Nick stole the cheese fry out of her hand. “Keep mocking me, and I’ll eat every one of these.”
She put on a serious face. “I’m listening.”
“When we got home that night, my dad set my brothers and me down and told us that his actions reflected on the New York Police Department, and that our actions reflected on him. And that he hoped, from that point on, that we would conduct ourselves in a manner that honored the badge he wore.” He paused. “I remember thinking that someday I wanted to have a job that I was just as proud of. And that stuck with me. So I joined the NYPD straight out of college. I liked it enough, but after five years I felt like I wanted more. Which brought me to the FBI. After I graduated from the Academy, they transferred me to Chicago. That was only supposed to be for three years, but I like it here. Having a little bit of distance from my family is not entirely a bad thing.”
Jordan swirled the wine in her glass. “What do they think about you working all these undercover assignments?”
Nick chuckled. “You should hear my mother go on about it.” He adopted a thick New York accent. “ ‘My son, the FBI agent, you think he has time to call with all those big, important cases they assign him to? I could be
dead
and he wouldn’t know it.’ ”
Jordan laughed, enjoying these rare insights into the real world of Nick McCall. Until now, he’d been somewhat of a mystery. “I bet you miss them all.”
He shrugged. “Sure. Although I try to keep that fact from my brothers. Our relationship is more of the sarcastic, annoy-the-crap-out-of-each-other type.”
“Oh, I think I know the kind,” Jordan said. Her relationship with Kyle wasn’t exactly defined by expressive sentimentality, either.
When they had finished eating, Nick offered to help her clean up the store.
“You don’t have to help me out,” she said. “I was just kidding about that earlier.”
“And let you do all the hard work? If anyone’s watching, my character needs to look like a helpful and supportive boyfriend.”
She tossed him a dishtowel. “In that case, your character can get to work on all these dirty wineglasses.”
Between the two of them, they cleaned up the store quickly. Nick had parked out front, and he drove Jordan the four blocks to her house, where he insisted on walking her to the door. Per usual, she saw him check out the other cars parked on the street.
“Were we followed?” she asked.
“Actually, I don’t think so,” Nick said. “We’re in the clear.”
“Oh, good.” Jordan stopped at the top of the steps. As they stood in the moonlight on her front stoop, it struck her that this had been the first evening she’d spent truly alone with Nick. No private investigators watching them, no friends, no Xander Eckhart and company. Just them.
Almost like an actual date.
“Thanks for dinner and for helping me out tonight.” She paused, struck by the truth of what she was about to say next. “I had a really good time.”
Nick seemed amused by her surprise. He moved up another step, joining her at the top of the stairs. “You don’t have to sound so shocked. I’m not all bad, you know.”
“Maybe just
mostly
bad,” Jordan teased.
Nick cocked his head, considering this. “Mostly bad . . . I guess that’s progress.”
They stood very close, Jordan noticed. As in, end-of-the-date, do-I-invite-him-inside close. Which made no sense, considering this arrangement between her and Nick was all a charade.
They both fell silent for a few seconds. The night, the street, and everything else suddenly felt very still. Finally, Jordan gestured to her house. “I should probably get going inside. Subzero temperatures out here and all.”
Nick pointed to his car. “Right. And I need to get home. Have to get up bright and early for my fake job.”
“Okay, then.”
“Great.”
Neither of them moved.
“So I guess I’ll see you later,” Jordan said. She turned to go—if for no other reason, her feet were beginning to freeze in her boots and pretty soon she wouldn’t be able to move.
Nick caught her hand. “Jordan.”
He said her name so quietly, if it hadn’t been for the relative silence of the night, she might have missed it. When she turned around, his eyes were looking into hers as if searching for something.
Then just like that, the moment was gone. He gave her a curt nod, his expression unreadable once again. “I’ll call you later.” He dropped her hand and strode down the steps without looking back.
Twenty
THE NEXT MORNING
, Jordan spent her first hour at the store doing inventory and placing orders with her distributors for the following month’s wine supply. She was leaving for Napa Valley on Friday, a trip she’d planned months ago. While she generally tried to make it out to wine country three or four times a year for business, she was particularly excited about this trip—she had an appointment to visit a new winery whose debut cabernet she was considering for the store’s wine club.
Plus, she needed the weekend away, from Chicago, FBI undercover assignments, and everything else. A few days alone would do her some good, get her back to thinking clearly again. Maybe get her to stop wondering whether Nick had wanted to kiss her last night.
Somehow, she’d blurred the line in her head between what was real and fake in their situation. But a
real
date would’ve kissed her last night, not given her a token “I’ll call you later” before hightailing it off her front porch. Yet here she was, still thinking about him.
Jordan did a mental headshake, forcing herself to focus on work. Wanting to make up for the extra shifts she had to burden her staff with during the time she’d be in Napa, she had scheduled herself to both open and close the store that day. Luckily, Andrea was feeling better and was set to come in at one o’clock, which meant that Jordan wouldn’t have to work the evening shift alone again.
After placing orders, she posted on the store’s Facebook page about the special they were running through the weekend: buy three reds, get the fourth half off. Then she turned to her favorite project—paying bills. She cringed at the gas bill and cursed the ridiculous cost of keeping a large store warm in the winter. Apparently, the folks at Peoples Gas thought she had a half-billion dollars at her disposal.
A little heiress humor.
Shortly before noon, the chime on the door rang as the first customer of the day walked in. Jordan looked up from the bar and smiled at the woman, an attractive brunette wearing a North Face coat and yoga pants that showed off her fit, curvy physique.
