Page 5 of The Pretenders of Copper County
My jaw dropped. How could someone I’d never met before know exactly,exactly, what I hadn’t known I needed to hear? I didn’t even mind—or, okay, not much—that he seemed to realize I was an utter, absolute, never-been-kissed, twenty-four-year-old virgin in need of reassurance. The way he looked at me, the way my name sounded on his lips, made it impossible for me to be embarrassed or worried in the slightest.
It was no John Ruffian calling me “baby”… It was evenbetter.
I was getting picked up by the hottest man I’d ever seen.
So I didn’t overthink it. Heck, from that moment on, I didn’t think at all. I slid my ass into the passenger’s seat, shut the door, and bid boring old Chris Winowski goodbye forever.
And as the car peeled away from the curb, my first thought was that Van had been wrong. Apparently, some adventuresdidstart with damp jeans.
CHAPTER TWO
REED
Some days,being Agent Sunday wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Twenty-four short hours ago, I’d been chilling with my family, distracting myself from some unwanted time off work. And even though I was maybe the one human being in the universe who didn’t seem to love spending time in tiny Little Pippin Hollow, I’d actually been enjoying myself.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my familyalways. Those fuckers were impossible not to love. We hadn’t had the easiest childhood, what with my mom dying young and Dad’s second wife bolting out of the Hollow when Emma was still a toddler, but we’d all moved on. I had my career now, Knox and Webb were busy running the orchard and being in love, Porter and Emma were grown and mature (mature being a relative term in Porter’s case), and even sweet Hawklet had found himself a purpose and a boyfriend—one who’d calmly accepted my death stare and reminder (not that Jack needed it) to treat Hawk like the precious being he was.
All of that family goodness, I was totally here for.
But the other shit that came with a visit to the Hollow—the parade of nosy neighbors who remembered me from my motherless, paste-eating elementary school days, the parade of weird celebrations, the endless fucking apples—was usually a hard,hardpass.
This time around, it hadn’t been so bad. I hadn’t gotten itchy and started anticipating my departure five minutes after arriving. Maybe that was because the farmhouse rang with laughter. Maybe because folks in town finally seemed to understand that I had zero interest in meeting a nice boy or moving “home.” But most likely, it was because, for the first time in fifteen years, I hadn’t had an active assignment for the Division calling my attention back to Washington.
In fact, due to my forced administrative leave, the future of my job was tenuous at best—a situation so stressful that last night, I’d happily (well, happy-ish-ly) agreed to dress up like a Regency gentleman for the town’s latest ridiculous event rather than sit at the farmhouse contemplating it.
But just as my breeches and I had been on our way out the door, my boss had contacted me for the first time in weeks.
“They’re calling you back in, Sunday.” Janissey had sounded more tired and stressed than usual, and in the background, I’d heard the familiar shuffling and zipping of someone trying to pack their life in a bag for an unknown period of time. “Got a new protectee for you. How much do you know about the Fromadgio crime organization?”
“Not much.” I’d quickly shuffled through my mental files. I hadn’t heard any specifics on the investigation, but I’d gotten bits and pieces. “The head of the family was under investigation, right? And shocked everyone by turning himself in a few months ago, saying he wantedto make a deal? I assume he’s in witness protection now if he’s sharing information that could make him a target?—”
“Yep. The US Marshals are handling that while the Department of Justice is hammering out details of his plea. The DOJ’s planning to use some of Dante’s information to seal up its case against Robert Evanovich, which is headed to trial in November.”
“So what do you need me for?”
“A couple days ago, Dante told the DOJ he had credible information that someone—likely an Evanovich—is threatening his nephew. He’s refusing to finish negotiations and sign the deal unless the kid is protected twenty-four seven until the trial.Heis your protectee.”
“Dante’s nephew? You mean Nicky… what’s his name?” I’d demanded. “Since when does the Division protect criminals? If he’s agreed to cooperate, shouldn’t the Marshals be handling that too?”
While our roles overlapped sometimes, the US Marshals Service was involved in all sorts of shit—apprehending fugitives, coordinating prisoner transport, and providing witness protection, just to name a few—while the Division was focused solely on the protection and relocation of innocent witnesses. It was one of many reasons I was glad I’d chosen to join the Division.
“Puh-lease. I don’t think Nicky Costello’s ever cooperated with anyone. I’m talking about Dante’s other nephew, Chris.”
I’d shaken my head. “Never heard of him.”
“Well, no, you wouldn’t.Thisone is supposedly innocent as a lamb. Of course, that’s what Dante said about Nicky, too—he’s refused to implicate Nicky in any of the shit the DOJ could have pinned on him—but both boys gotthe hell out of Dodge the second their uncle turned himself in, so I have my doubts.”
So had I. Innocent often meant “not someone the government can make a case against” rather than truly blameless.
“You wanna tell me how Dante Fromadgio got this information? How is he in contact with his former associates while he’s in protective custody?”
“This is what I like about you, Sunday,” Janissey had approved. “You ask good questions. The answer is… who the fuck knows? You know how it goes. Coulda been one of Dante’s lawyers, passing notes. Could be one of the Marshals protecting him has been getting a little lax—in which case, we’ll never get the details. Personally, I think it’s bullshit that they’re still entertaining Dante’s demands at all. The man’s been stringing out this deal for six fucking months, and Evanovich’s trial is coming up quick. I say, you sign on the dotted line or you serve your time, buddy. But the Powers that Be continually remind me I’m not paid to give my—fuck. Hang on, Sunday.Yes, Eloise? Five minutes. Tell them I’m coming… Then they can fucking wait for me, can’t they? Give me five goddamn minutes. Sorry, Sunday, what was I saying?”
“What’s going on over there?” I’d never heard him talk to his assistant that way.
He’d made a noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. “All hell’s breaking loose, that’s what. You’re literally the only agent on the books in this office without an assignment, which is why the guys upstairs are willing to overlook your recent failureand reinstate you without a hearing. Must be your lucky day.”
