The Blonde Identity: A Novel

“Well then he said, what’s the use of having an emotional support goat if it’s not going to be in the wedding?” Mrs. Michaelson said and Mrs. Michaelson’s new friends laughed and laughed and laughed, utterly enchanted.

She’d been telling stories for two courses, so it was a relief when she paused to take a sip of the very pink drink that Lorenzo, her new BFF-slash-waiter, had brought her. But then she took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “But what we didn’t know is that no one had fed Beatrice yet that morning, and that”—dramatic sigh—“is why I don’t have a wedding ring.”

Zoe held up her bare hand and a chorus of boos and oh nos echoed around the table.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if Sawyer hadn’t felt her leaning against his side—fitting them together like a puzzle. “But I told him, you don’t have to worry about someone trying to steal me on our honeymoon because it’s gonna be so obvious that I”—she booped him on the nose—“belong”—boop—“to—”

In a flash, he grabbed her wrist and tugged until she was sprawled across his lap, resting in his arms. Close. So close. Entirely too close! There was no tactical reason for them to be that close, but he didn’t trust her not to boop him again. And if she did, well, he wouldn’t be responsible for what happened. But that didn’t change the fact that their lips were inches apart and her tongue was peeking out to swipe at a spot of wayward chocolate.

He’d almost forgotten they weren’t alone until the traitors of table seven started tapping their glasses, chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

He should have let her pull away—lose herself in her second helping of chocolate mousse—but she needed to learn her lesson about life in deep cover. That any lie you tell becomes your truth. So he leaned closer.

He could feel her breath on his lips when he whispered, “You did this to yourself, Mrs. Michaelson.”

Then he kissed her. Because covers. And lessons. And, really, they’d almost kissed once already. This wasn’t that much different than the street. Except in all the ways it was. Because, this time, she tasted like chocolate and she smelled like raspberries, and she was a soft, pleasant weight against his chest. And that dress was serving her breasts up like they were his actual dessert, so he stopped fighting and let himself taste her, feel her, breathe her in until her fingernails scraped against his scalp and she gave a sharp little intake of breath. His lips parted and her tongue peeked out and . . .

“Well, someone’s having a real honeymoon,” Marc muttered, and Sawyer jerked away. But Zoe was still blinking up at him, and he couldn’t tell if she was mad or disappointed. The band began to play and people were starting to dance, but Zoe just sat there, staring.

“What?” he asked, but she was quiet for the first time since he’d known her. Her fingers brushed against her lips and there was a dazed look in her eyes. “Your head okay?”

“Who . . . who are you?” The other couples had all taken to the dance floor and the brothers had dozed off on the other side of the table, so Sawyer and Zoe were more or less alone when she said, “Where did you grow up? How long have you known Alex? When did you become”—she cast her eyes around in a textbook example of what not to do—“a spy? Why did you become a spy? How—”

“Let’s dance.” Sawyer pulled her to her feet and she tucked into him without missing a beat. He could practically feel her smug smile against his shoulder—like this had been her evil plan all along.

But then she gazed up at him, eyes hazy in the dim room. “Is Sawyer your real name?”

Sawyer didn’t want to think about the answer. She was the one with amnesia, but he’d spent his whole life being other people. Arms dealers and mercenaries, smugglers and thieves. He’d spent five long years working his way into Kozlov’s inner circle—a place where even the good guys have to be bad. Zoe was pink drinks and funny stories and what the world feels like after a rain. He was nothing but a long list of names and backstories, legends and lies.

He was no longer sure where the covers stopped and the man began, so he just told her, “It’s one of them.”

She made a sound that was twenty percent anger and sixty percent frustration and one hundred percent Zoe. So he dipped her.

“Five years . . .” he said to her upside-down face. “I met Alex five years ago.” He pulled her slowly upright, felt her nestle back into his arms. “And at the time I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

“Oh.” Her voice was rough. “But she’s not anymore?”

He brushed a piece of hair out of her face and told himself to stop talking, stop sharing, stop breaking protocol and taking chances, but it felt like the most obvious thing in the world to say, “Now she’s second.”

Then Zoe blushed and pressed her forehead against his chest.

When the band changed to something slower, he should have told her the night was over. They had eaten. They had danced. No one would ask questions if the newlyweds slipped away. But for some reason he pulled her closer because, well, a spy learns to trust his gut.

When she put her head on his shoulder, he whispered, “Just so you know, the more lies you tell, the more you’ll have to remember.”

But she sighed into him, chest rising and falling in time with the music and his own breath. “I won’t forget. Right now, my fake life is the only one I have.”