Page 17 of Code Name: Atticus
“It’s okay. Give me a sec.” She raced back into the house, then emerged a couple of minutes later wearing different shoes. “Sorry, I can barely navigate across a room in the ones I had on before.”
My gaze traveled down to the black strappy heels that wrapped around her ankles and calves like silk ribbons, with cutouts that revealed tantalizing glimpses of skin. They were the kind of shoes that made a man think about unwrapping presents very, very slowly. I couldn’t even remember what she was wearing before.
Christ. I needed to get my head back in the game.
The streetsof Sausalito were busy with evening tourists and couples strolling hand in hand past art galleries displaying the kind of prices that made defense contractor budgets look reasonable. I took Brenna’s hand as we headed down Bridgeway, the main waterfront drag.
“Tell me what’s not in our files,” I said as we paused to look in a gallery window. “Real things I should know about my wife.”
“I hate avocados.” She leaned closer to examine a painting of Angel Island. “Everyone in California seems to worship them, but they taste like green nothing to me.”
“Noted. No guacamole in our future.” I watched her study the artwork. “What else?”
“I collect vintage teacups. I have over forty at my apartment in DC.” She looked up at me. “Your turn. What should I know about my husband that’s not in any briefing?”
“I can’t sleep without checking the locks twice. Military habit that civilian life never broke.”
“That’s actually reassuring for this assignment.”
“And I make terrible pancakes but excellent French toast.”
Her smile was genuine. “I’ll remember that.”
Bayside sat right on the water, a sprawling restaurant complex that screamed “established money” without the flashy desperation of newer places. The kind of establishment where the bread probably cost more than most people’s lunch.
The maître d’, a silver-haired man, greeted us.
“Nolan,” I said under my breath. “We have a reservation for, um, eight o’clock.” The use of military time had become so ingrained, starting with my days at the service academy, that it was one thing I’d have to be careful of while on this op.
“Mr. and Mrs. Nolan! Congratulations on your marriage. I’m Francesco, and we’re delighted to help you celebrate.”
Brenna’s eyes flared before she quickly covered her reaction, then slipped her arm through mine. “Thank you, Francesco. We’ve heard wonderful things about this place.”
“You won’t be disappointed. I have a lovely table for you on the deck with views of the bay. The sunset should be spectacular tonight.”
He led us through the main dining room, where every table was full. I cataloged the mix of guests while scanning for potential threats—venture capitalists were easy to spot bytheir calculated casual attire and animated discussions about valuations, while actual engineers kept their voices lower and dressed like they’d raided a thrift store’s clearance rack. Two men at the corner table had the posture and constant environmental scanning that screamed security detail. Probably protecting the politician-type at table twelve.
Our table was strategically ideal—intimate but visible, with clear sight lines to three exits and solid cover from the decorative planters if things went sideways. The view stretched from the San Francisco skyline to the Golden Gate Bridge, painted orange in the evening light.
“Champagne to start?” Francesco suggested.
“Absolutely,” I said, pulling out Brenna’s chair while noting the server station to our left and the emergency exit to our right. “We’re still in the phase where Thursday calls for champagne.”
“Veuve Clicquot, if you have it,” Brenna added. “My husband’s favorite.”
“Excellent choice.”
As Francesco walked away, I settled next to Brenna and took her hand. “Nice touch.”
“I don’t splurge often, but I figured if we’re supposed to be multimillionaires who are also celebrating…”
I chuckled. “Oh, so it was a coincidence.”
Her head cocked.
“It’s what I usually order.”
“I’m sure it impresses all your dates.”
