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The museum sits on top of a winding hill, overlooking the afternoon sea. I’ve been to some truly beautiful places in my life—the peak of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park, a boat trip off the coast of Nova Scotia—but nothing like this. The building is massive and all white, floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the front, ocean views at the back; the garden’s full of ripening lemons, dropping into lush, exceptionally manicured grass. Doves sweep overhead, unaware that they’re crashing an event—that rows and rows of photographers are poised in front of the red carpet, cameras at the ready, waiting for me to step out of the Range Rover.

“I’ve been thinking,” I tell Flynn from the back seat, eyes almost watering at the corners. “If someone did get to the PM, what’re they going to think when my face is splashed all over the papers? That I’m the decoy, or she’s the decoy?”

In the rearview mirror, Flynn’s eyes skate over my face, stopping at the base of my collarbone, where the necklace-microphone rests. “I’ve been wondering the same thing,” he says, forehead furrowing; he’s removed the butterfly suture, left himself with a healing cut that his eyebrow partially obscures. “I’m wondering if that confusion could be useful in any way. Draw out the suspects. See who makes moves. Of course, if they think they’ve gotten the wrong Sofia…”

“Right,” I say, catching his drift. They’ll still come after me . I thumb my earpiece, securing it one final time, knowing that if I don’t leave the car now, Flynn might drive me straight to the airport, shoving me on a plane back to America himself. “Okay, let’s keep up appearances.”

Flynn brushes a hand over his freshly shaven face; I didn’t think it was possible for him to look any sexier, and yet— “Let’s keep up appearances,” he repeats, tweaking his bow tie.

I think we’re trying to settle back into our old dynamic—him the suave handler; me the only-in-it-for-the-mission asset—but the pieces don’t quite fit anymore.

After the line went dead with Gail, Flynn made it clear that this plan was absolute bullshit . So I was supposed to wade into the waters of international politics in six hours ? Well then, we better get started. For five of those, he quizzed me on who’ll be at the gala: important donors (including, possibly, Roderick), Summerlandian expats, trade partners, and dignitaries, and how I might react to them. With the laryngitis lie in place, it boils down to body language; as the prime minister, I need to appear gracious, interested in all topics of conversation—but noncommittal.

It isn’t drastically different from sitting on a beach. I’ll just be…standing in my heels. In a museum. Surrounded by people in power, dressed to the nines like me.

The stylists arrived with a perky knock at the suite door, cocooning me in a swarm of satin and silk. On the bed, they splayed out a choice of six different gowns, all black and fairly identical. The Sofia I met at the restaurant probably would’ve preferred a pantsuit—or, I don’t know, chain mail—but the sixth dress had the fewest sequins. Seemed like a safe choice. They zipped me up before working on my hair, applying hot curlers, and telling me discreetly, Don’t worry, we’ll leave it down —to cover the swipe on the side of my neck. What did they think that was from?

“That is some dress,” Flynn said, more awed than I expected, when I stepped into the foyer with my hair styled, my dress falling over my thighs in a liquid sweep. He was standing there in a jet-black tuxedo, hands debonairly in his pockets, the fabric accentuating the lean lines of his body. I didn’t gape at him, although…in a suit like that? Hard not to.

It’s still hard not to, as he shifts in the front seat of the Range Rover, exiting the vehicle and gently opening my door, a wave of afternoon heat hitting my chest. It’s a wall I move through, thick and heady, the sun uncomfortably high in the sky. The perfect time for gelato, for whipped cream, for anything but the flash of fifty cameras, tracking my every move toward the red carpet. Not just me , I think. Flynn, too . I’m not absolutely sure what they’re snapping, but instinctively, I know that the two of us make a pretty picture. The young prime minister in her silk dress, hair soft at her shoulders, and the handler turned bodyguard, close to her side in his secret-agent attire, looking like an advertisement for Tom Ford cologne. Alone, we’re striking, but together? We’re full Hollywood glamour, the political power couple that the newspapers are crossing their fingers for.

I wonder if I should put more distance between us. Skip ahead a few steps. Sofia, she wouldn’t like this. She’d give me an earful. See how he walks so close to you? Never let him walk that close to me . But after last night and her disappearance this morning, it isn’t a bad idea to keep my security close. Or…is it? I know I can trust Flynn, but the others? Lars and his crew circle like hawks, out of the photographers’ shots but near enough to swoop in if someone—anyone—makes a single wrong move.

