Bebe matches my actions, stretching her much shorter legs out and crossing them at the ankle. She folds her hands over her belly. “And when she goes back to her regular life, what are you going to do? I noticed you don’t deny loving her.”

  “Of course I don’t deny it,” I scoff. “Well, at least not to you.”

  “You should talk to her,” she says gently. “You need to have this conversation.”

  “We sort of started to last night.” I tell Bebe about my dad’s obnoxiously nosy questions about us dating and the moment we shared, agreeing we needed to talk. “But we didn’t. I sort of chickened out.”

  “I find it ironic you’re willing to get captured by a convicted murderer and risk torture and death, but you can’t have a truthful conversation with Jess about how you feel.”

  Her allusion to cowardice grates on me. “I can totally have that conversation,” I assert. “Last night wasn’t the right time.”

  “When will be the right time?” she queries.

  That is the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

  Luckily, I’m saved from answering as Bebe’s computer chimes. It’s BOB’s reminder that data entry hasn’t been completed and saved.

  Bebe sits up and swivels her chair toward the keyboard and monitor. I roll my chair beside her.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I say to Bebe, garnering her attention. “Let’s put all the data we can into BOB about this mission—and serious data, not unrequited love and nerd shit—and if BOB spits out an alternative plan, we’ll consider it.”

  “You’ll do it, not just consider it,” she interjects, a negotiation of sorts. “And we have to put in that you love her. That goes directly to how you’re failing to assess the risk correctly.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you put some mutually agreeable language in there that I have deep feelings for the person I’m trying to protect.”

  “Fine,” she grumbles, but then an idea seems to strike, her eyes lighting up. “And if BOB spits out an alternative to your harebrained idea, you have to tell Jess the truth of your feelings before you go to bed tonight.”

  I pause in consideration, because those are some serious stakes. I’m not sure I’m ready. In fact, I feel more ready to be taken hostage by Ivan Borovsky than the terrifying prospect of learning there isn’t anything romantic between me and Jess. Because maybe that’s why she wants to talk. To let me down.

  Bebe stares at me resolutely.

  “Fine,” I mutter and then nod toward the monitor. “But if my plan comes out as the recommendation, you aren’t going to fight me on it anymore.”

  Bebe doesn’t immediately agree to this, a muscle ticking at the corner of her clenched jaw. Finally, though, she says, “Fine.”

  I beam at her. “Good. Let’s input.”

  She and I toss out ideas—phrases and pieces of information for BOB to consider. We have to hash out exact wording because unless there’s absolute clarity, BOB can go down a rabbit hole.

  I agree to let Bebe enter, “Jameson agent in love with client,” because, well… it’s true. In fact, it’s been true for many of the cases the other Jameson agents have been involved in. This is not a new concept to the firm or to BOB, for that matter.

  When we’re done, we settle back and wait for the results, which don’t come out in an instant. BOB has to ponder, filter, sort, compare, weed out, and study everything.

  It’s all about algorithms.

  While we wait, I ask Bebe about her and Griff’s upcoming wedding. She’s not having a maid of honor but has asked me to stand by her side in the maid of honor’s place. I’m actually looking forward to it, although I’m not too hip on discussing flowers and wedding cake.

  However, I’d much rather discuss wedding plans than have to face up to Bebe when she asks, “How come you never told me about Jess and Thea?”

  I roll my eyes. “We’ve had this discussion already.”

  “No, not really. Not face-to-face. You told me on the phone about surface stuff. But honestly, my feelings are hurt I didn’t know about this little family unit you had down in Miami. It has to be more than ‘we were just friends and there was nothing to tell.’ This is a woman you care about so much you’re willing to die for her, and I never even knew.”

  I stare at her blankly, not because I don’t understand the question but because I don’t want to answer it.

  I blow out a hard breath, rub at the back of my neck, which is already tight with tension. I assess if there’s any wiggle room that Bebe will let me off the hook with some vague excuse for my oversight.

