by Julie James
“It’s a car,” Jessica said.
“It’s a Maserati.” Finn gestured to the photograph like a model from The Price Is Right. “Seriously, Jess. Just picture yourself in the passenger seat of this beauty as my guy whisks you off to his Gold Coast condo for an evening of wine tasting from his collection.”
“Screw wine tasting. My guy snowboards,” Maya scoffed.
“That’ll come in real handy for all those mountains we have in Chicago,” Finn shot back. Then he smiled at Jessica. “You’re looking for athletic prowess? My guy has a 7.4 golf handicap.”
When Maya feigned snoring, Jessica thought it was best to intervene. “As much as this is all very informative, don’t you think the things you two are highlighting about these men are a little . . . shallow?”
The twins both stared at her.
“Well, seeing how we’re trying to set them up with our little sister, we assumed it went without saying that, as a baseline, they’re both really good guys,” Maya said wryly.
Jessica found herself surprisingly touched. “Aw . . . that’s sweet, you two.”
“Of course we’re looking out for you, Jess.” Finn threw his arm around her shoulders and squeezed.
Jessica leaned her head against him, soaking in the rare moment of overt sibling affection.
“Actually, my guy could be a serial killer for all the hell I asked,” Finn said. “But you would look cool in his car.”
He winked at her, and Jessica smiled.
It was good to be home.
• • •
Later, after everyone had left and her dad was outside cleaning the grill, Jessica sat at the kitchen counter and watched her mom make a pitcher of fresh lemonade.
“I heard Maya and Finn giving you the hard sell on their ‘guys,’” her mom said, as she strained the pulp from the lemon juice.
“I think it’s mostly just a competition between them at this point,” Jessica said.
“Well, sure, partially. It is Finn and Maya. Those two were throwing elbows on their way out of the birth canal.” Her mom smiled. “But they mean well. They’re so used to acting that way with each other, they forget that it can come off a little smothering to someone outside their duo.”
“More like a lot smothering,” Jessica said, half grumbling and half affectionate because she knew their meddling came from a good place. She was thirty-two years old, had lived across the country for over half her adult life, and carried a loaded Glock 22 on her hip. But to her brother and sister, she would always be the “baby” of the family. Even if she could take those two clowns out in three moves.
Just saying.
Her mom studied her for a moment. “You know . . . if you told them you aren’t ready to date anyone yet, they’d back off,” she said gently.
Jessica smiled, appreciating her mom’s concern. She’d missed the talks they used to have—often right at this very counter and not infrequently about boys and men—while she’d been in California. Sure, they’d talked on the phone, and she and her family had visited each other while she’d been in Los Angeles, but it wasn’t the same as sitting here, leisurely drinking lemonade on a sunny Saturday afternoon and knowing that she did not have to get on a plane tomorrow.
“I am ready to start dating,” she told her mom. “I’m just not feeling an interest in either of these guys, I guess.”
Kind of odd, that. Successful, good personalities, attractive—obviously, these were positive qualities in a potential date. But for some reason, every time she’d been about to give in and pick one to meet for coffee—if for no other reason than just to get her brother and sister off her case—she’d found herself holding back.
Weird.
“I think it’s because they’re too perfect,” she decided.
Her mom chuckled. “Is there such a thing?”
“Sure. I haven’t dated in five years. I don’t want to dust off my rusty skills with a guy who could be an actual contender.”
“I think it’s like riding a bicycle, sweetie.”
“Tell that to Tara. I floored her when I mentioned that I couldn’t be on Tinder because of my undercover work. Apparently, that’s how all the kids are meeting these days.”
Her mom gave her a look.
“Come on. That wasn’t even that sarcastic,” Jessica protested. “Speaking of Tara . . . she’s the opposite of Finn and Maya. She thinks I need to stay away from serious relationships and have a fun rebound with a Mr. Wrong instead.”
Her mom dumped ice into the pitcher. “I think the question is: What do you think?”
That, indeed, was the question of the day. Of the last six months, really.
In hindsight, Jessica realized that she’d been, perhaps, somewhat naïve about the impact of her career on her personal life. Not that FBI agents couldn’t have happy, long-term relationships—in fact, most of the agents she’d worked with in Los Angeles had been married. But undercover work definitely presented some unique challenges. The investigations were unpredictable, she often had to travel and change plans on short notice, and, even when she was around, she was frequently distracted with work. She threw herself one hundred percent into every assignment—because that, simply, was what the job required. Any agent who phoned in an undercover role was putting her career, the entire investigation, and quite possibly her life and the lives of others at risk.
She didn’t regret the choices she’d made. She was proud of the work she did for the FBI, and, frankly, she thought Alex could’ve been more flexible and understanding of the fact that there were times, unfortunately, when that work had to take priority.
But the fact that he’d given up on their marriage still stung. Getting divorced was hardly a party, even if she and Alex had remained civil during the proceedings. If anything, that had made it worse, not hating him, because he would make a joke or say something nice to ease the awkwardness of the settlement conference, and she’d find herself sitting there with a lump in her throat, wondering how things had gone so wrong between them.