“Prime Minister Christiansen! Prime Minister, this way!” The photographers, they’re already shouting in my direction. The carpet gives under my heels as I step on it, maintaining my balance and my poise. Shoulders back. Think tall . The afternoon sun catches the black sheen of my dress, and I’m aglow like a river, careful not to let my hair fall a certain way, careful to keep the side of my neck hidden. As confidently as possible, I readjust a few locks and pause in front of the head-high poster promoting the brand-new exhibit: bold block prints of…what are those? Potatoes? Colorful, oil-painted potatoes.

Ah, modern art.

Cameras snap as I do my best—my very best—imitation of Sofia, throwing them a tight-lipped but warm (non-American!) smile and holding up a hand, barely a wave. Keep moving , I tell myself. Just get inside . But there’s a bottleneck at the door. An elderly couple, maneuvering their walkers up a few crowded steps, and traffic has paused for the moment. Not for too long—although just long enough for me to hear it: members of the press, speculating, over the swarm of people; they’re speaking loud enough to catch my attention. On purpose? Are they hoping I’ll turn in their direction, give them a better shot?

Here’s what drops my stomach.

There’s a ripple through the crowd, a question from someone in the fray: Is that a bruise on the prime minister’s face?

The light must’ve hit my cheekbone just right. Must’ve cut right through the cover-up that Flynn applied before we left, dabbing on an extra two layers of beige. My throat constricts as a few photographers click, and I cover my cheek a little, pretending to brush away a stray eyelash—but the position won’t hold for long. It isn’t raining. We don’t have an umbrella. Or a newspaper, or a briefcase, or anything to realistically shield me from the snaps. Nothing that wouldn’t arouse further suspicion (like, why is the prime minister sticking her head under the Slovenian ambassador to Italy’s dress? Odd!).

A few feet behind me, Flynn is stiffening so hard, I can feel the tension radiating into my back; we both know that every photographer is probably zooming in on the bruise, giving themselves something to analyze later, to pick over in high definition. How’d the prime minister get that? And why is the bone structure of her cheek slightly different than before? I fell off the monkey bars once, in fifth grade, hitting my cheekbone on the tarmac; at some angles, you can see a fraction of an indent. Will anyone notice?

If my neck wasn’t turning red before, when we stepped out of the Range Rover, it certainly is now. Pops of color crawl up my throat, itching, and that would be perfect. Hives would be the cherry on top. Flynn notices, masking a grimace; he’s suddenly in front of me, seeing if there’s any reasonable way through the crowd that doesn’t involve barreling straight through several elderly patrons. (Nope, there isn’t.) When he turns back, gaze catching mine, he’s obviously debating something. His beard whiskers jump as his jaw tics. He’s close enough that I catch the cold zing of his spearmint breath, his eyes tracing the lines of my face, flicking back and forth from me to the photographers, and it’s a split-second decision. I know that. I can feel that: the quick, gentle hesitation before he closes the gap between us, the palm of his hand reaching to cup my cheekbone, shielding the bruise.

Those fingertips of his are steady and smooth, and despite everything, despite all the time that’s passed and this weird, weird scenario, he still feels like Flynn.

Go with it, Starfish , his eyes seem to say.

That mouth of his tips up into a borderline mischievous grin.

It’s for the cameras. In the background, I pick up the growing hush of the crowd—how everything, and everyone, has gotten just a touch quieter—as Flynn and I lock eyes. He might as well be whispering in my ear. I hear him. I understand him. If I’m going to make it out of this, my cover intact, no suspicions about the “gas explosion” raised, he’s going to have to hide my face. We’re going to have to create a distraction somehow, give the press a better story.

A “juicier” one, as Gail would say.

This might not be the only way—but, welp, it’s the way we’ve got right now. And Flynn’s already made the first move. We’ve already committed.

I guess we’re doing this?

Heart thundering in my ears, I rise halfway onto my toes—the heels already help with the height—and slant my mouth over Flynn’s. It’s a familiar movement, like coming home, and…isn’t this the plan? So why does it seem like I’ve surprised him? I feel this shocked little pulse at the base of his throat before he pulls me in closer, his eyelashes brushing my face, the snaps of a hundred cameras going off in our ears. People are shouting, lights are flashing, but everything has narrowed to the warm press of his lips, to the rough graze of his beard and the way his nose dips into the nonshielded part of my cheek. It’s a classy kiss, how one black-and-white movie star might kiss another, perfectly restrained and elegant. I wouldn’t be surprised if he dipped me back, his other hand curving above the crease in my hips.

