Page 3 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold
From the corner of her eye, Alex saw the kitchen door swing open. “Put them on my tab,” The Guy said when the bartender slid a box full of chicken fingers in their direction, but he never took his gaze off of Alex, and all she could do was stand there, staring. Thinking.
Wavering.
She hated everything about that feeling and that moment and that man. But mostly she hated how right he was.
She looked him up and down, from his plain white shirt to his dark blue jeans—the jaw that was a little more rugged up close, and not just because it was covered with stubble. But it was the hands she lingered on—long, strong fingers that screamed of quiet, practiced competence. Maybe he was a concert pianist or a surgeon? They were the hands of a man made of patience and precision. They were hands that didn’t dabble. They performed. And a part of Alex itched to see what kind of performance they might coax out of her.
“Come on.” He slid off the barstool and reached for her to-go container. “You’ll want these later.”
“Later?” The word jerked Alex back. “I want them now. I wanted them twenty minutes ago when I ordered them but—”
“Tell me you’re ready to get out of here.” He was suddenly so close that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to make out the little ring of green around the blue of his eyes. Closeenough to feel... and forget. Close enough that when she swayed, she found herself pressed against him and unable to sway back.
“Are you asking if I want to see your room?”
“No. I’m asking if you want to see stars.”
***
Alex didn’t exactlydecideto follow him out of the bar. Her hand just sort of slipped into his, which was silly. It made her feel young and weak, like someone had to guide her through the Bride Squads of the world. Like she couldn’t make it alone. Which she could—she would. She was going to. Just as soon as she got on that bus at six the following morning. But until then...
The Guy was right about one thing—she was having one last night of indulgences, and maybe...
When they reached the bank of elevators, The Guy stopped and pressed her against the wall and whispered, “Tell me your name.”
They were alone. No more laughing or touchdowns or little pieces of falling ice pinging off the frosty windows, cold and sharp enough to sting.
“I... I’m...” Alex’s brain stopped working as lips brushed the underside of her jaw. “Tell me yours.”
“Call me Cowboy.” The words startled a giggle out of Alex.
“So now you’re into it?”
“It’s growing on me.” He pressed against her, strong and sure. “Tell me your name,” he asked again, and she felt warm breath on the side of her neck and those competent fingers at the curve of her waist, brushing against the smooth skin beneath her shirt.
He wedged a knee between her legs, and Alex gave up any pretense of not wanting him and this and now. She sounded almost breathless when she said, “Alex. My name is Alex.” She went up on her toes to kiss him properly, arms around his neck and—
Suddenly, he stilled. His body slumped against hers, like a marionette who had just lost a string, but the grip on her waist wenttighter. When he whispered in her ear that time, the voice sounded like midnight feels.
“Never give anyone your real name, Ms. Sterling.” Alex froze. “Never invite a stranger into your room. And never go to theirs.” He pulled back but didn’t look at her, like in spite of everything he felt almost guilty.
“Who are you?” she asked, but he didn’t face her. “Who—”
“I’m the guy telling you to go home. Lead a good life. Be happy.”
“Who are you?” She reached for his arm, ready to force an answer out of him, but it was like he read her mind—like he’d leapt forward in time to get there a split second before she did, and, suddenly, he had her wrist pinned against the wall over her head and his chest was pressing against hers. He was too tall and too strong and too much. It was the first time Alex had ever felt like she wasn’t enough because all she could do was stare up at him as he leaned down and whispered, “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Future, and I’m telling you, you’re gonna want to miss that bus tomorrow morning.”
The bus. Spy school.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She hated the way he looked at her. Like her attempt at the lie was funny. Like she was so bad, it was laughable. Like she wasn’t worth the effort, and so he pushed away. “Goodbye, Alexandra. I trust we’ll never see each other again.”
“As long as I miss the bus.”
“Precisely.” Then he turned and pushed open a door and disappeared into the storm.
At six a.m. the following morning, Alexandra Sterling was the first person to board the bus to COTAC.
