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My past life is full of bright images: A white-brick building by the edge of the bay. Glistening picnic tables on the patio. Big blue-and-white umbrellas and chilled glasses of chardonnay, guests sipping and laughing. Those summer sounds. The almost-unbearable heat inside the kitchen. Throwing open all the doors and all the windows, and cooking my heart out.

In the early days of my restaurant, I was always in a flow. Creating something beautiful, something that was mine. Hours passed like minutes, and suddenly I’d find myself standing in the kitchen at midnight, shaky on my feet and vaguely out of breath, wondering where the light went outside the windows. The kitchen is its own time zone, its own ecosystem. I was happiest there, even when I was miserable. My grandmother Frida never got to open her own restaurant, under her own name. So when it came time to name my little place by the sea, the choice was obvious.

Opening night, I shucked over two hundred oysters, baked dozens of miniature blueberry pies, and prepared the lobsters for bisque. I’d settled on a simple menu of coastal favorites. Nothing’s better than letting local ingredients speak for themselves. Nothing’s better than the smooth crunch of a home-brined pickle, or the way a lump of fresh crabmeat melts in your mouth.

After the first service, my friends and family came into the kitchen, clapping. Guests I’d never met stayed until the wee hours, asking to meet the chef and say Welcome to the neighborhood .

I was so damn proud of that place. It felt like my grandmother was there, by my side, beaming. The kitchen, it was me. And in the dark weeks that followed Frida’s closure, I often found myself wondering, Who am I now? Who am I without it?

Funny.

Turns out, the answer is someone else entirely.

“Colored contacts,” Flynn says after breakfast, passing me a tiny white box. “Sofia’s eyes have a few more flecks in them; these’ll fix that. You ever put on contact lenses before?”

I grab the box, careful not to let our fingers brush. “No, never.”

“They’ll feel weird at first, when you’re putting them in, but you’ll get used to them.” Furrowing his brow, he surveys my face and reaches out a finger, hovering about an inch from my cheek without touching my skin. “You’ll need a freckle, here. Gail’s going to take care of the other cosmetics. Now show me how you’d wave to a crowd.”

It feels silly—walking back and forth in an empty room, waving to invisible people, as Flynn points out the inaccuracies in my posture, how Sofia would stroll instead of slink—but after close to six hours of picking up dinner forks like Sofia, and tying my hair back like Sofia, and sitting in a chair like Sofia, something shifts. Flynn’s no longer correcting my gestures. My movements are fluidly, naturally hers. Then again, outwardly we’re so similar anyway—it wasn’t a huge jump.

“What about speaking?” I ask, after a brief water break. Training is a distraction that I’d like to lose myself in as deeply as possible. “The accent.”

“Mmm,” Flynn says, swallowing a gulp himself, a bead of water trickling down the line of his throat. “You won’t speak in public. The PM’s press team has told everyone she has an extreme case of noninfectious laryngitis.”

Involuntarily, I massage the base of my own throat. “Painful.”

“Right, so you’re conserving your voice. Most people in Summerland speak either Norwegian or English. Out of an abundance of precaution, I’ll teach you a few Norwegian words. Hello, goodbye, toilet , that sort of thing.”

The corners of my eyes crinkle at him. Since when do you speak Norwegian? “Sure, comes in handy if you ever want to say goodbye to the toilet,” I bat back. “Or hello to the toilet, for that matter…What’re you doing?”

It’s almost seven o’clock at night, tangerine sunset filtering through the blinds, and Flynn’s pushing the living room sofa against the wall, all the cords and tendons in his forearms flexing. I tear my gaze away as he grabs both sides of the nearest armchair and lifts it effortlessly. “Just making room. You’re going to fight me.”

I let out a snort before realizing—“Oh god, you’re serious.”

“It’s highly unusual for an assassin to make an attempt at close range,” Flynn says, scooting a coffee table out of the way with the tip of his boot, then lowering himself to his knees to roll up the sheepskin rug. “No one’s going to touch you. We’ll stop anyone before they get close, and you’ll have security with you at all times. But I always teach my assets a few self-defense moves. Helps boost confidence.” He dusts his hands emphatically, unfolding to a stand as I pace in a tight line, knowing that I shouldn’t run away from his offer—but also unprepared to practice any “moves” with Flynn.

“If it’s not necessary,” I say, “I’ll pass.”

“Oh, come on. Humor me. Please?”

I press my lips together. “Okay, fine, let’s do it,” I say before I lose my nerve.

In the center of the room, Flynn explains what’s about to happen: He’ll reach out, as if he’s going to wrap his hands around my neck, and I’ll twist to the side, raise both my arms, then chop down on his elbows. “After that,” Flynn says, “we’ll see how you react on instinct. You ready?”

