Page 4 of Close Knit

Once I’m ushered inside by the doorman, I’m met with a mob of reporters. The St. Claridge staff attempt to corral them out. I escaped the prying eyes at the Hastings estate in Mill Valley this past week. The hotel was meant to be a one-night respite before facing the potential privacy invasion back in London.

There’s no way I can get upstairs without being seen. I slip into the dimly lit piano lounge off the lobby. Ambient light casts shadows on the elderly patrons who are being lulled to sleep by the soft strum of keys.

Ideal.

Walking backward, I keep my gaze on the entrance, heading for a secluded booth. I slip in, peeking over the high velour back.

“Are you on the run?” A melodic voice startles me.

I turn to discover that the booth is occupied by the embodiment of technicolor.

“Uh, sorry.” Instinctually, I clamber out of my seat.Fuck. The commotion from the lobby crescendos, and every booth is occupied. “Actually.” I clear my throat. “Can I sit here for a second?”

“If you answer my question.”

I slither back into my seat like an eel returning to its cave. “Question?”

“Are you on the run? Better yet, are you undercover?”

My focus homes in on the person in front of me.

Vivid blue-green, round, and expressive eyes framed by long, dark lashes stare back at me. High cheekbones and a pointed chin. A fair complexion that glows even in the lusterless light of the room. Her lips are full, with the upper lip slightly thinner than the lower one. They curve into a warm, infectious, slightlycrooked smile. Then there’s her wavy, long hair, the color of a lavender field.

She’s striking.

I swallow around a dry throat. She raises one of her full and well-defined brows at me.

“Something like that,” I manage.

“I figured with the tuxedo and the sweat on your brow, you must be fleeing from something interesting.” Her eyes remain fixed on me as she works two wooden knitting needles together in a fury. A yellow ball of yarn rests on the table next to her.

I finger the strands of my hair, slicking them back. A reservation encases my body.

I shouldn’t be entertaining anyone.

The plan is to get upstairs and catch a few hours of sleep. Yet intrigue simmers in my chest.

Who is she?A thick sweater hangs off her shoulder, revealing strong collarbones above the rainbow hugging her torso.

“Yes to the fleeing. No to the something interesting,” I clarify.

“Hmm.” Her eyes scan me. Has she figured out who I am yet? “Well, in that case, we’ll need code names.”

We.An ease settles into me instead of the immediate fight-or-flight response I expect.

“Do you not know who I am?” The words sound bigheaded, but I can’t let my guard down. However much it’s itching to collapse.

“Not if you don’t tell me your code name.”

I guess she really doesn’t know me. Or she’s a phenomenal actress. Wouldn’t be the first time I fell for that.

I nudge my head toward her. “You first.”

“Duck.”

“Huh?” Her needles tap together like the gentle rain that falls against my window on nights when my nightmares keep me awake. It’s unnervingly soothing.

“Your turn.”

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