Page 30 of The Spy Ring

The door buzzed and I pushed through. I took the elevator to the eighth floor, moving thirty feet down the hall and came to stop in front of door 803. I knocked.

The door opened as the smell of garlic and spices wafted past me. Tiffany stood there with her thick hair cascading around her face and over her shoulders. Her smile inviting and curved with a pale red.

“Great. You’re here. David’s been talking all day about the lessons. Come in.”

She moved to the side as I stepped past her. Her frilly, heart-dotted apron wrapped over her green blouse and jeans had my eyes momentarily fixed on two hearts in particular. I swallowed as I pried my eyes away from her chest.

“Do you like garlic?” Tiffany asked as she brushed past me and into the kitchen.

“Of course. But why would—”

“Good.” She cut me off as she moved gracefully around the kitchen. “I’m making a lemon garlic pasta and salad for dinner. And I use garlic in my salad dressing.”

My head jerked. “You make your own dressing?”

The servants made the food in the house I grew up in. I may have only been six when my mother died, but I remember she never cooked. As for my dad, he refused to even eat in the same room as me.

As she stirred whatever was in the metal pan with a wooden spoon, she turned her head. “Of course. I’m not a fan of the bottled dressings. My mom used to make her own dressing before she died. Luckily, she taught it to me before I went off to college. I guess she thought I might need it because of all the salad college students eat.”

Tiffany snorted at her own joke.

“I forgot about your mom,” I said and realized too late at what I revealed.

“What?” Tiffany put down the spoon and turned to face me.

“I mean, I’m sorry about your mom,” I said as I leaned against the counter to appear casual as my heart pounded in my ear.

She hesitated but shook her head before turning back to the stove.

“It was right after I met John, my late husband. He was a senior at Northwestern and I was a sophomore. We had only been dating a few weeks and then, my mom had a heart attack.” She pushed the pan off the burner and turned off the heat.

Tiffany stood there, staring at the pan like a statue frozen in a memory. She sighed. “She was a great cook. A little too good. I think all the fattening food she loved to eat and the toll of being a single mom finally got to her. There’s a part of me that still regrets not being there when she died. Not holding her hand and telling her I loved her. She had done that for me a thousand times, but when she needed it the most from me, I was at some party at school. The music too loud to hear my phone.”

Coming up behind Tiffany, I put my hand on her shoulder. She turned and without a thought but loaded with emotion, I embraced her. Her pain was my pain. Not because I loved her. How could I? I barely knew the woman. No, it was because my life had been battered by that same regret. When I was too young to understand and when I was older and knew better.

Regret like that forces a person to make lonely decisions and unhappy mistakes.

Her arms came around my back, tightening. A fluttery soft sensation made circles on my back as Tiffany comforted me as much as I was trying to console her.

Tilting my head, I brushed my lips over the top of her head, inhaling. She smelled like garlic and flowers. Two scents that should work against each other, but for some reason, I had never smelled anything so amazing in my life. My hand lifted into her hair. So thick, that when my fingers curled, I wondered if she even felt it.

Her fingers stopped. It’s what they did next that caused my head to lower until my lips were brushing hers. Tiffany moved her hands to my ass. Nothing subtle. No light movements that could be mistaken for an accident.

They cupped my cheeks and dug in.

“Mom?”

Tiffany’s hands moved from my backside to my front in seconds, pushing me away from her. I grasped the granite counter so I wouldn’t fall to the floor. For a petite woman, she had some strength.

“Yes, David?” Tiffany said as she turned her back to me, to her son, and resumed cooking.

I glanced over at David as he moved closer to the kitchen. His eyes remained on his mother, refusing to even turn my way.

“Is it okay if Diego and I have dinner in my bedroom?” David asked as his voice cracked halfway through talking.

“Sure. Sure. Just eat at your desk.”

“Good. Uh, hi.” David finally turned his head toward me. His eyes remained glued to the floor, but at least I knew he was speaking to me.

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