“You’ve been holding out on me.” Maverick’s voice over the phone rings with an air of omniscience.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I bluff, hoping to God she doesn’t know.
“Really, Austin? Your next-door neighbor and Dimitri Antonov? You’re not seriously going to pretend not to know.”
I don’t correct her on the location, because half the shit Mav knows is because people open their big fat mouths and tell her.
Twenty-twenty hindsight is always the best. And Mav’s right. I should have told her. Omitting it from my report was a mistake. I’m protecting the little baker girl, and I have no idea why.
But I keep looking out for her, because the parts of my mind, body, and soul that tell me to eat, sleep, and breathe tell me to do this too.
Protect her.
“I might have caught a passing glance at her, but by the looks of them together, I doubt it will last.”
“Yeah. I’m not buying it. You’ve got the best advantage of any operative around, and that makes you our lead guy. Get close and find out more.”
“And if I refuse?”
It’s an empty threat, and not because I wouldn’t ditch this operation in a heartbeat. But because Mav is right. Again.
With Evie, I have more access to information than field agents would gather in a decade, and she’s right across the street. But still, I’m an ass, and I need to be wooed.
Maverick’s long breath leads to a question. “What do you want?”
“To call the shots. I control the play. Nonnegotiable.”
“And what if I refuse, Austin? You’re not the only one who can get close. I could snap my fingers, and any one of the Five will be at her door, introducing herself with cookies and vodka in hand, chatting about reality TV and chumming it up with whatever else the lady folk of suburbia do to become besties.”
I wait Maverick out in silence, not budging an inch. If she knows she’s rattling my cage, it’s over. She’ll own that piece of my soul for years to come.
“Fine,” she finally says with a coolness that would chill a polar bear. “She’s yours. You’ll have backup—”
“Not unless I ask.”
“Agreed,” she says with a noticeable reluctance. “Do you need her number?”
“No,” I say, flipping through my messages. “I’ve got a way in.”
Mav ends the call, and I smooth the scruff along my jaw, staring at Evie’s text.
Dimitri never texted me, but Evie did. As I glance at it, a cautious smile lifts a corner of my mouth.
E Banks: Sounds like a residential real estate gig might be as appealing as herpes and hemorrhoids . . . at the same time. I hope you weren’t insulted. If a bourbon peach pie sounds more appealing, I’ve got you covered.
Which, of course, she ends with the little winky guy emoji, but in good taste forgoes the peach. Regretfully, I check out the date stamp, noting it was yesterday when she was in that douchebag’s arms.
After a few thoughts, I consider I need to take it slow. Be overly careful. Not look too eager to get to know her. And avoid any early attempts to waltz into her life or invite myself to her home.
Deciding to play the long game, I click her number.
“Evie? It’s Austin. My schedule has freed up. Maybe we can meet up sometime.”
“How about now?” she shrieks, her request boiling over to a full-fledged demand. “Right now! Hurry!” she screams again, then again, but her voice now sounds farther from the phone.