Erasing Faith(19)

Maybe if he pulled his head out of his ass for thirty seconds, he’d realize what he was missing. He’d learn that the girl sitting across from him was bright and beautiful, fierce and funny as hell. But he didn’t. Like the five who’d come before him, he ignored her. He didn’t see her at all. And, as the minutes ticked by, I watched her slowly deflate, gradually retreating into herself as though their asinine behavior was somehow her fault. As though she was the one with something to be ashamed of, rather than those useless pricks.

Seeing her like that — diminished by this parade of *s who’d never be good enough for her — pissed me off beyond measure. I didn’t fully understand why, but seeing this beautiful girl begin to question her own worth because of a few idiots had me ready to throttle each and every one of them, until they were bleeding and begging to apologize for their own ignorance.

I didn’t recognize these unfamiliar emotions raging inside me — I had no name for them, no experience to compare them with. All I knew was that I was so mad, I couldn’t think straight. So angry, I was out of my f*cking mind. The tightly-reined control that I’d counted on for as long as I could remember suddenly fled and, for a moment, I lost myself.

That was the only possible explanation for what I did next.

Because when Linda, the obnoxiously enthusiastic brunette in charge, rang her bell to signal the end of round six, I didn’t slip out of sight and leave the girl behind, as I’d planned to. I didn’t walk away. Instead, I found myself emerging from the shadows, heading determinedly for the cocktail table I’d been watching for the past thirty minutes.

Asshole number seven was reaching for the stool, but I cut in front of him and quickly slid onto the seat. I set my easel case on the ground, propped my forearms on the table, and turned to face the shocked girl seated across from me.

Her eyes were wide with disbelief. Her lips were twitching as though torn between two expressions — unsure whether to stretch in a smile or part in shock. I grinned wolfishly at her and was pleased when, after a few seconds, her lips curved up in response.

“Hey, Red,” I said casually.

“Hi,” she breathed, her eyes scanning my face. “You’re here.”

My grin went crooked.

“Um, hello? Excuse me?” The insistent male voice was an unwelcome intrusion on our moment. I glanced dismissively at the short-statured man who should’ve been Faith’s partner during this round, before turning my eyes back to her.

“So, where were we?” I asked her. Before she could speak, I launched in. “Ah, yes. Speed-dating. Well, I’m Wesley Adams — though, only my mother is allowed to call me Wesley. To everyone else, it’s Wes. Twenty-five years young. Capricorn. And yes, before you ask, I do in fact like pi?a coladas and getting caught in the rain.”

Her mouth dropped open and her whisper was full of breathy outrage. “You broke the first rule of stranger club!”

“This is not an official stranger club meeting — this is speed-dating.” I managed to laugh, but inside I was kicking myself. I couldn’t believe, of all the names in the world, I’d given her that one. My entire cover story had been there, poised on my lips. I’d had it prepared for weeks.

I was Joshua “Josh” Collins — stationed here on business for the next year. A pharmaceutical researcher studying the healing properties of Hungary’s famous thermal springs, as well as their applications for modern medicine. Unmarried. Originally from a small, oceanfront community in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. A stand-up sort of man, with a safe set of interests — golf, sailing, skiing. I was the stereotypical New England WASP, who’d gone to a good, solid college and was looking for a good, solid woman.

Except, when I’d opened my mouth to reveal my name, the cover I’d carefully rehearsed hadn’t come out. Because I didn’t want to be Josh Collins when she looked at me. I wanted to be myself — or, at the very least, some close derivative of myself. So, I said Wesley Adams.

Wesley. Fucking. Adams.

Might as well have blown the whole f*cking mission wide open and told her my real name.

Hi, I’m Weston Abbott, the CIA operative attempting to infiltrate your life. Wanna grab a coffee?

I was such a f*cking idiot.

I could’ve tried to justify it — could’ve told myself I’d only chosen a name similar to my own because it would be easier to remember, that lies were always more convincing when they held a grain of truth. But that was all bullshit. I’d changed my cover at the last second for one reason only: because when I finally heard Faith Morrissey say my name, I didn’t want it to be fake. I didn’t want it to be a lie.

And that was the most dangerous, reckless thing I’d ever done in all my years dodging bullets and running for my life on this job.

“Excuse me!” Match number seven was really getting flustered now. “You’re in my seat! I’m supposed to be with her this round.”

I looked up at him once more. “Are you sure? I think you should go check with the brunette with the bullhorn. She looks like she’s a good mediator.”

“But, I—”

“Dude. You’re hovering.”

“But—”

I turned back to Faith, who was barely managing to contain her laughter as the man stormed off to find matchmaker Linda. “Anyway, where was I?”