Page 77 of Beehive
“Back to the farm.” I squeezed him tighter. “I want a lake, a big one, with lots of fish . . . oh, and a dock with a boat. It doesn’t have to be fancy, just a rowboat so we can paddle out to the middle and fall asleep under the stars.”
“What if the boat tipped over?”
“We’re spies trying to save the world. I’m pretty sure we can manage staying afloat in our own boat.”
“Let me get this straight, you want to fall asleep on a boat in the middle of a pond?”
“A lake,” I corrected. “It needs to be huge, remember.”
“Size queen.”
I squeezed him again.
“I’ll be your floatie if we tip over.”
As silly as that sounded, my heart swelled, and my cheeks ached from grinning.
“My floatie for life,” I whispered. “I love you, Thomas Arthur Jacobs du Pont.”
At the invocation of his full name, something I rarely did—andneverwhile on a mission—he reached down and lifted my chin so our gazes met.
“Not as much as I love you, William John Shaw.”
27
Thomas
The smell of bitter coffee drifted upstairs as I woke. I pried my arm from beneath Will’s neck.
“Mmm, morning,” he said, his voice dreamlike.
I kissed the tip of his nose. “Morning, sleepyhead. Smells like Mister Happy has coffee brewing.”
“You get ready first. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Will could sleep ’til noon on the right day. I knew I’d have to wrestle him out of bed before our morning began in earnest.
Roughly a half hour later, we sat at a round wooden table. Visla sat across from us, giving us our first real look at the taciturn handler. Her thick brown hair trailed to her shoulders and a scar stretched under her left eye. Her jaw was almost as severe as her cheeks and nose. If any woman’s appearance ever screamed Eastern European, hers did, and not in the flattering, “I dance in the ballet” sort of way. Her appearance was the kind offorgettablethe OSS looked for in its spies.
I glanced at Will.
He looked drained, his eyes heavy-lidded as he spooned watery oatmeal from a chipped bowl. His normally neat hair had gone haywire overnight. He would be horrified if he found a mirror. I thought it was adorable.
Our host hovered near the doorway, leaning against the frame.
The man hadn’t exactly said we were unwelcome, but his eyes spoke volumes:You don’t belong in my house, or my country.His scowl could’ve peeled paint. He and Visla might’ve been bookends if they hadn’t disliked each other so much.
I wondered if either of them liked anyone.
Then I wondered if either of them had heard us in the night.
If they had, they’d gotten an earful. Despite Will’s promise to remain silent, his moans and groans still rang in my ears.
He caught me grinning and quirked a brow.
I shook my head and reached for the coffee tin, more to have something to do with my hands than for any comfort the bitter brew might provide. Half the beans were chicory. The taste was awful. I sipped anyway, trying to focus on what we should do next.
We still had the statue.
