Page 6 of Lone Spy

Both are gigantic and full of neatly labeled boxes. Though I'd bet money the memories in Ash's boxes are graphic war movies, whereas the container store's boxes are empty of everything but the purchasers’ dreams of organization.

"Checkout is in an hour. Do you still want to head back to Malibu?" Ash asks as he crosses toward me. He's wearing a navy suit today with a pale gray shirt—no tie. Nothing to hang onto. I shake my head at the errant thought.

He stops in front of my table, towering over me, his expression empty. But there is still tension in the air between us. Is this left over from the way I spoke to him in the car, the truth I dropped in pique? Or is it judgment for sleeping with Julian? For drinking so much last night?

"Yes," I answer his question, offering another warm smile—I let my eyes rest on him.We can be friends."I'm ready to head home." His eyes stay on mine, but he's giving nothing back.

There are not many men who have the self-discipline not to let their gaze drop to the V of my robe. But Ash is not like other men. Some petulant part of me wants to test him. Lean forward and let the robe split apart, let my breasts beckon his gaze. I'd like to see some heat from the man. But I don't do that. I stand, pushing back the chair.

"I'll get dressed."

"I'll be here," Ash answers.

An hour later we're winding up the Pacific Coast Highway in my Porsche. It's all electric and drives like a silent dream. The exterior color is "Provence"—a rich lavender that does nothing to diminish the obvious power of the sports car.

The top is down, the ocean on our left rolling toward us, crashing against the cliffs below, loud enough we can hear it over the whistling wind.

I'm not playing any music because I love the sound of the Pacific so damn much. It's why I bought my place in Malibu—for that rhythmic, always changing yet always the same behemoth. A reminder of what true power looks like. A reminder that I am tiny and inconsequential.

Ash sits next to me, his seat as far back as it goes, which leaves barely enough room for his long, thick legs. Beyond him hills roll away golden and ethereal.

My phone chimes, and a text from Julian pops onto the screen. An AI voice—male and Australian—reads it aloud. "Remind me why we broke up?" I steal a glance at Ash, who stares straight ahead, the embodiment of silent judgment.

I turn off the volume. The wind rushes around us and unspoken thoughts fill the space. Ash is probably the only other person in my life who understands why Julian and I broke up. Because I didn't want to involve him in…my life. Didn't want him to face any of my consequences. But staying away from him is hard…

"Do you have something to say?" I ask Ash.

"No," he responds simply. The road snakes along the coast; the sound of the ocean pounds against the shore beneath us. "Do you have something you want me to say?" he asks.

"No," I reply too quickly.

Ash nods, as if the issue is closed. Which I guess it is.

My house in Malibu hangs over the beach. It was built in the sixties when that kind of thing was allowed. It's a masterpiece of wood and glass with a circular drive that brings me a small thrill of joy every time I pull into it. This is mine. Mine. I still have my place in the city but am out here as often as possible.

The black SUV carrying the rest of my security team pulls in behind us. I wait as Ash climbs out first, my fingers itching to open my own door. But that's not how things go in my life now.

If Ash had his way I wouldn't even drive anymore. But that's not happening. I need to maintain some autonomy. Giving up opening my door is fine. Giving up driving my Porsche is a hard no.

I flip down the mirror and check my face—my makeup is minimal. Just a tinted moisturizer, light blush, and lip stain. Mascara and a shimmering lid brightener add depth to my violet eyes—a rare gift from my Roma ancestry.

My grandmother told me her sister had the same color eyes. There are no photographs of her or the rest of that side of the family. The Holocaust stole more than lives.

A shadow falls over me, and I look out my window to see Alesana, a Samoan agent who is even broader than Ash. But unlike that block of ice, he has a twinkling humor in his eyes and a sweet smile. He opens my door and offers his mitt of a hand. I take it and let him steady me as I climb out of the Porsche—not that I need the help. But there is a game to be played here.

Even when I stand at my full height with four-inch heeled boots, Alesana still towers over me. He follows me to the back of the car, and then I'm on my own to cross to where Ash waits for me by the twin front doors.

The entrance is grand with thick wood doors twelve feet tall. Ash opens one for me, light spilling out into the shaded portico. Tension twists in my stomach, my intuition trying to warn me about something. I pause, look at Ash.

He's wearing mirrored aviators that reflect me at the center of a fisheye lens. There is a tightness in his jaw that wasn't there in the car.

I glance into my house. The entryway extends into a sunken living room, a wall of curved glass, then a deck that cantilevers over the beach. The tide is in, so the ocean swirls under the pylons supporting the deck. From where I'm standing there is nothing but my home between me and the vast horizon.

"Everything okay?" I ask Ash.

"Yes," he answers. It doesn't sound like a lie but it feels like one—something about his tone just isn't right. The other agents are dispersing. Alesana drives my car toward the garage, the SUV following. So it's just Ash and me standing at the threshold.

The scent of the ocean surrounds us, its rhythmic rushing close enough that the air is heavy with salt. Ash waits silently. And somehow, some way, I know he's hiding something from me.

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