I pick at a seam on the leather cushion, both excited and nervous.
Trace scans my face and lingers on a lock of hair that partially obstructs my view. He lifts a hand to brush it back, but I beat him to it, tucking it behind my ear. If he touches me, I’m doomed.
This would be so much easier if I didn’t remember the rush of pleasure those hands have given me. Every second I spent with him is a thread sewed through my heart, holding it together. Seeing him, being near him, stretches those seams, swelling, expanding, aching. If I crumble and beg for reconciliation, I’ll only hurt him again. Both of them.
I shouldn’t be here.
Leaving them was agonizing. I don’t know how I’ll walk away again.
“All right.” Cole lifts his head and re-stacks the papers. “Take another look.”
When he leans back, I parse through the documents. Every paper has the same two words circled in blue ink.
The activity.
Page after page, I reread the statements around every circle he made, struggling to make sense of them.
…financing the activity installation
…appointing a distinguished panel to examine the activity during this period
…testimony of members of the activity
…articulate the activity’s strategy to Congress
…requested information from the activity and other federal departments
The activity…the activity…the activity… Those are the only two words he marked.
“I don’t understand.” I reach the bottom of the stack and return to the first page. “What’s the activity?”
“Me.” Cole tilts his head toward Trace. “Him.”
“That’s what you were called?” A sense of relief settles over me. I can finally put a label on the entity that caused me years of pain.
“Trace and I were part of a special unit that goes by many names. OGA, ISA, Optimized Talent, Gray Fox… Every time there’s a classified spill, they change the designator. But in congressional documents, we’re simply referred to as the activity.”
“Will you get in trouble for telling me this?”
Cole shares a look with Trace, and something unspoken passes between them.
“We’re making a judgment call.” Trace bends forward and meets my eyes. “You’re aware of the breach that resulted in stolen information.”
“You mean the revenge mission against Cole?”
“Yes. The photos were delivered to you because someone hacked into Cole’s records and gleaned your contact information.”
“Is that person—?”
“The perpetrator is imprisoned. We’ll come back to that.” Cole lifts the folder from my lap and sets it on the coffee table. “As you know, I can’t share details about my job, but the problem is you’ve seen things.”
“The pictures of the dead body.” In my house. I shiver.
“That’s right.” Cole watches me carefully, his face inches from mine. “Trace and I decided it’s better if you have the facts rather than no information at all, or worse, the wrong assumptions.” He pulls in a breath. “The world we were part of isn’t a place I want you anywhere near, and that’s not going to change. You need to understand that your safety has always been my number one concern.”
“And mine.” Trace stares coldly at Cole.
Cole sets his jaw. “I’m going to share some details of my last mission. I can’t tell you much about the operation itself, but I’ll shed some light on the events that impacted you.”
“Like your fake death?” My chest clenches.
“Yeah.” He drags a hand through his hair and settles back on the couch. “Trace already told you I’m an operative.”
“Ex-operative.” I tug at the hem of my sweater. “I thought you were retired.”
“Let me ask you something.” Cole rubs his chin, studying me. “If you closed your dance company and pursued a new career, would you be an ex-dancer?”
“No.” I jerk back my head. “I’ll always be a dancer. It’s who I am.”
“Same principle applies here. Retirement doesn’t change my DNA or mental make-up.”
Beneath the dimples and soft brown eyes lives the muscle and heart of a soldier. A man who thrives on adrenaline and mystery.
And he gave it up for me.
Then I left him.
My heart thumps heavily, making a slow crawl to my stomach. “You miss it.”
“Not as much as I miss you.”
I close my eyes and press a hand to my mouth, covering the quiver in my chin.
“What about you, Trace?” I whisper, peering at the quiet man beside me. “Do you miss it?”