Page 117 of Dating Goals
As she glides away, Durand detaches from his spot by the bar, following her at a discreet distance.
All I want now is to find Anika, sweep her into my arms, and celebrate properly. Ideally with a repeat of that elevator make-out session, minus the abrupt ending and subsequent stairwell assault.
“Mr. McGregor!”
I whirl around to find Agents Bruderlin and Showalter approaching from a side corridor, looking surprisingly casual in evening wear. Bruderlin sports a midnight blue tuxedo while Showalter rocks a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.
“Holy smokes, you clean up nice,” I blurt. “Much better than those off-the-rack suits from before.”
Bruderlin chuckles. “Undercover work has its perks.”
“We came to congratulate you,” Showalter says, extending his hand. “Impressive performance. Especially after losing the earpiece.”
I shake his hand. “Sorry about that.”
“No need to explain,” Showalter cuts me off with a wave. “Even though our operative upstairs nearly had a coronary.”
“Poor guy was screaming into his microphone for twenty minutes,” Bruderlin adds with a smirk. “Kept insisting you fold every hand.”
I wince. “Would’ve been nice advice to hear.”
“But unnecessary, as it turns out.” Showalter claps my shoulder. “You proved quite capable on your own.”
“You made a professional poker player out of a job,” Bruderlin says.
“So what happens now?” I ask. “Chase gets arrested?”
The agents exchange glances.
“Chase vanished through a service entrance,” Showalter says. “But we’ve frozen his accounts and flagged his passport. He won’t get far.”
Showalter straightens his already impeccable tie. “We wanted to say goodbye. Our involvement here is officially concluded.”
“So this is it?” I ask. “No more spy stuff?”
“No more spy stuff,” Bruderlin confirms with a rare smile. “You can go back to catching pucks instead of international criminals.”
“Though you’ve proven surprisingly adept at both,” Showalter adds.
“Does this mean I can keep the Bugatti?”
The agents exchange another look.
“Consider it hazard pay,” Bruderlin says dryly.
My jaw drops. “Seriously?”
“The paperwork to seize it would be a nightmare,” Showalter explains. “Besides, Malcolm Chase no longer legally owns it. You won it fair and square.”
“Or as fair as one can win anything with government agents feeding you poker moves,” Bruderlin mutters.
“Hey, I won without the earpiece in the end!”
“Indeed, you did,” Showalter acknowledges. “Which brings us to our final point. Nobody can know about our operation. The FIS involvement remains classified.”
“My lips are sealed,” I promise, making a zipping motion across my mouth. “No one would believe me anyway.”
“Mr. McGregor, it’s been…interesting,” Bruderlin extends his hand again.
