Page 88 of Dating Goals
“What if I get caught?”
“You won’t.”
“But if I do?”
Elodie sips her champagne, her eyes unreadable. “Then FIS will disavow all knowledge of you, and you’ll be on your own in a Swiss prison.”
I laugh, then realize she’s not joking. “Great.”
“One more thing,” she says. “No matter what happens over the next two nights, stick to the plan. No improvising.”
“No improvising. Got it.”
“And trust no one but me.”
The train lurches slightly as we round a bend. I check my reflection in the train window. The man staring back at me looks like someone who knows what he’s doing. It’s a good disguise. Even though I’m used to wearing suits for the game, this onefeels tighter. More constricting. I slide a finger in the collar and tug to ease the discomfort.
“You’re fidgeting again,” Elodie observes, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness. The slit in her dress reveals a dangerous amount of thigh.
“I’m not fidgeting. I’m…adjusting.”
“And what exactly are you adjusting?” Her voice drops to a husky whisper.
“My entire life choices that led me to this moment,” I mutter, reaching for my water glass instead of the champagne. I need a clear head.
Elodie leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on her interlaced fingers. “Tell me about yourself, Griffin McGregor. The man behind the hockey mask.”
“Not much to tell. I play pro hockey, and love my Tim Hortons coffee. I’m a simple guy.”
“Come now.” She traces the rim of her glass with one perfectly manicured finger. “A professional athlete with your…physique must have quite the interesting life.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Nope. Just sports, movies, and video games.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” Her foot brushes against my leg under the table. Not an accident.
“What about you?” I deflect, moving my leg out of her reach. “What does a secret agent do on her days off? Defuse bombs for fun? Parachute into restricted airspace?”
Elodie laughs, a practiced sound. “A girl has to have some secrets.”
“So that’s a yes on the bombs, then?”
The waiter arrives with our main course, saving me from whatever was happening with her foot. I focus intensely on cutting my steak.
“Tell me, Griffin,” she says, her voice dropping to a sultry hum. “What’s your tell?”
“My what now?”
“Your tell.” Her eyes narrow playfully. “Every poker player has one. That little unconscious habit that gives away when you’re bluffing.”
“I don’t have a tell.”
“Everyone has a tell.” She takes a deliberate sip of champagne, her eyes never leaving mine. “For instance, when you lie, your left eyebrow twitches ever so slightly.”
My hand flies to my eyebrow before I can stop it.
Elodie chuckles softly. “I was guessing. But now I know.”
“That’s not fair,” I protest, feeling my face heat up.
