Page 22 of Cloak of Red

She claims the leather armchair closest to me. My gaze drops to her bare, milky white legs and travels past her knee, to toned thighs and the shade between her creamy thighs below the hem of her short sweater dress.

“Why’re you wearing a dress?”

“Figured we might as well go out to eat. Besides, I’ll need to tell Gemma what we did last night. Saying we stayed in will sound boring.”

We’re here to get a phone number. This operation is the definition of snooze fest.

“What’s wrong with you?” I drag my gaze up her body and look into those questioning baby blues. “Don’t say nothing.”

I let out a loud sigh and collapse against the back of the sofa. “It’s nothing.”

The concerned expression morphs into a don’t-mess-with-me scowl that completely contradicts her youth. I close my eyelids and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“A post I wanted was assigned to someone else. Not a big deal.”

“But you’re pissed?”

My palms slap against my thighs, and I fix my gaze on a corner of the room. “Par for the course.” I push off the sofa. “Should I get ready for dinner? What should I wear?”

She’s got everything planned. Might as well let the fashionista direct this one.

“You’re thinking about leaving the CIA, aren’t you?”

“Where’d you get that?” Sophia is perceptive. I picked up that personality trait when observing her interactions with friends in high school.

“It’s in your vibe. Plus, you said Trevor is here. Did he come here to lure you back to Arrow?”

“He’s on vacation with his wife.” I step away from the wise one. “I’m going to get a shower.”

“You already showered.”

“Yeah, well, I want another one.”

“We have reservations in thirty. It’s a twenty-minute walk.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Jesus. What a fucking op. I’m fighting with my fake wife like she’s a real one.

We sit through dinner at a restaurant in Whistler Village without saying much. It’s a decent restaurant. They have a television over the bar set to an adventure channel, and I zone out watching skiers jump out of a helicopter and sweep the powder.

After dinner, I’m ready to call it a day, but Sophie’s warm fingers tug on mine.

“Let’s get a drink before going up.”

She’s thinking we might see Gemma and Rafael pass by, and she’s eager to do a good job.

“Sure.” I gesture for her to lead the way.

There are a couple of bar seats open, and she weaves her way through guests. Her thick winter coat drapes over her arm. That tight-fitting silver sweater dress glitters under the lights. Her black furry snow boots rise mid-calf and accentuate toned, svelte legs. I normally don’t pay attention to women in tights, but her dress is so damn short it’s a good thing she’s wearing tights to ensure her bum stays covered.

As we approach the bar, I scan the crowd and count four different men sneaking glances. And those men are sitting with their wives. Unreal.

“What do you want?” Sophia asks.

“I’ll order for us. What’re you getting?”

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