“Gray?”
I stop and turn.
“She’s good people. The best. She’s tough and prickly and she can slit a man’s throat in the blink of an eye, but inside, her heart bleeds like any other woman’s. Don’t add to the heap of misery she’s already faced in her life.”
My hope is to lighten her burden, not add to the pain. But I don’t share that with him. “Understood.”
“You better do more than understand.”
“We worked up close for the better part of two years. You don’t have to tell me about her vulnerability.” It keeps me awake at night. It has for years. Long before she ever set foot into Wildflower.
9
Delilah
PRESENT DAY
When I arrive at the security office, Smith is already here. I was hoping to have a few minutes to myself, but maybe it’s better if I don’t have any more time to think. I spent most of last night tossing and turning, worrying about telling him that I’m leaving.
As I approach Smith’s doorway, he’s on the phone, looking out the window. All I see is the back of his sandy head above the chair.
If I go sit at my desk until he’s finished, I might not find the courage to come back. So I stand outside his office quietly, trying not to eavesdrop. It’s not hard, because my mind is elsewhere, bogged down by my own problems.
What am I doing? Leaving a job that I love—well, maybe not love, but I like it a lot. It gives me security and stability. And I love my teammates—all of them—and Smith. He trusts me implicitly, and leans on me more than anyone else. This feels like the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. Damn you, Gray Wilder.
“Delilah. You need something?”
I blink a few times. I didn’t hear Smith end the call.
“Um.” I nod. It’s only a temporary leave, Delilah. Like a vacation. You’ve earned a few weeks off. “Got a minute?”
He motions for me to come inside. I shut the door behind me, my fingers white-knuckling the cold knob. My mind is racing, but my body is moving in slow motion, weighed down by a sense of dread.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, taking a seat across the desk.
He leans back in the chair, bouncing a pencil eraser on the desk top. I don’t know where to begin. Smith watches me patiently, waiting for me to speak, but my well-rehearsed bullshit is stuck in my throat.
“How’s Kate?” I ask, in a grand show of cowardice.
“She’s tough. The road’s rocky, littered with landmines, but we’ll get through it.”
“It’ll take her some time. It’s amazing what the human spirit can withstand. If she needs anything—if you need anything—” I can’t do this. I can’t leave him now. Not until things are better with Kate. It’s not right. “I should get back to work.” I stand and rub my sweaty palms on my pants, pretending to smooth the wrinkles.
“Sit,” he says gently, but firmly.
I’m not sure what to do, so I sit my backside on the edge of the chair.
“Do you need me to do something?” I ask, hoping he’ll give me an assignment that requires all my attention so I don’t spend the day thinking about what I’m going to tell Gray.
Smith chuckles. “Yeah. I need you to tell me what’s on your mind.”
Of course you do. “Not a lot. You know me.” Sweet Jesus, that sounded stupid.
“I do know you. You’re not an airhead. And you don’t beat around the bush. You plow straight through it. So cut the bullshit and tell me what’s going on.”
I’m fresh out of pep talks for myself. Exhausted from weighing the pros and cons about working with Gray again, albeit in a different capacity. And I’m bone-tired of justifying to myself why I deserve a chance to do work that I love, even if it’s temporary. I have to do this. Not because of some picture that I’m afraid of, but because I will regret it if I don’t. My life is already too full of regret.
When I glance at Smith, my left eye twitches, but I press on. “I need some time off. Like a leave of absence—or something.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, and the silence is so heavy it’s suffocating.
“I’ll be gone a month, maybe a bit longer.”
“You sick?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s nothing like that. I—I’ve been offered an opportunity—that I’d like to accept. It’s not something I’m free to talk about.” There. I said it. But I don’t feel any better.
Smith eyes me suspiciously while I try not to squirm. “The agency call you to come back?”
Even as he asks, I hear the disbelief in his voice. He knows the agency would never call me back. The director himself made it clear they were done with me. You’re no good to us as a covert operative now, Special Agent Porter. I could put you behind a desk, but you won’t be happy. I’m sorry this happened to you.
I blink away the memory. “No. It’s something different.” I take a long breath. “It’s all legal—as legal as this shit can be—but I’m not at liberty to say anything more.” I don’t actually know anything more. Not really.
Smith is quiet.
As well as I know him, I can’t read him right now. This was a mistake. That I do know. “I realize this is bad timing—I had actually changed my mind about asking you because I know this isn’t a great time to be asking for time off.”
“It’s actually not a bad time at all. We’re in a transition period. That’s not what concerns me.” He captures my gaze and holds it steady. “Are you sure about this? Are you certain it’s something you want to get involved with?”
No. I’m not at all sure. I’m not nervous about the work. I would love the opportunity to be part of a covert operation again. Love it. I live for the opportunity. But I am terrified of the man running the op. There’s no denying it. Not to Smith, and not to myself. “Before I answer, can I ask you a question?”
He sits back in the chair. “I’m listening.”
“As you branch out and Sinclair Industries takes on more covert operations—will there ever be an opportunity for me to work in the field?” I know the answer. I just need to hear him say it.
“You work in the field now.”
“Not like that. Undercover. The way I did at Wildflower. The way I was trained.”
He shifts in his chair. “Delilah. You’re damn good at what you do, and you are, hands down, the most important and trusted member of my team.” His brow is drawn tight, and even though he knows I won’t be surprised, it pains him to deliver the news. “But I won’t lie to you. I don’t see how I can put you undercover again. You were outed publicly. Your face—your story—it doesn’t take much digging to put it together. We were confident that no one at Wildflower would look hard at you. That’s why I put you there. It would have to be something like that—something unique—I can’t even think of what it might be.”
I nod, staring at my hands, squeezing the fingers I’ve laced together until they ache. “I don’t know the full extent of the operation. But it seems like it would challenge me and—and that it might be one of those unique opportunities where my past won’t be an issue.”