Full Circle: 1980 - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Six

He has no earthly idea where it is women put things, when confined to the pocketless doom of an evening gown.

He suspects there may be a protocol of some sort, though it must be marked with a level of classification that Matt doesn't yet have the clearance for. The closest he ever came to breeching it was at his junior prom, when his date made quick work out of utilizing his pockets in the absence of her own. Matt thought that was awfully smart and made a point to offer his services the next year, but his date to the senior prom required no such assistance. To this day, he still isn't sure where she kept her lipstick.

It occurs to him that this is likely the reasoning behind purses, but Abby ain't wearing a purse—not even one of those little ones with the clip on top—which begs the question: where is she holding everything?

More specifically, where is she holding the diskette?

His eyes catch on the sight of sheer, silky emerald, wrapping around her waist and flowing down her leg. It puffs around her shoulders and it cuts at her neckline. From her pinned-up hair to her high-heeled toe, Matt searches for a little square silhouette, but she's tucked it away someplace impossible to see, because she's good. Because she's better than him. Because Matt doesn't have a chance at completing this mission.

Get the disk. Don't get caught. It seems so simple on the surface.

He's quickly learning that nothing involving Abigail Cameron is simple. "You clean up pretty good, hot stuff."

Delicate green gloves climb up her forearm as she holds out her hand, anticipating his kiss. He takes it, as any gentleman would, but as he greets her, his gaze lingers on the smoothness of her dress, searching for any sign. "You sound surprised."

It isn't tucked into the seam at her hip. It's not stashed away in her bow. She might be hiding it in her hair, but that seems strange even for her. "Not surprised," she says. "Just curious."

The way she says it catches his ear—a signal among static—but he lacks the necessary context to decipher it. Instead, he adds it to the running list of things he doesn't understand about women, and about this woman in particular.

Her arm slides through his, finding its usual spot as the pair of them make their way around a decorated table. There are salad forks, and dinner forks, and dessert forks. There are wine glasses and water glasses. He can think of no reason why a person might need so many knives in a single sitting, as he tries to recall his studies from the night before. One is for butter, and another is for steak. He's split fifty-fifty on whether or not the third knife is just there to mess with his head.

It doesn't seem entirely fair that he has to manage a faux data recovery operation against the best recruit in their class and keep track of his cutlery, but it's impolite to complain.

Lincoln hasn't yet entered the grand dining room, but even so, Matt hears his words just the same as he has, day after brutal day—words of survival, and worth, and honor. It's far easier than standing at your grave. Matt is a simple man surrounded by geniuses, but even he knows it ain't no coincidence that he's been assigned the hardest task of the evening. Lincoln wants his proof, and he wants it sooner instead of later.

Abby's free hand falls to his shoulder, grounding him in a way that is, so far, rare between the two of them. She ticks a subtle nod toward her chair before Matt catches sight of the nameplate: Astoria Clarke, Duchess of Valancia. "A duchess?" he teases.

"Surprised?" she says.

"Not surprised," and that much is true. She's dressed like a duchess and carries herself twice as well. If anyone in the room can play the part, then it is almost certainly her. "Just curious."