So, a work meeting.
Half in, half out of her window, I stand motionless.
If I climb out now, I could crouch on the little section of roof right below the bedroom window, wait for her to finish her meeting and leave the living room, then drop down to the grass below. Or— My phone vibrates with a text.
Very few people have my number.
Still standing with my leg out the window, I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at the message from K. It’s a city, a location, and a time.
I know the place, and if I’m going to be there on time, I need to get on the road in the next thirty minutes.
The phone vibrates again in my hand. This time K is calling.
She never calls.
I squeeze my fingers around the phone, indecision warring for a moment before I accept the call.
I put it against the ear closest to the window, leaving the other one to listen for any movement from downstairs.
“Here,” I whisper.
There’s a pause. “Bad time?” Karmine’s voice sounds amused.
“Not the best,” I admit.
She snorts. “Fine. I’ll talk to you after.”
Rather than answer, I hang up and slide the phone back into my pocket.
We both typically work in life-and-death situations, so I appreciate the brief call. But after means she’ll meet me at the location after I’m done. And that means I don’t have time to wait for Cassandra’s work call to wrap up.
Fuck me, I guess.
I can hear the muffled, tinny noise of many voices talking through a speaker and assume the meeting downstairs is just starting.
That’s my signal.
I shift and slide my body out the window.
It’s not until I’m lowering the window from the outside that I realize I should’ve checked and made sure I didn’t leave any hairs on Cassandra’s pillow. My strands are not the bright gold they were when I was a child, but the dark blond color is still nothing close to her wavy black strands.
Losing your fucking edge, Hans. Maybe it is time to retire from assassin work.
Standing to my full height, I reach up and grip the edge of the roof.
Just not tonight.
I heave myself upward and use careful steps to crest the center point of the roof before starting my decline, aiming toward the back of the house.
I know the sightlines Cassandra has from her work desk, so I’m able to avoid her view by aiming for the corner above her bathroom, dropping lightly onto the roof of the garage, then lowering myself to the yard behind. Staying to the side of the yard, I walk the thirty feet across the lawn and enter the woods behind Cassandra’s house.
Then I start to jog.
I stay out of view as I work my way through the woods and around the end of the cul-de-sac until I finally emerge from the same woods behind my own house.
Now, it’s time to work.
CHAPTER 6
Cassie
As the VP of sales gets the meeting started, I put myself on mute and casually roll my chair to the side a few inches so I can reach off camera without being noticed. Then, watching my own little video square—to make sure my actions stay off-screen—I pour my to-go iced coffee out of the disposable cup it came in and into my giant thermos cup. I don’t need my coworkers knowing I blew off half the afternoon shopping and buying lattes.
When the transfer is complete, I slowly lean back and bring the pink straw to my lips. And I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes at how good it is.
The boss blathers on, something about the training we’ll be doing soon, but I tune him out. As the head of HR for a global manufacturer, I usually have plenty to do to keep my days busy. But I finished all the paperwork for our newest hire this morning and wanted to treat myself a bit. The nearest Target is fifteen minutes away, and next to my favorite store is BeanBag Coffee, my favorite coffee shop. Stopping there might be the reason I was almost late to this meeting but—I take another sip—totally worth it. And lord knows I need all the caffeine to make it through what is proving to be a tremendously boring meeting.
I unmute myself to agree with what everyone is saying, then mute my microphone again and let my mind wander.
And, of course, my mind wanders straight to the empty glass container sitting on the corner of my little worktable.
I’m tempted to reach out, to run my fingertip along the edge, trace the corner, but I don’t. I keep my hands around my cup.
But I do inhale.
I swear his masculine pine scent clings to the glass.
I noticed the way he smelled the one time I was close enough to detect it. I don’t know if it’s soap or deodorant or a faint cologne, but the memory of it haunts me.