It's a Long Story

Three Years, Six Months

Three years and six months after The Incident

“No, you have to put it on the left.”

“I really don't think it matters where I write it down, Townsend.  As long as it does, actually, get written down.”

His gaze left the man they were tailing.  “Only information pertaining to the actual members goes on the right.  Any other informants go on the left.”

“But it’s his bodyguard.  Therefore it goes on the right.—I’ll just put it in the middle.”

“The middle?” he hissed, entirely disgusted.  

“You know what?” she snapped.  “I’m not doing this.  You can’t micromanage me.”

She tossed the pen and paper down onto the little table between them.  He had known for years that he could not micromanage Abigail Cameron, and yet he still tried.  Whether that spoke volumes to his stubbornness or to hers, he wasn’t sure.  “What’s the matter, Abigail?  Had a bit too much to drink perhaps?”  The man they were tailing walked up his steps, taking cover for the night.  They would have to start again tomorrow and hope he did something more interesting.  “Careful.  We both know how that story ends.”

“The champagne is for show, asshole,” she said, but then she seemed to think something over and reached for the glass, taking a sip.  He glanced at her disbelievingly.  She shrugged.  “It doesn’t do me much good if the glass is full at the end of the night.  People will talk—mostly about you.”

“Right. They’ll say ‘Look at how much fun that woman is having with that man. She doesn’t even need to drink.  I wish I had a marriage like that instead of the sad excuse for romance I have, which I’m trying to save with an unaffordable trip to Rome.’ “

She smiled.  He liked it when she smiled.  “Oh, so we’re married now?”

“If you want to be technical about it, we’ve always been married.”

She scoffed.  “I mean our covers.  Because this afternoon you told me we’d be playing Jonathan Ritz and Anna Calore, who, you clarified, are just dating.”

She took another sip, the bubbles in her glass floating up to her lips.  Edward Townsend had never once thought that he’d be jealous of a bubble, but here he was, on the opposite side of the table from her and very much not on her lips.  “Well, dear Anna.  Apparently we’re married now.”

“Must’ve been a short engagement,” she quipped.

“Well, in my experience that’s usually how it goes.”

“How did you ask me?”

“What?”

The question had caught him off guard.  Everything about her caught him off guard.  “How did you ask me?” she asked again.  “If you’re going to change the legend on me halfway though an op at least do it right.”

He nodded, understanding that they spy part of her was taking over.  “Restaurant,” he said with a dismissive wave.  Again, she scoffed.  “What?” he asked.  “What is it now?”

“Restaurant,” she mocked, twisting her face up in a way that almost made her unattractive.  Almost.  “That’s what you choose for our fictional engagement?  I’d bet even your drunken proposal three years ago was better than that.”

She stared him down, daring him to elaborate.  Twisting his chest up until he felt like it might burst.  He didn’t know where they were at, relationship wise.  There weren’t exactly self-help books on the topic of dating someone who you dodged death with on a daily basis.  But he highly suspected that the idea of a proposal was beyond Jonathan and Anne, so he leaned forward, shoving his chicken to the side.  He had one goal in mind.  He was going to woo Abigail Cameron.