“She returns,” Rory interrupts, laughing already, “with her just-purchased, hours-old cellphone and says something like, ‘oh-em-gee Dad, it’s the twenty-first century already.’”
“Dead serious,” Morgan cries, near tears, “he takes her new phone and fake-slams it against the wall.”
Rory pantomimes hitting an imaginary wall with one hand and slaps it with the other.
“‘Got it,’ he says, and cool as a cucumber, explains while wiping off the screen, ‘big, hairy spider.’”
Everyone laughed. Andy snorted. Morgan held onto the edge of the table as though it would keep her from falling off her chair. Spiker didn’t know the teen and barely knew her parents, but he laughed like the others and appreciated the good-hearted trolling of their kid.
Vanka caught his eye. Their scoreboard was a distant thought. She’d forgiven him for roping her into dinner with her neighbors after too long of a day. They didn’t have to work the room or analyze intel, and in spite of their training, which had taught them to always be on guard, they had both relaxed.
“I get it,” he said.
She leaned her elbows on the table and angled closer. “Sorry?”
“I get why this is your lake house.” Though even as he said the words, Spiker didn’t believe their places were on equal footing.
Her shoulders and chest lifted with a deep breath, then she barely shook her head. “Doubtful.”
He liked that she knew that too, though he wouldn’t admit it. “Agree to disagree.”
Vanka’s gaze lingered, and she smiled, though it was more subdued and thoughtful than the night deserved. “Isn’t that the story of our lives.”
Several hours later, Vanka and Spiker returned to her house. The porch light gave off a dull yellow light and created vast shadows across his profile. They’d had fun, but something unsaid lingered. Spiker had an opinion, and she knew he was about to let it fly. Vanka opened the storm door and let it rest against her back. “Let’s hear it.”
He leaned against the porch railing and waited for her to unlock the front door. “What?”
She slid the key into the deadbolt. “Whatever you’re dying to say.”
“Oh, that.” A mischievous grin curled. “I didn't realize you had another man in your life.”
Vanka replayed what Spiker had said, then let the door open wide. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.” He ushered her inside and twisted the door lock behind them. “Andy. Mister here’s-your-special-cup."
“My special cup?” Her accent grew as though it had the magical ability to solidify her innocent act. She reached for the hallway light, but Spiker blocked the switches and didn’t budge. The bulb from over the kitchen sink faintly lit their spot.
“Yeah.” He crossed his arms. “Special cup, chilled and awaiting your special drink. Very . . . special.”
She balked. “I don’t have another man.” Then she flushed. Another man implied she had a first man, and that that man was Spiker.
He stepped closer and looked taller than normal. “You’ve never had a fling with your neighbor?”
Of course she hadn’t. “You’re unbelievable.” That didn’t stop her pulse from leaping in her throat. Spiker seemed to surround her. His presence made her warm. Or maybe that was the wine. Either way, her head felt heavy. She climbed the first two stairs so they were eye to eye. “As if that’s any of your bloody business.”
Spiker leaned against the wall. “So you have? Interesting.”
“You’re jealous. Twice in one night.” Her head inclined. “That’s interesting.”
“Jealous? Nah. Curious? Absolutely.”
She scoffed. “You need a hobby.”
Spiker’s head tipped back with laughter.
“What?” she asked.
“I thought you didn’t like my hobbies.”
“Beer and jet skiing are more like—” She gestured toward the dark hallway. “Kids play.”
Spiker smirked. “I don’t know what kind of kids hang out in your neighborhood—”
“You know what I mean.”
“Not everyone can have their very own English garden and organize their shoes by color—”
He hadn’t even seen her shoe racks! “Fine.” Vanka tossed up her hands in quick surrender. “You know me so well.”
“Exactly.” Except, he didn’t sound as if he did. “Where am I sleeping?”
“Grab your bag and come on.” She padded up the stairs and kept the lights off. “Don’t expect a mint on your pillow.”
“Man, this gig’s not getting any easier.” His steps followed heavily behind her.
Vanka wondered what he’d packed in his holiday-bound duffel bag. “Take it up with management.”
They summited the hardwood stairs to the second-floor landing, which opened to a window. Her reading nook overlooked the backyard. She could read and watch her garden grow.
“Ha.” He shifted the bag to his other shoulder. “You’ve seen my success rate with management today.”
“Was that this morning?” Disbelief, exhaustion, and a night’s worth of homemade wine spritzers softened her voice. She gestured to two doors left slightly ajar. “Take your pick. The bigger room has the bigger bed and faces the front yard.”
“And brings the bright morning sun,” he noted.
She nodded but suggested, “Take the morning sun. You’ll like the bed better.”
Spiker squeezed by her and stuck his head in the room. “This is exactly like I would’ve imagined.”
“That must be a relief,” she joked.
“Bright, white perfection that could pass for a swanky hotel room.” He dropped his bag inside the door.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Vanka pointed out the bathroom and linen closet then leaned against the doorjamb to the master bedroom. Spiker had asked his big question. Hers still remained. “Why didn’t you tell me about the sabbatical?”
“Why did I think you lived in New York City?” he countered.
“An assumption is different than an omission.”
“But not by much.” She appreciated that they hadn’t switched any lights on yet. The moon shone through the open blinds of the reading nook window. Shadows striped over them and the glow bleached his dark hair with a silver kiss, as though everything she could see had been distilled into a black-and-white photograph.
Exhaustion pinned Vanka in place. Still, she didn’t want to say goodnight. Today held a restlessness that she couldn’t ignore. It was heavier than what bothered her at work. For an illogical moment, she worried that when they moved, the unnamed agitation would worsen. Then again, when irrational thoughts clouded her brain, it was time to call it quits.
Spiker read her mind and touched her cheek. “Good night, princess.”
CHAPTER TEN
Vanka woke up hours before Spiker would pull a pillow over his head to block the morning sun. She wanted to dig into the intelligence reports without interruption. There had to be more than what she’d initially surmised. Even if Buck was in over his head in an underworld of evil, he wouldn’t take on this project with as little information as it appeared they had.