Either on her way to or from the gym, Jordan guessed. “Can I help you?”
The woman seemed to ponder this question for a moment. “I’m just looking for now.” She looked around the store, as if checking to see if anyone else was around.
Jordan wondered if Martin had finally found a woman who appreciated a light-bodied, bow-tie-wearing pinot. “Take your time. If you have any questions, let me know.”
The woman paused. “Actually, the hell with it. I do have a question.” She stalked over to the bar. “Is it serious between you and Nick?”
The question, completely unexpected, caught Jordan off guard. “I’m sorry?”
“Nick McCall. Is it serious between the two of you?”
Jordan took a moment to respond, thinking carefully about her answer. “I know a Nick Stanton, but not a Nick McCall.” She looked the woman over. “I’m sorry—I didn’t catch your name.”
“Lisa. And the name of the guy who was in your store last night is Nick
McCall
. Trust me—I would know. I know Nick very well.”
Reasonable reaction or not, Jordan caught herself bristling at the implication. “If you know Nick so well, why do you need to ask me if things are serious?”
Lisa shifted uncomfortably, seeming to hedge a little. “I haven’t heard from him for a couple weeks. Then I happened to see him yesterday in his car. I followed him here and thought I’d catch him inside the store, until I spotted you two through the door. You looked cozy.”
Apparently, the Nick and Jordan show was picking up viewers every day. “I think this is a conversation you need to have with Nick, not me.”
Lisa laughed at that. “Maybe you don’t know him that well after all. Because if you did, you’d know that you don’t ask Nick questions. It’s part of his whole no-strings-attached, I-don’t-
do
-relationships routine.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or hasn’t he given you that speech yet?”
Hearing the other woman’s words, Jordan felt it. A pang of disappointment, strong enough that she had no choice but to acknowledge it.
Nick didn’t do relationships.
It should’ve meant nothing. Of course he hadn’t given her any such speech—there’d been no reason for him to. Because, just like she’d thought, any connection between them was imaginary.
With that in mind, she managed to maintain a nonchalant air in front of Lisa. This was her store, and no one was going to make her look like a fool in it. “You don’t really expect me to tell you what Nick and I talk about, do you?” she asked coolly.
“Oh . . . I get it. You haven’t slept with him yet, have you?” Lisa smiled smugly. “Listen, honey, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’ll hear his speech soon enough—right before he fucks you. It’s part of his code or whatever. Trust me,
lots
of women have been down this road with Nick.”
Jordan pretended to think this over. “Thanks for the tip, Lisa. This all has been very informative. Particularly the creepy part where you said you followed Nick and stood outside my store watching us.” She pointed to a wine display. “Hey—you know what
I
like to do after stalking an ex-boyfriend? Pour myself a nice glass of petite syrah. And you’re in luck, because we’re having a sale on reds today . . .”
ACROSS THE STREET
, Mercks’s investigator, a man named Tennyson, froze with the camera in his hands when the door to DeVine Cellars flew open. The brunette in yoga pants stormed out, looking pissed. She crossed the street, heading straight toward the car he sat in.
Tennyson panicked. On a whim, he’d decided to follow Jordan Rhodes to see if she gave them something. Anything. Because after eleven days of tailing Stanton, they’d come up with nothing of any significance to report to Eckhart. By now he was familiar with Stanton’s routine: the guy wouldn’t leave his office for lunch until one o’clock, which meant he had plenty of time to kill.
At first, tailing Jordan Rhodes had seemed to be no less boring than following Stanton. Tennyson had parked his car across the street, and using the zoom on his camera, he could see into the wine store through the front windows. Rhodes made a lot of phone calls, worked at the bar on her laptop computer, and rearranged wine bottles. Really exciting stuff.
But then the brunette with the bombshell figure had shown up, and things had gotten interesting.
Tennyson initially had assumed that the brunette was a customer, and from what he could tell through the camera lens, Jordan Rhodes had assumed that, too. But then the brunette had said something that had made Rhodes tense, and Tennyson had begun paying closer attention. No clue what either woman had said, but from their rigid body language, he personally had been hoping for a cat fight. Then Rhodes smiled, gestured to some wine bottles on the bar, and the brunette stormed out.
Tennyson quickly tossed the camera onto the passenger seat beside him and covered it up with the backpack filled with snacks, water, and cigarettes he always kept on hand during a surveillance. He grabbed his cell phone off the dash and pretended to make a call.
The brunette pulled out her keys and pushed the unlock button, and the lights on the car in front of him blinked. So far, she hadn’t noticed him. Tennyson watched out of the corner of his eye as she yanked a cell phone out of her coat pocket and dialed. He’d had a smoke in the car a few minutes earlier, and had cracked the window open to get some fresh air. As such, he was in a perfect position to hear her end of the conversation as she approached her car. It sounded like she was leaving a voice mail message for someone.
“Hello, Nick McCall, or should I say, Nick
Stanton
, whoever the hell you are today—I’d assumed you hadn’t called because you were on another undercover assignment, not because you had your dick stuck in some skinny blond bitch. I thought you told me this wasn’t about another woman? Guess you lied about that. And why am I not surprised? It’s what you do for a living, after all. Lie to people.”
The remainder of the brunette’s tirade became muffled as she climbed into her car, then she slammed the driver’s door shut and everything went quiet.
Tennyson sat in his own car—motionless—still holding the phone in his hand.
Ho-ly fuck.
After the brunette drove off, he made a call of his own.
“Mercks. You are not going to believe this. I think I’ve got something on Stanton. I mean, I’ve fucking
got
something. We need to run another background check. This time on the name Nick McCall.”