The Thing About Love Page 8

  John smiled, touched by that. Rare was the occasion that his brother, the jokester of the family, openly expressed sentimentality.

  Then Nate continued. “Although I don’t know why. It’s not like you’re all that interesting. I mean, clearly these attention-getting stunts like becoming a Ranger, and joining the FBI, and climbing the outside of a four-story building without a net are an attempt to compensate for the fact that you’ve been living in the shadow of your much cooler younger brother for years.”

  And . . . there it was.

  Before he could answer, Nate pointed, as if just remembering something. “Speaking of attention-getting stunts, I ran into Lucas and Matt on Friday night. They came into the bar and asked about you. Matt gave me this big speech about how he’s just a victim in this, getting caught up in all the drama between you, Rob, and Alicia. And then Lucas said he thinks it’s bullshit that you’ve cut him out of your life, when he wasn’t even the one screwing your girlfriend.”

  John’s voice was almost a growl. “Is that what he said?”

  The shithead.

  Nate held up his hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. You know me, I’m a people person. I just listen and take in everything that everyone tells me, even if it’s bullshit.” He grinned. “And then, in this particular case, after taking it all in, I told them both to go fuck themselves and threw them out of my pub.”

  That got a slight smile out of John. “Good for you.” He almost wished he’d been there to see the looks on Matt’s and Lucas’s faces when his brother had tossed them out on their asses.

  Nate’s expression turned more serious. “Have you talked to Alicia at all?”

  “No.” And John had no intention of doing so. That was done. Both she and Rob had tried calling him while he’d been in Quantico for HRT tryouts, but he had nothing to say to either of them.

  He was moving on. Moving forward, in fact. Sure, he’d lost his home, his girlfriend, and three of his closest friends in one fell swoop, and on top of that, he was currently renting a small, somewhat crappy loft in Bucktown since he didn’t want to invest in anything permanent until he knew if he was staying in Chicago. And, probably, if he thought too hard about all of that, he’d feel pretty shitty about the whole situation.

  So he wasn’t thinking about it. Simple enough.

  They got to their cars, but before climbing into his, Nate paused and looked at John, as if musing over something.

  “Why does the name ‘Jessica Harlow’ sound so familiar?” he asked.

  “I told you. It’s probably just one of those names that has a ring to it.”

  “Still going with that, are you?” Nate asked.

  Damn right, he was.

  • • •

  John got into the office early on Monday morning, coffee in hand. He had a couple of big days of research ahead, which he kicked off by checking out the fake website that the Stagehand squad down in Jacksonville had launched over the weekend.

  “Looking sharp,” Ryan said, passing by John’s cubicle and checking out the picture on his computer. “Where they’d get the photo?”

  It clearly wasn’t a recent picture, since John—while clean-shaven in the photo—was currently sporting a two-week-old beard. Admittedly, some of that was out of laziness: Given the nature of his undercover roles, he’d gotten used to not shaving regularly. But on top of that, seeing how his so-called Sons of Anarchy motif seemed to irk a certain sleek public corruption agent, he figured he’d keep the look as long as possible. “I had it taken a few years back, for a sting op that fell through at the last minute.”

  “You look like you should be on the seventh floor, comparing cuff links with the rest of the white-collar guys and dropping pseudo-self-deprecating references to your Harvard MBA degree,” Ryan said.

  John grinned. Precisely the point.

  He continued clicking through the website, impressed with what the Stagehand squad had put together. Clearly, they’d been working behind the scenes for some time prelaunch, because the website looked professional, clean, and, most important, real. It was all there, an “About Us” section that had fake bios for both him and Jessica—or “Dave Rosser” and “Ashley Evers,” as they would be known while in their undercover identities; bios and photographs for two senior associates who also allegedly worked at the firm; several “Investment Strategy” pages dedicated to their firm’s current and former projects; a “News” section with phony press releases the firm had put out regarding some of their biggest projects; and, last but not least, a “Contact” page that included a business address, an e-mail address, and a phone number that, in reality, connected to an administrative assistant in the Chicago FBI office who’d been recruited to play the part of Dave and Ashley’s receptionist.

