Page 90 of Only the Wicked

“Did he say anything?”

I scratch my jaw to distract from the annoyance that she almost sounds hopeful.

“Said you were a good girl.”

I let the words sit there between us.

The tension proves too much. I need space. I step away, taking a seat on the sofa across from her.

“Why tell me? Did you believe he’d tell me?”

“It was awkward. I thought you might have picked up on something. If I didn’t say anything and then later you found out, it might make it a bigger deal than it is. And it’s not a big deal. It happened long before I met you.”

Logical. I rub the back of my neck, kneading the tight shoulder muscle, considering. She likely made the wise choice, telling me immediately. If I’d pushed Crawford, one never knows. While he probably wouldn’t have copped to it directly, a prick like that is more than happy to insinuate.

She also spoke with an FBI agent. Did she date him too?

“Did you run into anyone you know downstairs?”

With a tilt of her head, she avoids my gaze. “No.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes.

Is Daisy right? Is this me sabotaging a good thing? Or is the former CIA officer up to something and she sat down at the bar to meet with an FBI agent?

If that’s the case, why? What exactly am I suspecting?

I’ll need to see the tapes. See how long they talked. Check her facial expression. Check his.

“What’s going on?” Unease rings through her tone and I open my eyes, taking in the kindred spirit I met on a hike, the carefree woman who, what? We had fun together.

“Nothing,” I answer. “Work stuff.”

Another frequently used line that will buy me time.

I pat the cushion beside me.

“We haven’t talked about our exes,” she responds, not taking the seat. Her chin’s held high and her arms cross her middle, a defensive posture I recognize from years of meetings. “I wasn’t hiding my past from you. I didn’t do anything wrong. He deceived me.”

I’ve known her for less than a week. I can’t be angry that I didn’t know about a past affair. She could’ve come up here and lied, and she didn’t.

“Nevertheless, it’s a part of my past that I prefer to remain private. It’s a shameful action I regret and I hate that you know.”

I’ve done things I’m not proud of, too. But this conversation isn’t about my mistakes. I pat the cushion again and say, “It’s over, right?”

“Long ago,” she confirms, her tone lighter.

“Then get over here. Take off those clothes. Let me see the lingerie I bought you.”

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Sydney

I still. Uncertain.

Where’s the guy from the trail? The smiling, laughing, down-to-earth guy? Because this guy is one I halfway expect to dangle handcuffs and a blindfold.