Spiker’s expression became more strained. “All right.” He tapped his index finger on the table. “Say there’s another player.”
“Who?”
“Let’s call them Robin Hood.”
Nan’s eyebrow arched. “What is Robin Hood’s part in this hypothetical story?”
“Robin Hood would like to help the little guy like me out. He’s looking for the watch.”
“Robin Hood is the police?”
“More like a vigilante,” Spiker explained.
Nan offered Vanka a glance full of distaste. “In my experience, vigilante is one of those words tossed around when someone wants attention.”
“Watchdog of the watchless, whatever you want to call the guy. He’s out to take the watch back and return it to me.”
“What does Robin Hood the Watchdog have to do with you?” Nan asked.
He rested his elbows on the table, and looked to Vanka for any reason to stop. She hadn’t predicted Spiker delving into such specific, hypothetical details, but couldn’t tell him to pull back. Nan already understood what GSI was asking of them. Spiker read Vanka’s silence as a go-ahead. He put his trust in Nan. “We’re supposed to stop the guy.”
Nan rested her chin on her laced fingers and contemplated what he’d said, finally summarizing, “You’re to find this Robin Hood and stop the problems he’s created?”
“Yes,” Vanka said.
Nan studied Vanka. The scrutiny reminded her of a time she’d been caught sneaking out. Nan had been more upset that Vanka hadn’t mentioned she wanted to meet up with a friend than about the actual act of sneaking out. They were to have no secrets. Omissions, as Spiker had recently pointed out, were lies.
“Okay,” Nan said. “But aren’t you”—she rolled her wrist between them—“professional guy-finders?”
“Depends on who you ask.” Spiker’s lips quirked. “My problem is the clientele. Old enemies might become new friends.”
Nan lifted her hands. “So, quit.”
“Yes!” Spiker thumped a fist on the table.
“Sorry?” Vanka choked. “Quit?”
“Neither of you needs the money,” Nan continued.
“Exactly,” Spiker agreed.
What the bloody hell? “Nan!”
“Is this a joint decision?” Nan asked the table.
What a question. Vanka didn’t make a peep.
Spiker looked at her in a way that sent her stomach into a topsy-turvy spiral, and then lifted his chin, resolute. “I think she should leave.”
The corners of Nan’s eye tightened. “Vanka should leave with you?”
The underlying connotation of Spiker’s look and Nan’s interrogation lit Vanka’s cheeks on fire. What he had revealed in his heart-to-heart with Nan went deeper than anything he and Vanka had admitted to each other.
Spiker’s gaze landed on Vanka and stayed. “Yes. With me.”
This was too much. She felt vulnerable and on display. Confusion flooded her with white-hot jitters that spiraled into agitation. “Quitting—how or when or why—is not the problem.” Vanka grabbed the edge of the table. “The assignment is.”
Spiker tapped his finger on the table.
The summer air stilled. Too much had been shared. Vanka needed to speak with both Spiker and Nan privately, but didn’t want to. She had too much to risk. Change was absolutely terrifying.
Nan clasped her hands and broke the awkward silence. “I think we could all use an ice cream cone.” She stood and shifted her bag onto her shoulder. “My treat.”
Vanka dropped her head. “Coming up here was a bad idea.”
Spiker stood and, like a gentleman, extended his hand to her. “Come on, princess. Shake it off. We’ll talk about this later.”
Vanka’s cheeks flooded with warmth again. Nan had delved deeper into Vanka’s personal life than she herself had. “I just want to stay here and die, if that’s okay with you.”
“Nope. Not today.” Spiker grabbed her hand and yanked Vanka to her feet, anchoring her to his side like a rock. “You’re coming with me.”
And with that order, her stomach flipped. She let him drag her off for something cold and sweet.
Ice cream led to dinner, which led to dessert at Nan’s insistence. Spiker wasn’t one to say no to more food if it meant the night would continue.
Vanka had been quiet, but as Nan continued her pushy style of questioning with the waitstaff—prying into everything from ice cream ingredients to helping their waiter decide on a college major—Vanka loosened up.
Spiker’s only issue with the last few hours was that Vanka had dropped his hand when they left the park, and hadn’t touched him since. Then again, maybe he needed to consider that annoyance a revelation. The urge to publicly claim her changed everything.
Their bond as teammates and partners wasn’t enough. The nighttime thoughts that kept him from sleep seemed too basic. He needed more of Vanka than he knew how to describe. Touching her seemed like the only way he could begin to explain.
“I’m exhausted,” Nan announced. “And you two need to find a room—to talk.”
Vanka stared at the stars and muttered something about murder under her breath.
Nan waved the threats aside. “Just ignore me. I have my eye out for a fifth husband. What kind of advice can I give?”
Spiker wasn’t sure how much of what Nan said was one hundred percent, grade-A bullshit or the god’s honest truth. Either way, he enjoyed it. He said good night to Nan and stepped away to allow Vanka and Nan a quiet moment.
He’d expected there to be death threats and hugs. Instead, they ducked their heads down for a serious conversation, and after a minute he pulled out his phone and scrolled, keeping them in the corner of his eye. Finally, they hugged, Vanka waved, and Nan hailed a cab like a true New Yorker.
Vanka threaded through passersby and drew close to his side. Spiker put his phone away, and they lingered, their first moment of privacy since they’d walked into the library. He had several things to say, but how he should say them hadn’t solidified.
“We have time to walk,” Vanka offered. “It’ll put us home around eleven.”
She mentioned home as though her place was where Spiker was supposed to be. Contentment settled over him, and as they headed toward Penn Station, he ignored that her house wasn’t his home. He had a house. One that he loved—ongoing renovations or not. But had he ever called it his home? He’d called the place his lake house, or rarely, his home base—a place to live during a stay of operations. A home base was very different from a home.
They paused at a crosswalk. Spiker took her hand and interlaced their fingers. Vanka didn’t let go. He squeezed. She didn’t elbow him in the ribs or threaten to end his life, though she kept her chin up and her eyes straight ahead as though marching for the queen’s inspection.
He slowed, but she didn’t, tugging on his arm to keep him at her soldier’s pace. “Vanka.”
“Yes,” she said, a nothing-to-see-here octave higher.
They could’ve walked through Times Square, with every electronic billboard telegraphing her name, and she wouldn’t have slowed down. Still, she hadn’t let go of his hand. That was okay, he’d take what she offered and wait until they were alone. Then what? He had no clue.