The plots on the west side were more for folly and fun than for therapeutic relaxation. Like growing the tomatoes; she didn’t care if the squirrels had more than their fair share. She liked to see the kale, carrots, and cucumbers push from the cold spring soil and overrun the beds. To hell with thinning carrots or taming cucumber vines. She just like to see what would happen. More than anything, all of it helped her blow off steam.
A window opened from the adjacent house on the other side of the privacy fence. Oh damn it . . . She should have anticipated that this would happen. She should’ve come up with a backstory for Spiker before wandering into chatty neighbor territory. But no, she’d bolted at the first possible moment. Heaven forbid she engage in a deep discussion about art with him. Her brain might explode. It wasn’t as if Spiker wasn’t capable of scholarly debate on the arts—quite the opposite, really, if his fascination at the museum was any indication. She just couldn’t go there. Not yet, anyway.
“Hey, Vee,” Andy called through the window screen. “I just met your houseguest.”
Of course Andy had met Spiker. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “That’s great.”
“He seems like an interesting fellow.”
Had anyone ever referred to Spiker as a fellow? She’d ask him later.
If Vanka was lucky, Spiker would have begged away from a conversation the moment he sensed Andy had a previous life as a CIA interrogator. Had there ever been a neighbor as curious and chatty as the former marine? Doubtful. She had watched many a neighbor pour out their life story and deepest, darkest secrets to Andy while simply taking their dogs for a walk.
There was more to learn about him, but try as she might, Vanka had yet to uncover anything. The lack of details made him even more interesting. There was always something to find.
“I told him we were going to fire up the grill tonight,” Andy said.
Vanka’s grip tightened on the half-inch watering hose. She had to get out of the invitation, and hoped Spiker had given them wiggle room to evade the gathering. “It’ll be a great night for that, but we already had plans—”
Andy killed off her attempt to avoid making plans together. “Your houseguest volunteered your famous fruit salad.”
She gritted her teeth as she smiled. “He did, did he?” What the hell was Spiker’s problem? “Maybe he forgot that we already—”
“I didn’t even know you had a world-famous side dish.”
“Neither did I.”
He slapped the windowsill and played to her modesty. “You’ve been holding out on us, haven’t you?”
“Ha.” What was in a fruit salad anyway? Obviously, fruit. Maybe a vanilla yogurt sauce? That would be more for dipping. She wound a loop of the hose and wondered if she’d ever made a fruit salad. Probably not. She was more of the peel-and-eat type.
Vanka leaned into an old cover that she’d used a few years ago in California. She’d played the country club wife to Spiker’s ruthless pharma-drug-running husband. Vanka’s daily wardrobe had consisted of spandex and diamonds, tennis skirts and tennis bracelets. None of it had been her style, but she’d pulled the job off flawlessly.
What name had she used? Cece something-or-other. Cece would know a world-class fruit salad in her sleep. Cece would probably rank caterers and brunch spots based on their recipe selection and presentation. Cece would want something with lemon. Pair that with honey? God, Vanka wasn’t in the mood to play Cece right now. She wanted to dote on her gardens.
“Or maybe,” Andy interrupted in a sing-song tease, “you were just waiting for the right company to show off your culinary skills. That’s your boyfriend?”
Wait. What? Had something happened in the nanoseconds that she’d lost to Cece and fruit salad? “My boyfriend?” Vanka flushed. “He’s just a friend.”
Andy smiled and waited for her to fill the silence. That sly move worked well on their neighbors. One day she’d call him out on his nosy ways.
“Just a sense,” he volunteered.
“Just a friend,” she repeated, and knew they’d have to build their backstory around his guess. Once an assumption had been made, it was too dangerous to muddy the waters. So much for a long-lost cousin who had come for a visit.
“A friend who brings out the best in you,” Andy pointed out.
She snorted. “Not really.”
He looked at her funny. Vanka needed to get her head in the game. She wound another loop of hose, slowly making her escape, and tacked on, “Maybe in the kitchen.”
It was Andy’s turn to snort. “Guess there could be better, and worse, places for someone to bring out your best.”
“Ha.” Heat zipped into her cheeks. Andy hadn’t meant for her mind to immediately go to her bedroom, but that was where her thoughts landed. Spiker bringing out the best of her in the bedroom—not just any bedroom, her bedroom. That was a very different place than the many of bedrooms they’d slept in without hiccup while undercover. “I should make sure I have my ingredients.” She calculated the travel time and headache that would come with a grocery store run during rush hour on a Friday night. Not to mention googling fruit salad recipes. “I might need to run out to the store. Need anything?”
“Nah, I’ve had kabobs marinating all day.”
Oh, yum. Kabobs sounded good, certainly better than anything she could’ve come up with.
“By the way,” Andy said, “what did you say your friend’s name was?”
She hadn’t, and wayward thoughts of dinner disappeared. Had Spiker already volunteered a name? His name? Or one from their repertoire of characters? Vanka gambled that her partner had gone with the truth. She didn’t have a good reason why, but staked her life on her instinct. “Spiker.”
“Spiker. Interesting name.” His gaze traveled behind her shoulder. The backdoor opened and footsteps fell on her deck. “Speak of the devil.”
“If you only knew,” she muttered.
Vanka repositioned to keep both men in her line of sight. Spiker remained on the raised deck that overlooked her gardens. His dark hair was mussed, as though he’d run his hand through it a few hundred times—a stress habit of his. He clearly didn’t like their assignment and didn’t appreciate how little he knew about her real world. But now, with the sun on his face and a beer in hand, he seemed relaxed and content and—given his subtle grin—entertained. He’d known exactly what he was doing when he offered the fruit salad. Punishment for living in suburbia! She’d get him back for that. “I heard you’ve met Andy.”
Spiker raised the beer bottle in an obnoxious, hyper-masculine, nonverbal affirmation.
“Glad you’re getting to know the lay of the land.” She edged toward the deck, encouraging their getaway. Spiker ignored the nuance of her retreat, leaned against the deck rail, and picked up the conversation with Andy.
Their easy back-and-forth made her skin itch. Spiker could walk into any situation and make it work for him. He could locate a source and make a friend without a moment’s hesitation. His charisma worked with women and men, as if they could sense his laid-back, lake-house lifestyle.
Personally, Vanka liked him a thousand times better when he played the mean, scary guy. Or maybe her favorites were more the fast-talking, suit-wearing ones. Jobs were easier when they could slip into familiar roles she knew by heart. They could banter and bicker and intentionally drive one another up the wall, all in the name of creating a distraction. Then, in a snap, they could disappear.