Boy, he’s good at this deception thing. Top-notch. Gifted.

They teach you this at the Farm?

I have to remind myself it’s fake; it’s all part of the cover-up, as artificial as the makeup on my face; even I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice the soft swell of his lips, how he tastes just the same. How a soft moan is rising at the back of my throat. I still wonder if I should muss my hands through that perfect, shiny hair. Sweep my tongue along the tip of his. Capture his bottom lip with my teeth. I’m sure it isn’t noticeable to the cameras—no one else hears it above the hubbub—but it’s like the air between us fizzes, snaps, and I wonder…if we might be, just a little bit, giving in to something.

What could’ve happened last night, on the dining room table.

What I might’ve wanted since I saw him in the foyer, back in Rome, standing there in those tight khaki pants, staring at me like he didn’t just upend my whole damn life.

As soon as the camera flashes slow, he’s the one to step back first, a gentle retreat, the rough pad of his thumb grazing the tip of my chin. I swear I do not gasp for breath.

“We can move now,” he whispers to me, voice smooth as silk, back to his polished, professional self. He is all charm, as dashing as can be. On the inside, though, is he freaking out like I am? He must be. He’s probably doing some quick internal calculations, already preparing himself for the cascade of phone calls he’s about to field—the fiery hoops we’re going to have to jump through to make this right. What’s clear is, this is going to be the story. Flynn and Sofia, Flynn and I, we’re the story. Not the hint of bruise that might just be a smudge. Not the subtle, subtle differences between me and the prime minister. Not the random “gas explosion” at a restaurant on the Amalfi Coast, kilometers from the PM’s hotel.

Sex sells, and we’ve just sold it hard .

“That was the right move, wasn’t it?” I whisper out loud to Flynn, filtering through the museum’s main entrance. It’s cavernous, concrete, with glass installations hanging in spirals from the ceiling. My voice catches in the microphone necklace, playing directly into his ear.

“We’ll work it out,” he assures me, not meeting my eye.

“Are we ‘a couple’ now?” I add, words echoing in the chamber, and one of the gala attendants perks at my voice. At the two of us, huddled so close to each other. How’re Flynn and I going to play this for the rest of the event? Do we act like we’re in love?

Holding up a finger to Lars, asking him and the rest of the security team to wait a second, I shove Flynn, covertly, into the coatroom.

Glancing around to make sure no one’s in here, I yank out the makeup compact from my (very practical) dress pocket and dab on more concealer. Enough to blot out any purple, from any angle, even in the bright gallery lights. “Okay, what’s the protocol here?”

Compared to the gala’s main entrance, the coatroom is awash with silence. Flynn glances around surreptitiously, double-checking to make sure no one’s hiding in the chiffon and silk. When he’s satisfied that we’re alone, he pins me with a look, half-apologetic and half…something unreadable. A gulp goes down his throat. “Here’s the thing. I didn’t think you were going to kiss me.”

Come again?

“I was trying to cover your face,” he says, fast. “Give the press something else to talk about, the story they were already leaning toward. But I didn’t think you’d—”

I’m mortified. I feel like I’ve just gotten hit between the eyes with a baseball. “Oh my god.”

“No, Max, it’s—”

“This is bad , isn’t it? Have I just seriously miscalculated here?”

Flynn grabs my shoulders. “No, look at me. You were smart. Quick thinking. I’m only saying that because the plan’s evolving, and I need a few seconds to catch up.” He clicks his tongue as his phone vibrates heavily in his pocket. “That’ll be Gail, calling to ask us what’s going on.”

“Are you going to answer it?”

He double-checks the caller. “No.”

“Good, I wouldn’t.”

“She told me she’d send a message if there are any updates on the prime minister. This is just a warning.” Flynn skims his bottom lip with his teeth, and I have to physically drag my gaze away from his mouth. His mouth that I’ve just kissed, his tongue that I’ve just imagined clashing with mine. “We made a choice,” Flynn says, running a hand through his hair. “So we stick with that choice for the gala. Nothing has to change; I’ll still be right by your side, as planned. No one’s going to be rude enough to ask if we’re a couple. Not to our faces, anyway. I’m slightly more worried about the fact that you spoke out loud.”

