“No.” He shook his head in big exaggerated sweeps. “There is no we.”
“Yes, there is. You just said so. I’m going with you.”
“No!”
“Give me one good reason why. You just told me I’m supposed to stay with you. For my own protection.” I was determined to hold my ground. It was my life on the line too.
“Gena’s taking you shopping Friday night. Lots of store cameras and receipts. Lots of witnesses. A bulletproof alibi in case anything happens. You’ll be fine.”
My legs shot out in front of me. “No way! I’m not bonding with your girlfriend at the food court while you screw up your shot with Lonny because I’m not there!”
“She’s not my girlfriend, for chrissake!” He massaged his eyelids. “Look, I can’t involve you in this, Leigh. If the details of the investigation leak, I could get in a lot of trouble.”
“Fine. If you won’t take me with you, I’m not cooperating anymore.”
“Ha!” He chuckled bitterly. “When have you ever been cooperative?”
I leveled a finger at him. “You need me.”
“I need you?”
“You need me.”
His eyes dropped to my lips until that too close feeling sucked all the oxygen out from between us. A wicked thought seemed to root behind them. “Chemistry notwithstanding, in what ways do you think I need you?”
I ignored the hot rush of blood to my cheeks. “You said it yourself. Everyone thinks we’re a couple, and Lonny’s going to expect you to bring your ‘girlfriend’ to the party, which is convenient since Nicholson expects you to tail me anyway. That was one of his people on the phone, wasn’t it?” A muscle ticked in Reece’s jaw. He didn’t answer.
“Face it,” I said. “You’re in too deep with me. And if you don’t take me with you, then I’ll . . .”
Reece raised an eyebrow, his crooked smile challenging me to finish that sentence. I couldn’t turn him in for tampering with evidence because that evidence was enough to get me arrested. And I couldn’t blow his cover without getting him killed. I settled for the next best thing. “. . . I’ll ditch Gena and go on my own.” I raised my chin, looking him straight in the eye.
His face fell. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know.”
“That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”
He gazed thoughtfully over the water, shaking his head. “I’ll take it, but there’s one catch . . . and one condition.”
“What’s the catch?”
“If you’re in this as my cover, then you agree to play the part my way. We do it together. No more running off on your own.”
I cringed, wondering what he might make me wear to school on Monday. “Fine,” I muttered. “What’s the condition?”
“You do anything to blow my cover, my paycheck, or my freedom, and the deal’s off.” His tone was stern, nonnegotiable.
“Fine. I accept.”
He clenched his teeth and glared at the river. “Then it’s a date.”
A plane took off, roaring over our heads. So close I could almost make out the individual faces of the passengers in the cabin windows, their foreheads plastered to the glass. Were things really any clearer from thirty thousand feet?
Hot air rustled the grass and rippled the water’s surface, whipping my hair back from my face.
“You never answered my question,” he said softly when the air finally stilled.
“What question?”
“How did you figure out that the ads were connected to all this?”
I settled for more half-truths, even if they hurt coming out. “The first—Emily’s—was just random. Dumb luck, I guess. The second—about the play—seemed too obvious to ignore.”
“What were you doing reading the ads in the first place?”
I searched him for signs of condescension, expecting the thick and dripping sarcasm Nicholson reacted with when he asked me the same question.
“I mean . . . are you looking for someone?” His expression was curious.
I turned away, feeling foolish for the childish hope that made me steal money for newspapers on Fridays. The one that brought this whole mess crashing down on my head.
Reece’s bangs fell forward, concealing his face. I wondered what he was thinking. If he was disgusted with me. If he thought I was the kind of girl that trolled for dates in the personals. I didn’t have the energy to explain.
He stood and reached down for my hand. I was afraid to take it. Afraid to know how he felt. But more afraid to seem ungrateful, after all he had done for me. I hesitantly placed my hand in his, letting him pull me to my feet. He tasted like worry and sadness—slightly salty and mildly acidic, the bitterness of that persistent nagging regret I’d come to think was always part of him. But no judgment. We stood there, hands touching for an awkward long moment.
“It’s late,” he said, letting go first. “I’ll take you home.”
30