Page 15 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Twelve

Sydney

What’s your room number?

The winding path weaves between a manicured lawn and beautifully landscaped flower beds juxtaposed against stone and wood villas.

He planned for us to meet in the lobby, but I’d like to get a look inside his space.

I expect I’ll only see his suitcase, but there could be something useful.

Notes left out on a table, a name jotted down on a notepad, anything.

A door up ahead cracks and Rhodes steps out, a backpack strap slung over one shoulder.

He’s in hiking boots that rise above his ankles, navy twill shorts and a Foo Fighters T-shirt.

The sleeves from a plaid flannel shirt wrap around his waist, turning him into a replica of almost any frat boy from my college years.

“I’m hearing after last night’s rain it’s going to be muddy. How’s your ankle?”

“It’s fine. I hit my knee hard, but it’s good today.”

The door locks behind him, and I keep my face neutral to mask any disappointment.

“You sure?”

I hop on my toes, letting him see I’m good to go.

Yesterday’s scraped knee was the real deal, but the limping qualified as an acting job. I could’ve kept it up through the evening, but then I’d risk not being invited along for whatever activity he planned.

“Great. There’s a place down the street where we can get breakfast to go. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m told we’ll have the best chance of avoiding crowds if we hit the trail early, so I figure we can eat on the way.”

“Works for me.”

In the car, conversation covers the trail options, the waterfalls in the area, and how if it wasn’t for his elbow injury, he’d be climbing mountains.

“Did your father teach you to climb?”

“No. He’s a golfer. Taught me the sport that could help me succeed in business.”

“Are you close?”

“No.”

The straight line of his lips and the flex of his jaw tell me I’ve stumbled on a sore subject that won’t get me anywhere anyway, but before I can redirect, he asks, “What about you? Where are your parents?”

“Alaska.” The lie slips out, as it’s one I’ve told often through the years.

“Get to see them often?”

“No.” At least that answer is the truth. “Do you still golf?”

“Rarely. If I’m away from the office, I prefer something more challenging.”

“Challenging like what?”

“Climbing. A full body workout. Hell, I’d take racketball over golf.”

“You must hate that we have to go hiking.”

He grins. “You’d think. But truth is, I’m perfectly happy spending the day with you. Hiking. It might be because I haven’t slept as well as I did last night…well, not in a long time.” He pointedly looks away from the road and at me. “I think I have you to thank for that.”

My face warms and I place my attention on the window and the passing forest.

His hand falls to my knee and he squeezes gently.

“I hope this trail’s good. It got good reviews.” And just like that, he transitions the conversation back to trails. For the short drive to our destination, we alternate between listening to music and commenting on houses tucked away down gravel roads along the winding road.

Glen Falls Trail, the one Rhodes picked, is a popular one, and although it’s still early in the morning, the gravel parking lot at the base holds quite a few vehicles.

“Let’s hope the trail isn’t crowded,” Rhodes mumbles as he locks his SUV.

I check my phone and slip it into the small backpack I’m carrying that also holds a bottle of water, sunscreen, all-natural bug spray, and Neosporin.

He’s got a full-sized backpack that’s stretched with contents, and I’m curious what he felt he’d need on a five-mile hike, but I’ll ask later, when we’re on the hike and I’m struggling for conversation.

Although, the awkward silences I typically experience on dates have been absent with Rhodes. Conversation flows easily, but maybe that’s because I’m not trying to second-guess myself at every turn or questioning if I’m wasting my time.

That’s the therapist you hired way back when speaking. There’s no place for her here.

“There are a couple of less traveled offshoots I found. We can explore those if you’re game.”

“Lead the way.” That’s what I say, but as we approach the mouth of the trail, it’s clear we can walk side by side.

He slaps at his neck.

“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.”

He chuckles, and I grin.

The trail narrows and at his insistence I take the lead.

“A southern gentleman,” I quip.

“I like the view,” he says, his gravelly tone increasing the lust quotient a notch.

“I was asking because I know what it’s like to have uncertainty about your future.

You said you’re between jobs. If you send me your resume, with my connections, I might be able to, you know…

I mean, no guarantee. But half of job hunting is connections, right? ”

Is he thinking he might hire me? Does ARGUS hire ex-CIA?

The incline increases the deeper into the trail we go, and rocks protrude through the earth, requiring a focus on foot placement.

Our boots squelch through patches of red clay mud, and I have to grip exposed tree roots for balance on the steeper sections.

Fallen leaves, darkened and slick from the storm, create a treacherous carpet that shifts underfoot.

One wrong step and I risk stumbling backwards into Rhodes.

Somewhere below us, I can hear the rush of swollen streams rushing toward the falls.

The storm has turned every trickle into a torrent, and the sound of moving water grows louder as we climb higher.

Puddles mirror the sky through breaks in the canopy, and everything feels alive with the energy of the night’s deluge.

Up ahead, past the twist, it opens, and a woman comes into view. There’s a boulder to the side, and she’s leaning against it, probably waiting for us so she can continue down.

When we reach the landing, we see she’s not alone.

Her companion says, “It’s a nice hike. The falls are gorgeous.”

“Thought they’d be worth the visit after last night’s storm,” Rhodes answers. “Are a lot of hikers out?”

“We didn’t come across many, but we struck out early. Today’s going to be a hot one. At least until the thunderstorms this afternoon.”

“Right,” Rhodes says.

These women are maybe fifteen years older than him and completely unaware of who he is, yet they’re drawn to him. It’s like I don’t exist and he leads the conversation with ease.

The landing area is tight for four, and the two women continue down the trail, ending their rest and ceding us the space with gracious goodbyes.

“Want water?” Rhodes asks.

He’s already unzipping that full pack of his and pulling out a water bottle.

I lean against the boulder, stretching out my legs. “I’m good.”

He chugs his water and swipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“When you said that half of job hunting is connections, is that how your company hires? Mainly from connections?” I ask, wanting to get back to opening his company into approved conversational topics.