No, I’m not ready. His hands are about to graze my pulse; he’ll know exactly how fast my heart is beating. Steeling myself, I take a few deep breaths and step forward, nodding, the smooth skin of his fingers glancing my jaw as he slides his hands toward my ears, and I don’t hesitate. Don’t let this moment drag on. I’m twisting like he taught me, arms raised before letting them down, and he’s—

“What?” I press, stepping back.

He runs his thumb over his mouth. “No, nothing.”

“It’s obviously not nothing. You looked like you were about to laugh.”

“I wasn’t going to laugh ,” he says. “It’s just—”

I twirl my hand at him, urging him to spit it out.

“All right, if you really want to know, we need less kitten, more tiger.”

“I thought this was supposed to build my confidence,” I say.

“It will,” he assures me. “Run it again.”

This time, annoyed, I slam down my arms, Flynn mumbling something like “ Yes , Max.” Then I give myself space—as much space as the room allows—before he’s advancing a second time, and my reflexes take over, thrusting the heel of my hand toward his nose. Flynn ducks with a lazy smile, driving his shoulder forward like he’s about to lift me off the ground, but my knee rockets up to clip his chin.

That tigerish enough for you?

He steps back, massaging his jawline. The look of pride on his face is unmistakable, and even though I’ll never use this lesson, dammit if confidence doesn’t zip through me like electricity.

“Better,” he says, then refines my approach, teaching me a few more moves—how to deal with a rear-facing attacker, how to do a single-finger strike. “Now, put it all together. You counterattack.”

We circle each other, hardwood creaking under our feet; I’m wondering what the neighbors are thinking as I fly at him with a grunt, and Flynn slides elegantly back, dodging me. It’s like a dance. We’re like partners. Sure, one of those partners is pretending like they’re trying to kill the other with their bare hands—but it’s still skin glancing skin. Close range. The heat of him pouring through his T-shirt, my pulse running higher and higher.

“If there’s a threat in the area,” Flynn says, footsteps light, “your best bet is to cover or conceal. Run behind the nearest wall; place as much distance as possible between yourself and your attacker.” He swoops forward, and I duck left. “It’s harder to hit a moving target. Cover’s only good for about seven seconds. Don’t zigzag, but get yourself from place to place.”

I nod, telling myself it’s just the movement, just the physical activity; that’s the only reason I’m breathing harder. When he wraps his arms around my shoulders, though, the solid plane of his chest pressing against my back, his breath tangled in the wisps of my hair, I—

I practice what he taught me.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Flynn groans, falling back, pinching his nose. The nose that I’ve just rammed my fist into with a crackling crunch.

Panic flits through me, all the way to my Birkenstocks. “Oooh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Flynn says, nasally, bent over at the waist.

“I went too hard.”

“I told you to go hard.” Eyes watering, he half stumbles over to the living room mirror, checking the angle of his nose in the fading light. Is it my imagination, or is it tilting slightly more to the side?

“I can try to snap it back in place?” I offer.

He laughs before he realizes I’m not kidding. “No way!”

“Why not?”

“?‘Snap’ does not imply that whatever’s about to happen is going to go well,” he says, another dry chuckle in his throat. Unpinching the bridge of his nose, he moves his mouth around, testing the tenderness. “It’s fine. No real damage.”

“Well…good,” I say, hands on my hips.

He readies himself again, squaring his shoulders, facing me. There’s a devilish twinkle in his eye. “Next time, Max? Harder.”

···

I give him harder, solidifying the ground rules in my head. Rule number two? After this little lesson, no touching —unless my life literally depends on it.

“Milk,” Gail says, plopping a carton on the countertop an hour later, back from the longest shopping trip in human history. Sweaty, running the collar of his tee over his face, Flynn starts putting away the rest of the groceries—a pack of tortellini, some olives—as Gail beckons me into the primary bathroom, where bottles of brown goop linger on the countertop. Gail, it turns out, is a master of disguise; she tells me that she used to change the appearances of mob-boss wives before they entered witness protection. “I don’t know what I’m handier with, a weapon or an applicator brush,” she says, hovering over me as I perch on the edge of the tub. “Either way, a salon is a no-go. Anyone who sees you actually transforming into a prime minister is a liability.”

“This will look…professional?” I ask, swiping a drip of brown goop from my temple. I’m just glad that Flynn isn’t the one massaging my scalp.