Jessica saw her mom waiting for an answer, so she nodded. “I think having some fun could be a good thing.”
Actually, she thought it could be a great thing. She was suddenly single again and back in Chicago, her hometown. Sure, it probably wouldn’t be long before Ye Olde Biological Clock started chiming, but for now, the idea of getting involved in any sort of serious commitment just seemed exhausting.
Honestly, Mom? After these last few months, I just want to treat myself to meaningless, make-me-forget-my-own-name sex with a man who will go his merry little way afterward.
Okay, she was close with her mom, but not that close.
“So, then. Fun it is,” her mom said. That decided, she poured them each a glass of lemonade and asked how things were going in Jessica’s new field office.
“Pretty good. I’ll be traveling for the next couple weeks for an undercover investigation, but I don’t mind. It’s kind of nice to be busy.” Jessica took another sip, keeping her tone deliberately casual. “I have a new partner for the assignment.”
“What’s he like? Or she?”
“He.” So many things Jessica could’ve said about John. She could’ve talked about the fact that they’d been in the same class at the Academy, and how the two of them couldn’t stand each other back then. Or how, when she’d first been given the assignment, she’d been convinced that Fate was playing a practical joke on her. Or she could’ve said nothing about John at all and dodged the question by speaking vaguely about the investigation instead.
But instead . . .
“He’s cute.”
She nearly thunked her head against the counter. Oh my God . . . what was she, thirteen again?
Her mom cocked her head. “How cute?”
An image came to mind, of John in the hotel room that night, his shirt half unbuttoned and h
is long, lean, broad-shouldered frame stretched out on the bed. Assuming, that is, you don’t plan to make another move on me.
“Too cute,” Jessica grumbled.
“If you’re only looking for fun, sweetie, I don’t think there is such a thing as too cute.” Her mother shrugged off Jessica’s look, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Just saying.”
• • •
While Jessica was stuck in traffic on the highway during her drive back into the city, her cell phone rang. Seeing that it was Leavitt calling, she answered via the Bluetooth connection to her car.
“We’re in,” Leavitt said, sounding pleased. “Morano called me just a few minutes ago. Let me try to patch in John, and then I’ll update you both.”
The phone went silent for several moments, until Leavitt came back to the line. “Jessica, you still here?”
“Yep.”
“John, how about you?”
His low, rich voice sounded through Jessica’s car speakers. “I’m here, too.”
“All right. So, Blair wants fifty thousand in cash to reach out to his friend on the Land Use Committee,” Leavitt said. “Agent Todd and I discussed it, and we think you guys should do the exchange at the restaurant site. It’s quiet, and private enough that Blair won’t feel like he needs his security detail there.”
A key factor, seeing how Blair obviously wouldn’t want to do the cash exchange for his illegal bribe in front of two Jacksonville police officers. “That works well. While we’re there, we can tell Blair about the grand plans Ashley and Dave have for the space,” Jessica said.
“Dave has decided he’s very committed to those sexy red leather banquettes,” John said. “So I hope Ashley is prepared to go to the mat if she’s not yet on board.”
Jessica rolled her eyes, not that John could see it.
Leavitt chuckled. “Todd and I were talking earlier about this fake-competitive dynamic you two added to your undercover roles. It plays really well—almost like you’ve been doing this for a while.”
Imagine that.
17
Since one of the upsides of being an FBI agent was that John didn’t have to wait in the notoriously long security lines at Chicago’s O’Hare airport, he found himself quite at his leisure as he made his way to his gate on Tuesday morning.
He and Jessica were catching a ten fifteen A.M. flight, which would give them plenty of time, even with delays—also notorious at O’Hare airport—to check into the hotel and make their seven P.M. meeting with Blair and Morano. Blair had chosen the time, likely tied up for the rest of the day strategizing with his campaign team on how to maximize all the publicity he’d been getting over the last twenty-four hours.
The mayor of Jacksonville was the city’s hero.
Over the weekend, the governor of Florida—from the opposite political party as Blair—had met with a small group of business and state government leaders and had said, per an audiotape that had been leaked to the press, that there wasn’t anything “iconic” about Jacksonville. He’d joked that the most memorable thing about the city was the smell of roasting beans coming from the Maxwell House Coffee factory, and then went on to note that EverBank Field, home of the Jacksonville Jaguars football team, was surrounded by a jail, abandoned buildings, and fifty acres of “polluted, old shipyard.”
Needless to say, the proud citizens of the country’s thirteenth-largest city were not pleased with this characterization.
Naturally, the governor had tried to smooth over the brouhaha caused by his leaked remarks, claiming that he’d been merely attempting to explain his support for a bill that would give tax credits to businesses that relocated to Florida. Nevertheless, on Monday afternoon, when the mayor of Jacksonville stepped up to the podium as the keynote speaker at a community action awards luncheon, the local press waited with collective bated breath.
Never one to miss an opportunity, Blair gave the media exactly what they’d been hoping for.