  I can see by the fierceness of her expression, she’s not going to let this go—she knows there’s more to the story than what I’ve already told her.

  “I was ashamed,” I say, trying to boil down a complicated situation into as few words as possible.

  Bebe blinks. “Of what?”

  “That I had this beautiful, intelligent, kind, loving woman with an amazing child who is like my own daughter, and I’ve not made one single attempt to find out if it could be more. I never had the guts to try, always telling myself it would ruin the friendship. I knew if I told you, you’d push me to do something, and I was too afraid to go there. I know that makes me sound like a complete punk, but in my mind, Jess has just been off-limits. She was Chase’s and not mine, and I’d accepted it. I put her in this sort of bubble that I kept to myself, and I didn’t let her out because to do so meant I could get hurt if she didn’t feel the same. I was ashamed that I couldn’t find the guts to do what was best for me, and I didn’t want you looking at me like a failure.”

  I brace for Bebe to call me an idiot like she did when they dropped me at the airport the day before yesterday, but instead, she looks pensive.

  “That makes some sense,” she finally admits. “But I’m also going to call bullshit. I might have encouraged you to make a move, but I wouldn’t have stayed on you about it. You should’ve trusted me enough to tell me your dilemma. I could’ve been a good sounding board for you.”

  “I know that now,” I assure her. “You’ve already given me the best advice, and that’s not to wait to say the important things that need to be said.”

  She nods, mostly mollified, but I can see she’s still a little peeved. “Promise you’ll have that talk sooner rather than later?”

  “I will,” I say, not hesitating with making such a pact as the phrase sooner rather than later is pretty subjective as far as time frames go.

  BOB issues a three-beat chime, indicating the results are in, and also effectively ending this conversation for now. Bebe and I lean forward in our chairs, looking at the screen.

  BOB often gives at minimum two proposed plans of action, sometimes three. In this instance, there are only two, but it doesn’t matter what the second one is.

  Only the first.

  It takes me a few seconds to read enough to know I’ve won. “Aha!” I exclaim gleefully, pumping my fist. “I knew my plan was the best.”

  Bebe points at the screen. “But look… there’s a second option. It says sheltering in place and letting law enforcement capture him is a good—”

  “No,” I reply, jumping up from my chair and doing a flossing victory dance. “A deal’s a deal. No more arguing about this plan.”

  “Whatever,” she replies, logging out of her computer.

  “Come on,” I say, motioning toward the door. “Let’s get back up to the conference room and start putting a plan together.”

  Bebe pushes out of her chair and precedes me out of the R&D lab. “You go plan. I’m going to get some coffee upstairs. I’ll be down later.”

  “Bebe,” I say, reaching out and gripping her shoulder lightly so she can’t move farther away. I force her to face me. “This is the best plan. Kynan isn’t going to let this go down without every safety contingency in place. I trust him, and so should you.”

  She sighs, her shoulders relaxing. “I know. I know that in my head. It’s my heart telling me something different.”

  I pull Bebe into a hug, and she squeezes me hard. “It will be fine. I promise.”

  “Famous last words,” she says with a heavy sigh.

  I sure hope she’s not right about that.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jessica

  In my thirty-one years, I have never been to Pittsburgh. I loved how Thea gasped—as did I—coming out of the Fort Pitt Tunnel to have a beautiful city magically appear before us. Dozer pointed out certain landmarks and buildings. I was a little nervous as he drove us through a beautiful area of downtown straight into what looked to be an array of abandoned buildings, dark alleys, and individuals hanging out on street corners, looking like they were truly up to no good.

  The Jameson headquarters is ramshackle at best, and I was stunned when he pointed it out. An abandoned warehouse with faded red-brick exterior decorated with graffiti, I couldn’t imagine an elite security company being housed within. But then we were pulling into a secure underground parking garage, and next thing I knew, Dozer used a retinal scanner straight out of a James Bond movie to enter the building. He explained that the first floor was kept as it was upon purchase, in case anyone was curious enough to wipe the outer grime off the windows and see if there’s anything inside worth stealing.