“I took an in-depth cosmetology course for the mob wives,” Gail says, dabbing more color onto my roots. “So yes. Anyway, we couldn’t bring in an outside stylist. Too risky. Now, tilt your head to the left. Less to the left. Okay, more to the left.”

When all of my natural blonde is covered in a thick coat of chestnut, Gail snaps a translucent shower cap over my head to let the dye sit.

My phone must’ve auto-connected to the nearest Wi-Fi, because in that time, it buzzes. A text from Dad that says, He’s back!! Attached is a photo of the world’s pudgiest squirrel, the one that snatches all the birdseed in my parents’ backyard. Dad pretends like he’s at war ( The darn thing’s a menace! ), but then chuckles and leaves out extra seed for gobbling.

Looks like my mom’s texted me, too: three new pictures of the hats she’s knitted. Every week, she drops by the local hospital, meeting her friends to make beanies for newborn babies, so their tiny heads don’t get cold.

I stare at the pictures, guilt battering me—for letting my gentle, gentle parents down so fully, and for everything I’m about to do to make up for it.

Without a word, I re-pocket the phone, stress building. I may’ve gotten a kick of self-assurance from the defense lessons, but alone in the harsh light of the bathroom, the paranoia from the plane reemerges. Every creak in the pipes, every little street noise outside—newspaper stands shuttering, car exhausts backfiring—heats up my skin. Grabbing a washcloth from the pretty marble rack, I shove it under the tap, hands shaking, and wrench on the cold water—colder, colder, letting it pool in the sink—then flop the cloth on the back of my neck. It makes a wet splat , excess water trailing down my back. This is the part where I should be looking in the mirror and asking myself: Shouldn’t you run? But I can’t seem to meet my reflection.

I’m not sure who’d be staring back. Me or Sofia?

“Hey, look at you,” Flynn says when he sees me late that night, dropping his sponge as I shuffle into the kitchen. The area around his nose is, in the right lighting, a little purple. He’s stopped cleaning up from a quick spaghetti dinner, his eyes tracking over the curves of my new brown hair, which Gail has washed, blow-dried, and trimmed. Chestnut locks unfold over my shoulders, falling in the exact same way as the prime minister’s. Gail’s also polished my nails, added a prosthetic beauty mark by my ear, and scrubbed my face with this slightly stinging exfoliant that’s given me extra shine. Rome wasn’t built in a day; my new and “improved” appearance, on the other hand, took under two hours.

“It’s almost creepy, isn’t it?” says Gail.

I thumb one of the strands, massaging it between my fingers. “Gee, thank you.”

Gail shrugs. “We were both thinking it.”

“For the record,” Flynn says, pointing a suds-covered finger between us, “that is not what I was thinking.” It makes me wonder what he was thinking, especially when a dimple pops under the tidy stubble of his beard.

Twisting my hair into a bun, as I’ve seen Sofia do in videos, I aggressively change tacks. “When do I switch with the prime minister?”

“On the way to the hotel tomorrow,” Flynn says, drying his hands on a dish towel before bracing his fingers on the countertop, explaining the switch like you’d illustrate a football play. “When her motorcade comes through the tunnel, you and I’ll be waiting in the middle. The PM will get out of her car, you’ll get out of our car, and we’ll make the swap. That’ll be brief. No more than fifteen seconds. You won’t see her except for the initial switch, and during one face-to-face meeting in Positano.”

“I’ll follow by train,” Gail says, brushing a few pastry crumbs off her lapel. “It’ll draw suspicion if we’re clumped together. Plus, that’ll give you two extra prep time on the way down—one-on-one. I’ll call once you’re settled into the hotel.”

From the depths of my jeans, I pull out my cell phone again, Dad’s text unanswered; the battery is over half-drained, and we didn’t exactly have time to stop for an Italian SIM card at the airport. “You have my phone number, right?” Even as the words leave my mouth, they feel idiotic. Gail is CIA; not only does she have my phone number, she probably knows which bunk I stayed in at Millinocket Lake Summer Camp, over two decades ago.

“Here you go,” Flynn says, pulling a jet-black brick of a phone from his back pocket. He gives it a little flip between his fingers before handing it to me. “Encrypted, top of the line.”

I take the phone, turning it over in my palms, wondering if I should send a text to my family now. It’s Max, new phone. In Europe, won the lottery, LOL, isn’t that weird?

When I’m silent for a moment, when Gail leaves the room for the night, Flynn adds, “If you’re having second thoughts…”

“I’m not,” I lie.

“Okay, but if you ever do,” he says, words soft at my back.

I decide not to answer, just wave a hand good night , slipping into one of the cool, dark bedrooms and telling myself that maybe— maybe —the shock of seeing him will have worn off by morning.