Page 10 of Breakup Games

“I’m Agent Harris,” he goes on and reaches into his back pocket, retrieving his wallet. He shows me a badge.

“Really? FBI?” I raise my eyebrows. “Is the fine print going to say federal bikini inspector, Agent?”

His lips—which are full and oddly distracting—curve into a smile. “Had that one in college, but his one is real.” He lowers his hand and takes a step back, giving me space. I swallow my pounding heart and fully take him in. He’s tall, definitely over six feet, with a head of thick, dark brown hair. His hazel eyes glimmer under the lights of the hotel awning and it takes everything in me not to admire his muscular biceps that fill outthe sleeves of his plain black t-shirt. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

“About what?” I say and automatically run through a list of possibilities in my head. I’m not in trouble, no, I can’t be. But what if I am? Maybe I did something by accident and don’t remember, or my browser history is finally catching up with me.

Dammit.

I’m not in trouble. I didn’t do anything wrong. Worrying about getting reprimanded is a defense mechanism I picked up from years of narcissistic abuse, always walking on eggshells around Cory. The smallest thing could make him blow up, scream at me as he threw things in his rampage. Or worse, he’d leave the house, turn off his location on Find My Friends and would be gone all hours of the night only to come home and give me the silent treatment, sometimes lasting days. The record of him pretending I didn’t exist was four full days.

Four days of a grown-ass man walking past me as if I wasn’t there. Four days of not acknowledging me in public, pretending not to even hear me when I asked a question when we sat at the dinner table with his nieces, who are young but knew enough to know that Uncle Cory was being a grade-A asshole.

What did I do to deserve to be ignored like that? One would think it was something horrible, but it was just that I partook in a drinking game at a Halloween party we hosted. I was drunk, but not sloppy, falling down and puking drunk. It was the happy, dancing-on-the-table kind of drunk, and I had no idea he was even pissed about it until I woke up the next morning to his face literally inches from mine, telling me what an embarrassing slut I am for having a good time.

“About what you were doing in there.” He tips his head in the direction of the hotel.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I spit out, feeling my heart skip a beat. What if he thinks I’m a hooker? Ihope he thinks I’m a high-class one at least. Stop it, I mentally tell myself, forgetting all the coping skills I would have told my clients to use in a situation like this. I’m feeling triggered by my past, and I’ll figure out why when I get home. “Or that I trust you’re a real FBI agent.”

“Want to call Headquarters? Ask them if Mason Harris is a real agent.” He holds up a finger and then opens his wallet again, getting out his ID.

“This could even be fake,” I press, leaning in just a bit to look at his license. He really is Mason Harris, and he also really is six-foot-two. According to this, at least. “And I’m not a hooker.” I internally wince. I shouldn’t have said that out loud.

“I didn’t think you were. I wasn’t trying to solicit you.”

“Now I feel insulted.”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t laugh. “You do know I’m a federal agent, right?”

“I haven’t determined if I believe you yet.”

“I showed you my badge and my driver’s license.”

“Which could both be fake.”

“Who hurt you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m a woman living in today’s society. You’re a man. You just don’t get it.”

“Don’t pull that bullshit on me.” He inhales. “Look, I have a few questions for you about the man you were having a drink with. We can go down to my office and have a chat or we can walk around the block, get a drink at Miller’s Tavern, and just talk.”

“Fine,” I say, my heart speeding up. “I’ll get an Uber and meet you at the tavern.”

“We could just walk,” he says slowly. “It’s not far.”

“I’m in heels,” I retort.

“Okay, princess,” he mumbles.

“You’re kind of an asshole.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been told. Look, this isn’t a social call. I just need to have a chat about your friend.”

“He’s not my friend,” I rush out. “I just met him tonight.”

Mason shifts his gaze to the older couple behind me, who still can’t figure out how to use their phone to get a car. “Let’s talk about this over a drink, eh?”

“Yeah,” I say, knowing that he doesn’t think it’s safe to talk. Suddenly, the whole situation weighs down on me. I spent the last twenty or so minutes fake-flirting with a wanted criminal. I’m not guilty, but I can see how this looks. “I can walk. These heels are surprisingly comfy.”

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