He took a moment to address the governor’s comments before beginning his speech. Describing Jacksonville as a “big city with small-town charm,” he spoke proudly of the city’s many bragging points, including its 111,000 acres of parks, the largest urban park system in the United States; the miles of sandy beaches that gave the Jacksonville area its nickname, “the First Coast”; the booming restaurant and arts scenes; and its naval base that employed over thirty thousand active-duty military personnel.
“And if all that isn’t impressive enough,” Blair thundered away to a ballroom filled with people who were already on their feet and clapping, “how about the fact that we’re also the hometown of Lynyrd Skynyrd? Perhaps the good governor needs to come over from Tallahassee and join me for a beer at one of our nine craft breweries—we’ll listen to a little ‘Free Bird’ and ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ and have a talk about what is and is not iconic.”
The crowd had gone wild. As had the rest of the city, after the press reported the mayor’s comments in every local paper and television newscast. According to Leavitt, who’d called John and Jessica yesterday evening to give them the update, it was a virtual lovefest for Blair in Jacksonville right now, and they were anticipating that his already-high approval ratings would go through the roof.
“I’ve been informed by my SAC that, in light of all the favorable publicity Blair is getting, the U.S. Attorney is paying particular attention to the progress of our investigation,” Leavitt had told them during yesterday’s call. “So I hope you guys aren’t the type to buckle under pressure.” He’d chuckled, then paused and lowered his voice. “Seriously, you’re not, are you?”
After serving in combat, and having worked undercover with some truly bad guys as part of the FBI’s organized crime group, John was pretty sure he could handle one charismatic douchebag mayor.
While walking to his gate, he spotted a Starbucks and decided to grab a cup of coffee before boarding. Suitcase in tow, he maneuvered around the crowd of people scurrying in both directions and headed for the end of the line.
Then he spotted her.
Jessica stood near the front of the line, her head bent as she checked something on her phone.
John’s eyes moved over her, taking in the sophisticated look of her cream suit and heels. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or wholly unsurprised by this coincidence.
Two steps ahead of him, once again.
He pulled out his phone and texted her. I’ll take a tall of the dark roast.
She looked up from her phone, glanced around, and spotted him at the back of the line. She made a big show of checking her watch.
Nice of you to show up this morning, she texted back.
Cute.
He got out of line and walked over. “Better make mine a grande. I sense extra-quippiness in you today, and I think I’m going to need it.”
He took the handle of her suitcase, since she would need both hands free to carry their drinks, and wheeled their suitcases over to an empty table. There he noticed a black backpack that sat unattended on one of the chairs. His eyes skimmed the crowd just as a frazzled-looking woman pushing a stroller hurried over, scooped up the backpack, and went on her way.
That resolved, John went back to semicasual people-watching as he waited for Jessica. Once she had their drinks in hand—hers appeared to be some iced mocha concoction—she headed to the sugar bar and waited while the two people ahead of her added sweetener and milk to their beverages.
He watched as she slid the straw of her drink between her lips and nibbled on it absentmindedly.
Christ, not this again.
I have a slight oral fixation.
So help him, if the woman did anything even remotely erotic with that damn straw during their two-hour flight, the iced mocha concoction was going out the emergency exit door.
Even a man who typically didn’t crack under pressure had his limits.
> After she finished at the sugar bar, she walked over and handed him his coffee. Side-by-side, they wheeled their suitcases in the direction of their gate.
“Our friend made CNN this morning,” John said, keeping his voice low and his words intentionally vague. While not front-page news, Blair’s verbal bitch-slapping of Florida’s governor had been picked up in the politics sections of several national media websites.
“I saw that.” Jessica slowed as they passed a bookstore, her eyes skimming over a display table of bestsellers. “I watched the video of his speech. Our friend definitely knows how to work a crowd.” She picked up a paperback with a beach scene on the front cover and flipped it over.
John waited as she put down that book and picked up a second one.
Then he waited some more as she checked out yet another book.
“Forget to pack the e-reader?” he teased. He’d noticed it had been her trusty companion during both of their prior flights together.
“No, I have it. But I buy paperbacks, too.” She shrugged. “Mostly for reading in the bathtub.”
John carefully kept his face impassive.
Don’t even think about picturing her in the bathtub.
He was picturing her in the bathtub.
Trying to distract himself from the image of her all wet and slick and naked, he grabbed the book closest to him on the table and thrust it at her. “What about this one?”
She flipped it over and read the blurb out loud. “‘In hot pursuit of San Francisco’s most deadly serial killer in two decades, FBI Special Agent Kit Mancini . . .’ Yeah, no thanks.” She put the book on the table and moved along to a nearby magazine rack.
John chuckled. He couldn’t read books about the FBI, either. “But I’m sure it’s very suspenseful. And accurate . . . ish.”
She snorted. “I bet Special Agent Kit Mancini never once—” She trailed off, staring at the cover of some magazine on the rack in front of her.
Her expression turned serious as she hastily reached for a copy.