Page 70 of Dating Goals
“It’s the safest way out,” Wilde insists. “This passage leads directly to the second helipad.”
“How do you know about secret tunnels in Malcolm Chase’s private mansion?”
“That’s classified.”
“Of course it is,” I mutter.
Wilde reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out what looks like a sleek metal pen. With a click, the end illuminates with a bright beam of light. He hands it to me. “Follow this tunnel straight through. After about fifty meters, you’ll reach a junction. Take the right path, then the second left. That will lead you to a stairwell that comes out behind the main kitchen, near the service entrance to the helipad.”
I take the light, turning it over in my hand. “Is this going to self-destruct in five minutes?”
“It’s just a flashlight, Miss Gisler,” he says, though I catch the ghost of a smile. “However, I wouldn’t recommend disassembling it.”
“Great. So it might explode.”
“Your pilot will be waiting. Tell him ‘eucalyptus,’ and he’ll take you directly home.”
“Eucalyptus? Seriously?”
“It’s a verification code. For your safety.”
I glance down the dark passage, then back at Wilde. “You realize this is exactly how people get murdered in horror movies, right? Strange man leads woman to secret tunnel, gives her cryptic instructions, then locks her inside?”
“If I wanted to harm you, Miss Gisler, I would have done so in the bathroom.”
“That’s…not as reassuring as you think it is.”
Wilde checks his watch. “We don’t have time for this. Get to the helipad and wait for your pilot. He’ll take you home.”
“What about Griffin?” I ask, surprising myself with how much I care about the answer. There’s also the little matter of leaving behind my mother’s furry coat.
“We’ll handle Mr. McGregor.”
“Handle? That sounds ominous.”
“Go,” he says, his voice softening slightly. “Please.”
“Right path, second left, kitchen, helipad,” I repeat. “Eucalyptus.”
Wilde nods. “Good luck, Miss Gisler.”
Before I can say anything else, he’s gently pushing me into the passageway. The panel slides closed behind me with a soft click, plunging me into darkness except for the beam of the flashlight.
“Well, this is just perfect,” I mutter, aiming the light down the narrow stone corridor that looks like it belongs in a medieval castle and not a luxury ski resort. “Just follow the creepy British man’s directions through the secret tunnel. What could possibly go wrong?”
16
GRIFFIN
Anika’s been gone for five minutes, which shouldn’t worry me, but does. When she left so abruptly, I felt like I’d said something wrong, though I couldn’t figure out what.
Maybe my dancing skills weren’t as impressive as I thought? I should have gone with her, made sure she was okay. What kind of fake date am I? A pretty terrible one, apparently.
I decide to head to the bar. After all, if I’m playing spy for the night, I might as well lean into it fully. Nothing says I’m a super spy quite like ordering a martini at a fancy gala.
“Martini, please,” I tell the bartender, a stoic man with a waxed mustache. I lean in slightly. “Shaken, not stirred.” I’ve always wanted to say those words.
The bartender raises an eyebrow but nods without comment.
