The Blonde Identity: A Novel

“They’re here!”

Zoe rolled over and felt the cool sheets beside her. It had been months since she’d woken to a cold, empty bed, and she had to admit she didn’t like it. One of her favorite things about her new life were the mornings. Waking slowly beside Sawyer who, it turns out, was a cuddler. Who knew? They’d lie side by side for hours, talking about their lives before and their life after, but on that particular morning, the bed was empty and the loft was cold, so she wrapped herself in an old quilt and padded, barefoot, to the stairs.

She could feel the cold air from the open door, but he had a cardboard box in his hands and was grinning up at her like it was Christmas morning.

“Close the door,” she called, and he kicked it shut before carrying the box to the fire.

“Get down here!”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “Let me find a—”

He was already pulling a knife from his boot because he was still Sawyer and she wouldn’t have had him any other way.

She nestled beside him on her side of the sofa. Because they had sides. They had routines. And habits. And inside jokes and fights and making-ups and everything. They had everything. And Zoe didn’t think about what she didn’t have and couldn’t recall.

It was coming back. In pieces. She’d remembered her mother, who taught English at a fancy boarding school in France, and her father, an American engineer who did something with luxury German automobiles. They’d had their daughters late in life and then one of them had almost died. Zoe. Zoe had almost died. And her mother’s full-time job had become keeping her alive.

Don’t run, Zoe.

Don’t fall, Zoe.

Don’t die, Zoe.

She hadn’t. In fact, she had gotten very, very good at not dying. But she hadn’t been very good at living. Not until—

“You ready?” he asked. He winked. Then she kissed him. Because she could. And he kissed her back because he couldn’t not.

“I’m ready,” Sawyer said as he sliced open the box then looked down at the advanced reading copies of the debut novel from Z. S. Michaelson—the pen name of a husband/wife writing team that was shrouded in mystery.

Sawyer was still smiling when Zoe slipped onto his lap and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. His stubble was deliciously rough on the smooth skin of her neck as he kissed her.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked for what she swore would be the final time. “You could go back under. MI6 would take you back in a heartbeat. That was your life, and you don’t have to leave it just because—”

He tossed the book aside and flipped her onto her back and nestled between her legs. “Does it feel like I’m not completely happy with where I am right now and what I’m doing?” He peppered her skin with little kisses and she forgot what they were talking about.

Then, suddenly, he pulled back. “I think we need to reinstate Naked Thursdays.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Every day is Naked Thursday if you try hard enough.” He was just starting to kiss the smile off her face when she heard the floorboards creak. A gun cocked. And a voice said, “Get off my little sister.”

In the next moment, Sawyer was pushing Zoe down into the couch cushions and coming up with his third favorite gun, spinning and pointing it at . . .

“Alex?” Sawyer shouldn’t have sounded surprised. Zoe just had the one sister, after all. But when your only in-law jumps off a mountain and falls off the face of the earth, a guy has the right to be leery.

“Hey, stranger. Why don’t you put that gun down?” The words were casual but the tone was cool. Dangerous. He’s still dangerous, Zoe thought and made a mental note to go all swoony about that later.

“Why don’t you?” Alex asked as she walked around the end of the couch and Zoe got her first look at her sister.

Her hair was blonde now—lighter than Zoe’s. And longer than Zoe’s. And . . . well . . . prettier than Zoe’s . . . Alex was still superior to Zoe in all the ways that didn’t matter. Because now Zoe knew what she hadn’t known before: that Alex might be harder but that had never made her stronger and it never, ever would.

“Hey, Zo.” Alex’s tone was light but her eyes were sad as she slipped the gun into the pocket of her jacket. “Had to make sure he wasn’t killing you.”

“Nope. Very much . . . uh . . . alive.” Zoe glanced at Sawyer but he looked as confused as Zoe felt because Alex was here and armed and looking at the cabin’s steepled roof and toasty fire like she’d just come over for tea.

“Good job getting off the grid. The Agency doesn’t know this place exists.”

“And we’re gonna keep it that way, right?” Sawyer warned.

“Relax, tough guy, your secret is safe with me. I only found you because I was tracking . . .” She pointed to the box. “Don’t worry,” she added quickly. “No one else will put it together.”

“So . . . long time no see,” Sawyer went on in that deceptively friendly tone that was like a dog that didn’t bark and didn’t growl but you’d have to be a fool to pet him. “Where’ve you been? Who’ve you killed?”

And Zoe saw them—the words that Alex wouldn’t say. She was the strongest woman Zoe had ever known, but something in the past few months had changed her, tilted her earth on its axis, and was threatening to spin her off into the void.

“Alex.” Zoe clawed and pushed and, finally, Sawyer let her out of the couch cushions. “What’s wrong? Where have you been? Whatever it is we can fix it. Is it the Agency? Another mole? Terrorists? Double agents? Rogue scientists? Is it a robot army? What have you been running from, Alex? Whatever it is . . .”

It was like a spark from the fire sprang up and caught inside of Zoe. She couldn’t touch it or feel it but she knew it was there and, if she wasn’t careful, that it would burn her sister to the ground.

But Alex just looked . . . annoyed. “Long story short, I’m in an enemies-to-lovers situation.” Alex took a deep breath. “And I think I’m gonna need your help.”