Allied

Chapter 9

Georgie

Washington, D.C., Present Day

I think I'm becoming addicted to coffee.

I look down at my third skinny caramel latte glumly, idly prodding the foam with a wooden stir-stick. Over the past three days, I've become a regular at The Bean Company; it's the kind of coffee shop where all of the coffee cups are compostable, they serve Buddha bowls, and their holiday decorations are non-denominational paper snowflakes. Oh, and they serve chocolate energy balls, too. Most of which I religiously stress eat by noon.

I'm not, like, worried about Patrick in prison. I just really like energy balls.

Okay, so maybe I'm a little worried.

Logically, I know that Patrick is an ex-cop. He can handle himself just fine behind bars for a week. But I also know that Patrick has a bad habit of being sarcastic when he shouldn't, and — although they fare better in prison than, say, pedophiles — human traffickers aren't exactly welcomed at the Washington State Penitentiary with open arms by the other inmates.

I go up to the counter and order more energy balls.

I'm just popping the third one into my mouth when my phone rings, and I press it to my ear, speaking through a mouth of gummy chocolate. "Hello?"

"Georgie?" Cara sounds concerned. "Are you alright? You sound funny."

"Fine," I manage, swallowing hard. "Just, you know." I pause. "Eating chocolate."

"Oh, honey," Cara says sympathetically. "Is this a Patrick thing?"

I roll my eyes, using the stir-stick to swirl the cinnamon around as it dissolves into the latte foam. "Why do you girls always assume it's a Patrick thing?"

"Let me guess." Cara sounds amused. "You had sex with him."

"I did not have sex with him," I hiss loudly. At the next table, a mother helping her daughter cut her cream-cheese bagel into small squares gives me an affronted look, and I make an apologetic face before lowering my voice. "And it's not always a Patrick thing."

"But it is this time," Cara says smugly. There are cars honking in the background, and I can just picture her strutting around the University of Colorado in her heeled booties, smiling triumphantly as she walks home from law school. "Why don't you just sleep with him already?"

"Because I don't want to."

"Liar," she says immediately.

"Fine." I stab at the foam. "Because things are complicated." I pause, calculating exactly how much I can legally tell Cara. "Patrick and I are working on the same case at the moment, and we're going to be staying together in Colorado for a month. Just the two of us."

I hold the phone away from my ear as Cara squeals into the receiver.

"You didn't tell me that you're coming to Colorado!" she says accusingly, and I can hear the beeping of a crosswalk signal. "And that you're staying in a house with a sexy Irish export. What sort of best friend are you?"

I fiddle with the stir-stick. "It was kind of a last minute decision."

"You have to bring Patrick to the wedding," Cara says immediately, and her voice brooks no argument. "I'll speak to Mia for you."

I sigh. "I've already called her."

As I predicted, when I phoned Mia yesterday, the bride-to-be was more than happy that I invited Patrick — I think she might have even done a little jig — but she did seem unusually stressed out about his dietary requirements. Although I assured Mia repeatedly that Patrick would love the steak and potatoes that they were serving at the reception, she remained unconvinced.