The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Really, as escape plans went, they could have done a lot worse. The tarp was thick and the water was smooth, and to the world at large, the deck no doubt looked entirely empty. The sounds of Russian curses and police sirens were growing more faint by the moment as they lay side by side in the bright sun that filtered through that piece of off-white canvas, casting them in a hazy kind of glow.

They’d been together for hours, but somehow it felt like she was seeing him for the first time. Probably because he was close. So very, very close. It would have been rude not to admire his dark eyelashes and strong jaw, or how he kind of needed a shave but in the way that actually looks really, really nice.

She wanted to curl up and cry, but he was barely breathing hard—as if he did this every day. And, hey, maybe he did do this every day? She didn’t know him. She didn’t even know . . .

“Uh . . . can I ask you a question?”

“Yes. That is a gun in my pocket.”

“Uh . . . okay. Good to know. But I was just going to ask . . . Uh . . . What’s your name? I mean I’ll understand if you can’t tell me. You probably go by a number like Agent Double-O-Forty-Seven or—”

“That’s not how it works.”

“I mean, you probably have a code name. So if I have to call you Falcon or Dragon or the Denominator—”

“I think that’s for math?”

“—or something I totally will. It’s just . . . what should I call you? Or, well, is there something I can call you that won’t make you have to kill me? Because I’d really prefer it if you weren’t trying to kill me, too.”

They were close enough that she could feel his breath, the rise and fall of his chest. She could see that his eyes were really two shades of blue—a ring of navy surrounding the light, clear blue that she had noticed on first glance.

So it was no surprise that she was close enough to see the little muscle in his jaw tighten. She just didn’t know what to make of it.

“Sawyer.” His voice was as warm as the sunlight that glowed around them. “Call me Sawyer.”

“Okay, Mr.—”

“Just Sawyer,” he said with a little more edge—like he wasn’t in the mood to be prodded with questions just to fill the very long stretch of very awkward silence.

“Yes. Absolutely. Just Sawyer it is. You can call me . . . Well, I guess that’s TBD. But that would be a terrible name, right? T-B-D? What kind of name—”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you ramble when you’re nervous?”

She had to smile; she might have blushed. Because, turns out, awkward silences weren’t her thing at all. “Well, now there’s at least one thing we know about me. Or two, I guess. After all, you know Alex, so you already know me better than I do.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but he shifted instead, trying to get comfortable on the very hard deck. She started to scoot away and give him his space, but an arm shot around her waist and pulled her closer.

“No. Don’t. The tarp can’t move and we don’t need your foot sticking out, so . . .” He shifted, and suddenly, parts of her were intertwined with parts of him, and she felt herself stop breathing for reasons that had nothing to do with covert operations.

“Right. Yes. Thank you for the reminder that we are currently in the middle of a slow-speed getaway. Did they teach you how to do this at spy school?”

“There’s no such thing as . . .” He trailed off and shook his head, but she saw the corner of his eyes crinkle—just a little. His jaw ticked again. And there was a note of wry amusement to his voice when he said, “No. Nothing in my training prepared me for this. Exactly.”

“Great. So we’re the same then.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say we’re exactly the—”

“Just winging it. Sawyer and the Denominator.”

He was looking at her like her head wound might be far more dangerous than he’d previously thought, but then his jaw did that thing again—that little tic. And, suddenly, she was warm for the first time in her entire memory, with the tarp blocking the wind and the sunlight filtering down and the heat coming off the man beside her.

She thought about giving him a little more space but didn’t. Because when cuddling with a hot guy is a matter of life and death, you just go with it. And, soon, her cheek was resting on his shoulder and her feet were nestled between his and the world felt quiet and still, despite the gentle rocking and listing of the boat.

“We’re probably to the Eiffel Tower by now,” he said softly.

“Really?” She desperately wanted to peek out and look, but his grip around her tightened.

“Don’t. Move,” he warned, shifting until her hand ended up resting on his chest because where else was she supposed to put it?

“We’ll just wait here until we get some distance,” he told her.

“Right. Good.”

So she lay there in that golden light, still and warm and oddly comfortable for the first time in her entire memory, while Paris passed her by.