“What?” he asked.
“You know?” she said with exaggerated patience. “When two people are about to get caught, so they kiss suddenly and—”
“No!” he said a little too sharply. “We’re not doing that.”
“Oh. Well. We could. If we need to. For our cover. I’m here for whatever we need to do, cover-wise.”
She was so matter-of-fact, gazing up at the stretch of skin between his jaw and his throat like she didn’t know that’s exactly where you’d need to cut to make him bleed. So he weaved his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer.
The shell of her ear was cold against his lips as he whispered, “Fun fact: facial recognition software only works if it can see your face.”
“Oh. Right.” She gave a little shiver and tucked her chin low as if bracing against the chilly wind.
And walked right into a streetlight.
“Ow.”
“Here.” He sighed and slipped an arm around her shoulders, suddenly missing the cover of darkness. But at least now they had the cover of people. People on their way to work. Kids playing hooky from school. Tourists stumbling along, not knowing if being in Paris during a blizzard made their luck incredibly good or exceptionally awful.
“Well, now that we have the official bag of going—” she started.
“That’s not what it’s called.”
“—where are we going? Exactly? I mean, what’s Plan C? Or Plan B-point-one? Because . . .”
She was looking up at him with her too-big eyes again, so he glowered down and pushed her head toward his shoulder.
“We keep our heads down and we walk. We don’t make contact with anyone we know and we don’t go anyplace we’ve ever been before. Predictability is death.”
“Well, that’s convenient,” she muttered. “Because I don’t know a soul.”
He felt the weight of her head against his shoulder, the soft brush of her hair blowing across his cheek—and Sawyer, who had been alone in the world for more than a decade, wondered what it would feel like to wake up with no friends and no enemies, no ghosts and no regrets. He wondered if he’d miss them.
“That’s not true.” He couldn’t help glancing down at her. “You know me.”
He was just getting ready to chastise her for looking up at him again. And smiling at him. Again. It was sloppy, sloppy tradecraft and he needed to tell her to stop it, but that was when he saw the blue jackets and swirling lights. A police car was inching down the street and two cops were on the sidewalk, pushing through the crowd. Looking for something. Someone.
And, suddenly, Sawyer wanted to turn. Run.
Up ahead, the officers were examining every face, scanning every tourist. He felt the Glock at the small of his back as he scanned the crowd. He could get her out of there, but not without a whole lot of collateral damage.
“What’s wrong?” She was looking up at him. Again. He could see the cops out of the corner of his eye, coming closer, so suddenly, he stopped thinking and pushed her against a shop window.
The glass was cold but her skin was warm as he pressed his palms against her cheeks, cradling her face, blocking her from view and looking into those green eyes that seemed to be asking a question there was only one way to answer.
“For the cover,” he said.
And then he kissed her.
Except he didn’t. Actually. Technically. Mouths didn’t touch. Lips didn’t part. But his nose brushed against hers and their heads tilted, faces fitting together—his body leaning against hers like a shield and a blanket and a promise, saying I have you; I’ll protect you; I’ll keep you warm. And safe. And more . . . It almost certainly looked like more.
It was the kiss equivalent of the junction box—something fake and deceptive, screaming Keep away! Don’t look too closely! But he could smell the scent of her lip balm （cherry） and the moment was thick with foggy breaths and roaming hands and the privacy that comes from being lost inside another person. She gripped his shoulder and shifted her hips like she preferred him to the cold pane of glass at her back, and so he held her tighter. Longer. And when she gave a quick little intake of breath that faded into a long, deep sigh, a jolt of lightning went through him—like he was finally feeling a spark.
It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but when he pulled back, it took an embarrassingly long time for him to remember—“There were . . . uh . . . cops.”
“That’s okay.” She was tugging on her beret. She was rubbing her lips. But when she spoke again, she sounded smug. “I told you that was how you undercover.”