Page 74 of Only the Wicked

Am I his ex’s size? It’s hard to tell in photographs. Maybe.

But no. There are shoe boxes in that stack. He totally used ARGUS. But copping to a similarity to an ex is preferable to sharing that he owns the world’s best detective, and that he might be using it in ways that shred privacy laws.

“How much did all this cost?” I tilt my head thoughtfully while gesturing to the extravagant display. I may be without a long-term relationship in my past, but I’ve dated enough to know that what he’s done here is not normal. Even with my Ivy League connections, I’ve never seen anything quite like this.

With one last brush of his hand over the back of his head, he assumes the seat beside me but leaves enough space between us that our thighs don’t touch. This way, when he leans over, he can comfortably talk without being in my space. The velvet sofa sighs beneath his weight. His cologne—subtle notes of cedar and something uniquely him—drifts toward me, familiar now after days in his company. The temperature between us seems to rise despite the precisely controlled climate of the suite, a reminder of the chemistry that’s complicated everything from the start.

“My company. I mentioned it?”

“Yes, you did,” I answer, aiming for both curious and skeptical with my features. “You said your company does well. How well?” I dramatically widen my eyes, pretending to be dismayed and suitably surprised.

“I’ve done well. This is technically my third company. The first was something small and a hobby when in undergrad. But the others, my second company especially, they’ve done well. When I contacted the professional shopper, she understood the task should be completed without allowing costs to impede decisions.”

“Wow.”

“Don’t look at me differently, okay?”

A sharp pang of guilt cuts through my chest. He’s being vulnerable with me, worried that his wealth will change how I see him, and here I am—the perfect example of someone who knew exactly who he was before we even met. But I’m doing my job. I can give him what he’s looking for—genuine assurances that his success won’t change how I treat him. Because it won’t. The man sitting beside me, nervous about my reaction, is the same person I loved getting to know in the mountains.

“That’s one of the things…” he pauses, rubbing his thumb over his index finger, gaze downward, “when we met, you didn’t know who I was. Believe it or not, that’s a rare thing.”

He can never learn about KOAN.

I never planned on telling him, of course, but the potential damage of my deception suddenly feels overly personal—making this assignment increasingly complicated.

He lifts my hand and tangles his fingers with mine.

“You’re so different from anyone I’ve met.”

I have been myself with him, my real self. I so much want to deserve the compliment.

But you haven’t been honest with him.

This is the part of the job that sucks—the moment when someone’s trust in you becomes a weapon you’re wielding against them. But I force myself to remember why I’m here. The man who just bought me tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes has access to surveillance capabilities that could topple governments. Finding my dress size is harmless—charming, even. But if those same capabilities are being used to sell classified information to the highest bidder; if he’s providing kill lists to foreign governments who want to eliminate assets and whistleblowers; then the man I’m falling for is responsible for the deaths of people like me. People who put their lives on the line for a better world.

The thought sits like a stone in my stomach, but I can’t ignore it. Not when the stakes are this high.

“I love that you’re so open, so real. You probably don’t even care about any of this stuff, and it makes me like you even more. But my ex would’ve flipped out with worry over how she presented herself and…I really want you to go with me to the event tomorrow night. Will you?”

The chandelier light catches the slight movement of his throat as he swallows, waiting for my answer. Outside the window, a distant siren wails—a reminder of the bustling city that surrounds us, so different from the quiet mountain retreat where we met. The plush carpet beneath my feet feels too soft, too manufactured after days of natural terrain.

“Go with you to the event?”

He nods.

“I already figured we’d be together this weekend,” I force out, hoping for a natural sound.

“Good.” He checks his watch. “Shit. I’ve got to go. I’m late.”

“Oh. Want me to join you? What should I wear?”

“This one’s a meeting. Boring. Stay here and relax.” He hops up, selects a sports jacket to wear over his T-shirt, and rubs the back of his neck again. The movement is definitely his discomfort tell. “Are we okay?”

I nod, and he gives me a thumbs up. An actual thumbs up in the air.

I call out to him as he’s approaching the door.

“You do realize I’m going to Google you the moment you leave this room, right?”