Page 13 of Only the Wicked
The reality? I distracted him and successfully retrieved his phone and returned it. Yes, he was aware of my objective, but diversion is a skill. The others needed more practice. Years have passed since The Farm and our hyped banquet test.
“What’s it like being in the field again?” Caroline joined the CIA knowing she’d never enter the field, as she’d been in the press too often thanks to her marriage to an influential, highly visible man.
“Honestly, there’s no adrenaline rush quite like it.”
“You love it.” I could hear the smile in her words.
“I do,” I admitted. “Thank you.”
She scoffed. “No need to thank me. We wouldn’t have recruited you if you weren’t the best for the job.”
That one comment of hers was something I needed to hear. And, I suppose, Caroline sensing that, is what makes her good at her job too.
After ending the call with Caroline, I showered and dressed for my date and now I wait.
From my perch in the armchair, I have a clear view of the lobby doors, although it’s likely my target will approach from behind, entering the lobby from the labyrinth of hallways that connect the inn.
The Smithsonian article on my phone covers nine mythological sites that archeologists believe are real. Rhodes’ ex-girlfriend once posted a pic of him reading a Percy Jackson novel with the caption, “My man loves his mythology.” And his mother responded with, “That’s my boy” and a heart emoji.
It’s not a lot to go on, but if he approaches from behind and sees my phone, it’s a conversation starter. And maybe reading the Smithsonian magazine will boost my perceived intelligence quotient. With Mr. Stanford, it’s a reasonable assumption he’s judgey over reading habits.
In six minutes, he’ll be late. In a Harvard Business Review article on leading management practices, Rhodes stated he expects timeliness from all employees. “A late arrival to a meeting wastes the time of the participants and costs the company hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.”
On the hike, he didn’t come across as the stiff I expected, but put a suit on him and he’s probably a different man. Of course, as one of the Silicon Valley self-made T-shirt and blazer crew, he’s infamous for eschewing ties.
Another minute ticks by. If he’s late, then either he holds a distinct set of standards to his private life, he handles himself differently on vacation, or that entire article was bullshit.
The bell over the door rings, and he enters. Is he coming in from the parking lot? Where did he spend the afternoon?
I check the time. Five fifty-nine.
His dark, hooded eyes scan the lobby. Earbuds protrude from both ears. There’s an iPhone in his hand, and his dark gray trench coat falls mid-thigh. He’s changed into jeans, a heathered gray tee, and hiking boots. He wore running shoes when he went hiking.
What’s he been doing this afternoon?
He nods and says something to someone. Where I’m sitting, I can’t see the check-in desk, but based on the angle of his body, presumably, he’s chatting with the person behind the desk.
Static lifts several of his dark brown strands. Cut short on the sides, and longer on the top, he’s got one of those hairstyles that say I’m a businessman, but I’m not one of the zero-nonsense types. If you want me to model, I can do that too.
The idea of this man doing something as plebeian as modeling is laughable, and I grin at the thought—though honestly, with that face and those shoulders, he’d probably be damn good at it—and then his gaze falls on me.
The lobby chatter fades to white noise, the scent of dinner from the restaurant sharpens, and the space between us seems to contract.
My skin thrums, and I catalog the reaction: elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, the kind of physiological response I’ve been trained to recognize and control. Except I’m not controlling it.
Lost in his focus, my mind momentarily blanks.
His gaze drops and the oxygen whooshes back into my lungs. Sounds clink around us, louder than before, and the scent of melted butter, fresh thyme, and something sweet baking in the distance reminds me I’m genuinely hungry.
With a swift movement born of habitual habit, his earbuds are gone and deposited in a pocket.
I push up from my chair, the mythology article forgotten. Wasted effort.
He smiles, softening his expression. The crinkling around his eyes highlights the inner warmth of his brown eyes that shift to moss green in the light. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” I double-check the chair I occupied.
Phone? Check. Handbag? Check.
