I love you. But I don’t trust you anymore.
“Listen up, Mr. Spy Guy, that drive might be your freedom, but it’s my sister’s life. So forgive me if I don’t tell you where it is.”
He didn’t even try to hide how much that hurt him. “You know me, Zoe.”
“Do I?” she bit back, stronger now. It was like she was still rolling down that mountain, momentum taking over and picking up speed. “Who are you, Sawyer? Really? Are you the guy who said I was just a waste of time and ammunition or the newlywed who dipped me on the dance floor or the man who held me in his arms and told me that I was beautiful? Or are you the thug who works for Kozlov? Huh? Who are you? Because I watched you turn into that guy right before my eyes, and I realized I . . . I love you.” Her voice trembled but her eyes were like steel. “But I don’t know the real you at all.”
There were birds in the trees and children shouting in the distance, but the world was suddenly quiet and still and achingly empty.
“No, sweetheart. You’re the only one who does.”
Zoe closed her eyes and Sawyer couldn’t stop himself from inching closer—from reaching for her—from needing her skin against his.
“I know Alex didn’t trust me for a while there; and I get why you’re hesitant to trust me now. But I’m not the villain here, lady. I’m just a guy who saw twelve pissed-off Russians and had to play it by ear.” He blew out a frosty breath. “I get that it probably looks like I didn’t choose you. But I watched you almost die a dozen times, Zoe. And I wasn’t gonna do it again. I can’t. I won’t. So I’m going to keep you safe, sweetheart. And then I’m going to earn your trust.”
She was just right there. He had to make her see . . . “There’s no place I won’t go and there’s nothing I won’t do to prove myself to you.”
It was like she couldn’t hold his gaze. Like it was too hot. She had to put it down. And she seemed almost nervous to admit, “I was going to go to the embassy . . .”
“Good! Okay. Let’s do—”
“But then I realized that Alex didn’t trust the CIA. And she didn’t trust you. But you know who she did trust?” She gave a laugh that was part hiccup and part giggle and wholly, completely lovable. “Me. She trusted me. So I’m going to trust myself.” He watched her straighten her spine and summon her courage, and he loved her so much it hurt. “So I need you to listen very, very carefully and do exactly what I say.”
Her
He said he loved her.
She said it back.
Zoe honestly didn’t know if anyone had ever said those words to her before. She definitely didn’t know if she’d ever hear them again. But as she sat in the back seat of a taxi fifteen minutes later, her fingers were on her lips, like the words might still be there—like she could touch them. And she was amazed to realize she was smiling.
She tried to stop. She really did. Because it wasn’t the I love you she would have written. But, somehow, that made it better. Somehow, in spite of everything, it was really, really good and that made it really, really scary and she started freaking out for whole new reasons.
Because from the moment she woke up on that snowy street in Paris, she’d known Sawyer could hurt her. But that was the first time she realized he could break her—not her heart. Her. He could break her into a million pieces and then she wouldn’t just lose her sister. She’d lose everything. And she realized that to save Alex . . . to get Kozlov . . . to get off this awful ride . . . She’d do anything.
The sun was bright through the window as the taxi turned. They were almost back to the city and her mediocre hotel room and her plans. The day was getting away.
So she pulled out a fresh burner phone and dialed the number she hadn’t thought she’d ever use. When she heard a deep （and somewhat confused） voice, say, “Hello?” Zoe couldn’t help herself. She became spontaneously southern.
“Hi there! I get that y’all probably have a million questions—which I am more than happy to answer—but . . .” She took a deep breath. “This is Mrs. Michaelson. And I need something of a favor.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Him
“How sick is she?”
Sawyer didn’t realize how much the question had been weighing on him until he’d said the words aloud. “Zoe,” he clarified, as if he could have been asking about anyone else. “Her heart. Is it . . .” Broken? “How sick is she?”