Page 40 of Only the Wicked

“Did you use bug spray?”

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “It’ll be fine.”

“I thought you’re from here.” I sling my bag around and whip out my spray. “Arms out.”

He grins. “Nana would like you.”

“Why? Because I’m preventing you from getting some mosquito-borne disease?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

I spray Rhodes down, attempting to not fixate on the pull of his T-shirt across his muscular chest or his rounded buttocks and thick quads when he turns, allowing me to spray his back.

My skin tingles—an annoying reaction. The attraction refuses to dim, simmering at all times, thanks to us opening Pandora’s box last night. Instead of lifting the top off, we peeked inside without unveiling the full mystery.

At the mouth, the trail is wide enough for a car, but up ahead through the trees, the trail narrows. The tree limbs, heavy with last night’s rain, create a dripping canopy of green overhead. The boulders shoved haphazardly to the side, damp with moisture, evoke the feeling of entering nature’s freshly washed kingdom. The air smells of wet earth and pine needles. A chorus of birds chattering reminds me of something I read about how the health of a forest can be determined by the noise level. The notion of a quiet forest, conjured in horror stories, actually portends a dystopian future where we’ve killed off the birds and owls.

“You know, I know we agreed to not mention work…”

I side-eye him. His hands grip his backpack straps and he’s removed his sunglasses. The Johnny Fly frames dangle from his tee. We’re both wearing baseball caps at my insistence, because from what I’ve read the ticks are no joke in this area of the country.

“Your rule. Not mine. I’d love to hear what you do when you’re not on vacation.”

“Does that mean you didn’t Google me?”

“When would I have? You were with me all last night.”

I play into the deception with a casual smile, keeping pace with his long strides. But, truly, I’d lie about Googling any guy I was out with. And I shouldn’t have to lie. This day and age, online sleuthing should be assumed.

“True.”

His gaze remains locked up ahead, never looking my way, and it clicks.

“You Googled me.”

“Something like that,” he admits, a touch sheepish.

I know damn well he didn’t Google me. He probably used his vast AI surveillance network. He might know my credit card balances and my net worth, an unimpressive number to someone like him, I’m sure.

“What’d you learn?”

“The internet isn’t without flaws. I could’ve been learning about a different Sydney Parker.”

“Penn?” I ask, studying him for his reaction. “Fencing?”

The slight nod says it all.

“So you got the right one.”

“Why’d you leave the CIA?”

Yes, he did a deep dive.

“Asshole boss,” I blurt. Honesty for the win.

“You couldn’t get transferred to a different group?”

“The easy answer is not easily. If I shared with you the details, I’d have to kill you.”