look in his direction, but he’s already heading to the shore, water beading along the golden plane of his back, implicitly telling me to follow.

···

It’s harder to focus on my book after that.

I’m relieved when, two hours later, Lars crouches under my umbrella and tells me that it’s time to head up to the room. I snap Wolf Hall shut. First outing as a fake prime minister, done. Maybe it shouldn’t, but a swell of satisfaction rises in my chest; I did it, I made it, without even getting a bad sunburn. No embarrassing mishaps, either; no way that anyone could look at me and say, Are you sure she runs an actual country?

Is it possible that Flynn’s right—in one way, at least? Is this getaway, for all intents and purposes, just a glamorous, free vacation? Brushing a smidge of sand from my cover-up, I tell myself to be grateful, Max . Be thankful for this opportunity that’s fallen into your lap—and don’t try to pick it apart, or tell yourself that you should have to suffer through it.

As soon as I stand up, though, I notice the man behind me. Not Flynn, not Lars, not anyone from my security team—this tall, lurking man, with dark brown hair and sun-drenched skin, a tennis bag slung over his shoulder. He’s approaching me in all white, a smile on his face like he’s just won Wimbledon, and immediately I think, What the hell is in that bag?

And security isn’t…reacting as strongly as they could be.

They’re surrounding him, sure, but they’re just vaguely patting him down—from his thigh-hugging white shorts to his ample shoulders—before he’s swaggering my way. His hip swing is so exaggerated, I’m half-convinced there’s a rock in his tennis shoe. Or some small crustacean, biting him in the pants. “Sofia, Sofia, Sofia,” he says to me, almost teasing, and I stand stock-still as he plants two gentle hands on my shoulder blades, kissing my cheeks—once, twice, three times.

He smells of citrusy cologne, like he’s bathed in a bucket of orange juice, and a corner of my brain says, You remember him . From the files. From one of the files. But it’s kind of important to remember which one! The friends-and-family tree? Or the known-assassins folder?

First Sofia’s brother, now this. No unexpected visitors, huh, Flynn?

“I know this is last minute,” the man says in a vaguely Scandinavian accent, not bothering to introduce himself. “I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

At the same time, microphone feedback crackles in my ear, and Flynn says, “His name’s Roderick Flaa. He wasn’t on the registry this morning—but the prime minister knows him. Summerlandian businessman-meets-diplomat. Just smile and nod.”

I smile and sweat. My underarms are starting to chafe in the linen cover-up.

“I heard that you’d checked in this morning,” Roderick continues, throwing me a smile that could be charming. He’s unquestionably gorgeous, in an effortful way—and obviously comfortable with Sofia. Maybe he’s the same with everybody? Everything from his swept-back hair to his confident posture screams ladies’ man. “I was in the area, and you know that Hotel Giorgio has some of the best courts—I heard you were here and was wondering if you’d like to join me. Say, twenty minutes?”

No. No, Roderick, I would not like to join you. I will join you in hell.

But, of course, speaking is forbidden. Instead, I’m a mime. I need one of those black-and-white-striped T-shirts and the sad-face paint with the vaguely gang-like teardrop. When I try to wave him off ( No, thank you, go away ), he completely misinterprets the gesture. A wave, in his language, is a tennis swing. It doesn’t help that I’ve given him a smile and a nod, as Flynn explicitly told me to do.

I’ll see Roderick on the courts in twenty.