Know where my mind goes?

To the moan. I think I’ve moaned, while kissing Flynn, as the prime minister, in front of a sea of international photographers.

“In the lobby,” Flynn clarifies, going a different direction, “a minute ago. If anyone heard you, word might get out that you’ve recovered from laryngitis.”

I clutch a hand to my throat. “Maybe—maybe no one noticed.”

“Possibly.”

“Hopefully. Let’s say that the kiss was distracting enough.” I pause, letting out a big breath through my lips. “You’re not going to receive any blowback, are you? Get into trouble?”

He pauses, too, eyeing me. “For…?”

“For kissing me in public like that.”

“If I do get into any trouble,” Flynn says automatically, “they’re fucking hypocrites. I don’t know how much you’ve heard about the CIA’s practices, but it wouldn’t be the first time that an asset and a handler have…engaged in something like that.”

“Ah, I see.” Seduction. Illicit affairs. I suddenly regret asking. “To get assets to work with you.”

His chest rises and falls in his tuxedo, the satin shimmering on his lapel. “To be brutally honest, yes, that’s what we’re encouraged to do, if it makes sense for the mission, but it’s never been my style.”

As soon as he says this, my brain goes rogue. Flynn’s there in another hotel room, stripping off his shirt, hair mussed, mouth soft. Am I jealous? A dangerous curiosity pricks my skin. “Never?”

“Never,” he assures me as we both hear laughter bubble up from beyond the coatroom. Italian, approaching quickly. Instinctively, both of us push in farther back, until we’re cornered between two tall coatracks. It’s stuffy in here, cloistered, private.

Reckless words fly out of me. “If you were trying to seduce me, I’m not sure I’d even know it.” That’s the truth, isn’t it? I’ve always been obtuse when it comes to Flynn. After our summer together, I sincerely thought he’d show up for Thanksgiving. Nothing could’ve confused me more than that email.

He laughs kind of huskily at the back of his throat. “Trust me, Max, you’d figure it out.”

I pass him a look, annoyed and unconvinced.

“You would,” he insists, coatroom lights dusting the top of his eyelashes. “If I were really trying…” He hesitates for a moment, and I’m not immediately sure what he’s pausing for. My core heats when I realize he’s waiting on me , to give him permission. Hey, Starfish. Can I pretend to seduce you?

“Go ahead,” I tell him, strangely confident. “Give it your best shot.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right, then.” He takes the bait—or maybe I take the bait—because suddenly, he’s wrapped his hands around my waist, fingertips imprinting into the liquid silk of my dress, and he’s spinning my almost-bare back against the wall. The cool plaster presses against my spine, and Flynn is mere inches from me. He brings his lips to my ear. “I’d probably start by telling you how fucking amazing you look in that dress.”

It’s not what he says—it’s something about the quality of his voice. How uneven it is. It sounds like he’s restraining himself. He’s barely touching me, hands traveling down my sides, fingers whisper-light against the fabric, but his tone says, I want more .

A flutter rises up from deep in my belly.

“I’d tell you how every person at this event won’t be able to take their eyes off you,” he breathes, the tip of his nose nuzzling my ear. I swallow, willing myself to stay composed, which is really hard to do when his lips drag against the edge of my cheek, and he speaks into my skin: “I’d tell you how, if anyone lays a finger on you, anyone but me…”

Sounds stir at the back of my throat. I run my tongue along my bottom lip, savoring those words. Because I like them. My body likes them. Outside the coatroom more raucous laughter and a band flare up, arctic flute and accordions, but inside it’s just Flynn’s breath and my breath, and—

Both of us seem to remember that we’re in a coatroom, inches away from international scandal. A restrained kiss on the red carpet is one thing, but this? No. We can’t do this. Whatever this is. Nostalgia? A game? Is he just trying to prove a point?

“Well, good,” I say, clearing my throat as we both take a step back. “I know the move. I’ll be…careful and on the lookout for that one.”

“Good,” Flynn says, mirroring my nonchalance, although his breathing is sort of labored, a flush creeping under his beard. His thumb hitches over his shoulder. “Should we…?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Let’s leave. I can’t stalk out of the coatroom quickly enough.

There’s no way the rest of the museum will make my heart pound any faster than this.