  Not that they could get through those grime-covered windows. They’re backed with sheets of indestructible Plexiglas that can’t be punched through.

  Dozer took us up a freight elevator with an old-fashioned iron gate to the fourth floor where we entered a communal kitchen and living area along with personal apartments where we’ll be staying for the time being.

  We were met by Joslyn McGrath—formerly known as Joslyn Meyers, the world-famous actress and musician. I thought I was prepared for this meeting as I knew she’d married the owner of Jameson, but are you ever really prepared to meet a famous icon like her?

  Joslyn is as warm, down-to-earth, kind, and generous as Dozer assured me she would be. She welcomed us, treated Thea to milk and cookies, and made delicious cappuccinos for my mom and me. Dozer went down to the second floor, which is where a lot of the business is conducted, to start planning how to end this mess with Borovsky, and Joslyn kept us entertained.

  She gave us a tour of the fourth floor, ending with the apartment where we’ll be staying. It’s a small, two bedroom that’s been beautifully furnished and decorated, and she assured me it has fresh, soft sheets on the beds. While it has a small kitchenette, Joslyn invited us to make use of the larger communal kitchen that’s fully stocked. She left, having other things to attend to, and my mom and I got settled in the best way we know how—by unpacking our stuff and putting it away in drawers and closets.

  To while away the time until Dozer’s return, I play some games with my daughter, and we watch TV. When Thea asks to watch Raya and the Last Dragon for the hundredth time, I decide to venture out to the communal kitchen area to try that fancy coffee machine myself.

  “Want another cappuccino?” I ask my mom before slipping out.

  “No way,” she exclaims from the couch where she’s cuddled with Thea. “While it was good, I’m not used to more than my one cup of morning coffee, and I’m already feeling jittery.”

  I grin and back out of the apartment, for an instant feeling like I need to lock the door with the key Joslyn gave me, but then I remember we’re perfectly safe within this building. Dozer told me the entire perimeter has outdoor cameras that are monitored, as well as sensitive alarms, and a well-stocked armory that any of the security agents here could access to protect us with. There is no safer place.

  The communal area is empty, but I imagine it will see some traffic soon. Joslyn told me most of the folks working inside the building will eat lunch up here at one of the many tables scattered around, or they might chill on the plush furniture and watch TV in the large living room.

  But for now, it’s just me, and I need to figure out this extravagant coffee machine.

  I locate a cup, having remembered the exact cupboard Joslyn pulled them from. She explained the machine as she made the first one, and I walk through the various settings and press the button that I hope will give me frothy goodness.

  Nothing comes out but a faint hiss of steam.

  “Hmm,” I mutter to myself, perplexed.

  “You forgot to choose the cup size first,” a deep voice says behind me.

  I whirl around, eyes bugging slightly as I take in the man standing there… shirtless with muscles popping everywhere and a towel around his neck. He’s slick with sweat, and I’m assuming he’s just finished working out in the company gym. His face is extraordinarily handsome with blue eyes and dark hair cropped close to his scalp.

  He points at the machine. “Cup size first, then choose the function.”

  “Oh, okay,” I mumble and turn back to follow his instructions. What do you know—frothy java dribbles into the cup. I glance over my shoulder at him and smile. “Thanks.”

  “Sure thing,” he says, moving to the opposite side of the large island. “You must be Jess.”

  Turning to face him, I nod. “Did they send a company-wide email or something?”

  The man laughs easily. “Actually, they did, which is helpful since I’m new here and don’t know many of the people. Today’s my second day.”

  “Oh, well… welcome, then.” I motion to the machine, a silent request if he wants me to make him a cup, and he shakes his head. I sip the cappuccino and clarify, “Not that I have any official company status to make the welcome, but since we’re staying here and all.”

