“Zoe, I want you to listen to me very, very, carefully.” He slowly stood then turned up the collar of her coat and handed her the backpack.
“No.” She was already going pale and shaking her head because Zoe was no fool.
“I’m going to walk back to the street and take care of some things, and I need you to get on the other side of the car and wait three minutes—one hundred and eighty seconds. Count them. Then get up and walk the other direction. Don’t run.”
“No!”
“Walk. And don’t look back.”
“Sawyer—” There were tears in her eyes and her voice cracked. Her voice cracked and that broke him.
“I put a piece of paper in your pocket. There’s a phone number on it—a service I use. I want you to go back to Emiline’s and tell her your ex is after us. Hide. If I don’t come for you in forty-five minutes, get out of town. Tomorrow morning, call that number. If there’s not a message from me, then you start running, sweetheart. You run and you don’t look back.”
“Sawyer.” She grabbed his hand as if she could keep him there, like she wasn’t just afraid to let him go—she was afraid to lose him. Like she needed him, wanted him, cared for him. Not Sawyer the spy but Sawyer the man. And in that moment, Zoe made him wish he could have more—be more. She made him believe in happy endings. She made him wish there could be one for him.
“You promised.” He heard the swooping, pulsing sounds of a helicopter flying overhead and knew the agencies were coming—the agencies were there. They were all out of time. In so many ways.
“You’re gonna do great, sweetheart. Go. I’ll be fine.” He forced a smile and turned toward the street—he started to walk away. He should have walked away. But he stopped. And said, “Fuck it.”
“Langu—” she started, but he was already pulling her into his arms and pressing her up against the snowy car. Lips touching, tongues seeking, skin caught between fire and ice.
When he pulled back, her eyes were dazed and her lips were parted and he had no idea if she even heard him when he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “I’ll find you.”
And then he went to buy her some time because it was all he had left to give.
Her
The asshole was going to make her a widow before she’d ever been married, and that alone made her want to kill him.
Tears she didn’t remember crying streaked down Zoe’s face as she watched Sawyer walk toward the end of the alley, drawing the guns from the waistband of his jeans.
Darn, the man could wear a pair of jeans.
But Zoe had to shake the thought out of her head; she had to think! When he glanced over his shoulder and gave her an irritated glance, she remembered.
“Oh. Right!” Then she scampered to the other side of the SUV and hunkered down and started counting.
One. Two.
The idiot was going to get himself killed.
Three. Four.
What kind of man can give a girl a kiss like that and then just walk away?
Five. Six.
She hated him. But most of all she hated this, kneeling, hiding, being sheltered and protected.
Seven.
She hated it so freaking much.
Eight. Nine.
A part of her had to wonder if that was the first time she’d sat alone, crying, hoping that a guy would call.
Ten.
She really, really hoped it would be the last.
Eleventwelvethirteenfourteen.
She had to do something! Help. Distract. Covert. She needed to covert her butt off, but she could hear the helicopters circling overhead so she pressed closer to the SUV, hiding. Waiting.
When a big chunk of snow fell off the vehicle’s window, Zoe risked a peek through the frosty glass, hoping to get a glimpse of Sawyer, but what she saw instead was an unlocked door. Then Zoe stopped thinking. She just threw open the door and crawled inside.
The keys had to be there somewhere! They had to, she thought, climbing into the driver’s seat, searching.
“Come on come on come on.”
He would be almost to the street by that point, to the Range Rovers and the goons and the guns. So many guns. She opened the backpack and started digging. There had to be something she could use to . . . what?
That’s when she saw the knife. And looked at the steering wheel. And something in her mind went click.
It wasn’t a flashback. And it definitely wasn’t a memory. But for one split second it happened—the feeling of someone else being in control of her body, of autopilot kicking on and conscious thought going dormant as her hands flew, popping open the dashboard and grabbing for the wires and the knife.