  “I’m Kellen McCord,” he says and holds out his hands to the side. “I’d offer to shake, but my hands are sweaty.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kellen. You obviously know I’m Jess. Have you met Dozer yet?”

  He shakes his head. “We’re going to do a group dinner tonight, so I imagine I’ll get lots of introductions. But one of the first things I learned upon arriving was how to work that coffee machine, so I’m not without talents here.”

  Moving around the island to the hall that leads to the apartments—where I assume he’s staying—he gives a short wave. “Nice to meet you. See you at dinner tonight.”

  “Yeah,” I reply as I watch him walk away. “See you tonight.”

  “Mind making another cup of java?”

  I spin toward the voice behind me and see a woman standing at the top of the floating staircase that leads up from the lower floors—petite with raven-black hair pulled into a ponytail.

  “You must be Bebe,” I say before she can offer the introduction. Dozer has spoken about her so much over the past year, I feel like I know her personally.

  “And you’re Jess,” she says with a broad smile, moving into the kitchen. To my surprise, she gives me a hug, which I manage one-armed with my coffee in the other hand. When she pulls back, she nods toward the hallway and whispers. “I see you met Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

  Chuckling, I whisper back, “I’ll admit he’s fine as hell. Are they all built that way?”

  “Yes, they are,” she replies firmly, turning to the espresso machine and ordering up a brew. “Even my Griff is, although he’s technically FBI, but he hangs out a lot here.”

  I nod and sip at my cappuccino. “Even your resident tech genius is built like a tank.”

  “Dozer will tell you he works hard for that body,” she quips. “Has to get his workout in every day, or he’s crabby as hell.”

  My mind drifts off because while Kellen McCord was high on the hot scale, he’s got nothing on Dozer, in my opinion. I don’t share that with Bebe, though.

  “How are things going downstairs?” I ask instead, dying for information.

  She shrugs, her expression shuttering. “Nothing conclusive yet. Police don’t have any solid leads on Borovsky.”

  My heart sinks not only at her words but at the tone in her voice. It sounds sad and somewhat hopeless.

  With her back to me, Bebe works the machine to produce what looks like a double-shot espresso. When she has it in hand, she nods to the stools on the other side of the island and moves that way. I follow, and once I’m seated, her first words take me aback. “I’m a little pissed at Dozer.”

  My eyebrows shoot high. “Why?”

  Bebe looks off to the side a moment, then back to me with a shrug. “It’s just… you’re such an important part of Dozer’s life—along with your daughter, of course—and I never knew about you. You’re so special to him, and I didn’t know that, and we’re supposedly best friends.”

  “Or,” I muse with a twisting in my gut, “I’m not special at all since he didn’t tell you about me.”

  Bebe waves a hand and scoffs. “You’re special. Trust me on that.”

  “Did you ask Dozer why he didn’t tell you?” This is more curiosity on my part because now I’m starting to doubt just how much he cares if he didn’t tell this woman, who I know he’s incredibly close to.

  “I did, and as far as excuses go, it wasn’t awful.” Her tone is such that I can tell she won’t reveal any of Dozer’s confidences to me, and while I’d love to know where that man’s head is, I also respect her for being a good friend. Bebe leans forward in her chair. “Can I ask you something personal?”

  The fact she added the word personal tells me to be wary, but Bebe has this genuine matter-of-factness to her that tells me she doesn’t ask personal questions unless she deems them necessary. In other words, she doesn’t seem the type to thrive on frivolous conversation.

  “Sure,” I reply easily.

  “What are your feelings for Dozer?”

  Six little words that add up to a very big question indeed.

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  “Most feelings are,” she replies with a knowing look. “Ask my fiancé Griff. He can give you war stories about how he tried to sift through my shitshow of feelings.”

  I laugh, nodding in understanding. Playing with the edge of my cup, I tell her the truth about Dozer. It’s the same truth I’ve already told him. “I love him.”

  “What kind of love?” she asks. Clearly, she was anticipating my answer as she wants further clarification.