  Yeah, they were sneaky like that.

  For the next two days, John immersed himself in the world of private equity. He and Ashley ran Lakeshore Capital Partners, a small but lucrative firm that was headquartered in Chicago and focused on the hospitality sector, mostly restaurant and bar investments that fell within the $5 million to $25 million range. According to their website, their motto was to be “value creators who set ambitious goals while partnering with great talent in an opportunistic and cooperative approach to investment.”

  And, trust him, it would take all of his undercover skills not to literally gag on the words if he ever had to refer to himself as a “value creator” during this sting operation.

  Total white-collar-speak.

  The setup of the undercover op was relatively straightforward. He and Jessica would pretend that their firm was considering investing in a couple of restaurants and bars in Jacksonville, which, according to the case agents from the Jax office, had been gaining national recognition over the last couple years for its booming culinary scene. They wanted to test the market by opening an upscale wine bar and pizzeria in the Riverside neighborhood, and they’d identified the perfect location for the project: a vacant brick building that formerly had been a bank. Unfortunately, there were a few problems with the space.

  Because the building was located in a historic district, there were several zoning and parking issues. Currently, the space wasn’t zoned for outdoor seating in the back courtyard, which Lakeshore Capital Partners felt was a key part of the restaurant’s future success. They would also need to obtain a variance for additional signage and landscaping, as well as a permit for short-term street parking dedicated exclusively to the restaurant since another key part of their business plan was to allow customers to call in take-out pizza orders.

  With any luck, however, Jacksonville’s golden-boy mayor would be willing to make all of their zoning and parking problems go away. For the right price, of course.

  Wednesday morning, John got up before sunrise to pack his suitcase. He took a cab to O’Hare airport, which, not surprisingly, was crowded despite the early hour. After bypassing the general security lines—one of the privileges of being an FBI agent—he killed some time grabbing coffee at Starbucks and then took the neon-lit moving walkway to United’s Concourse C.

  At the gate, he spotted Jessica already sitting in the waiting area, checking her phone.

  His eyes held for a moment, watching as she tucked behind her ear a lock of blond hair that had fallen forward as she looked down at her phone. It was funny—in an irritating kind of way—how he could still remember practically every quip, sarcastic line, and dirty look she’d ever thrown him despite all the time that had passed. Which was no small feat, considering the plethora of quips, sarcastic lines, and dirty looks there’d been over the course of their twenty-one weeks together.

  But now . . .

  With a sigh, he braced himself and headed over. When she spotted him approaching, her expression turned wary as he sat down next to her and parked his suitcase.

  He looked sideways at her, and neither of them spoke for a mome
nt.

  “Ready for this?” he finally asked.

  “Probably not,” she said.

  Well, that made two of them. His gaze flickered over the black slim-fit suit and pink silk top she wore, with a skinny pink belt and black high heels that completed the ensemble. “Are all your suits this snazzy?” He wasn’t even sure why this made him cranky. He was an FBI agent; he was around women in suits all the time.

  Just none that looked like Jessica Harlow did in them.

  “Yes, they are all this ‘snazzy.’” In return, she checked out his jeans and blazer, and then her eyes came to rest on his unshaven jaw. “So this is the look you’re going with, then?”

  Not exactly, but she didn’t need to know that yet. “You don’t approve?”

  She was cut off from responding when the airline attendant announced that their flight was about to begin boarding.

  Jessica tucked her phone into her briefcase. “There are a few remaining details of our backstory we should probably lock down before we meet with the Jax agents. Maybe we should plan to discuss those during the drive from the airport to the hotel?”

  John stood up, preparing to board. “I was thinking the same thing.” Obviously, a public airplane wasn’t an appropriate place for two undercover agents to discuss the details of their covert sting operation, so they would have to wait until they were alone.

  “Good. Okay.” She took a deep breath, as if relieved to hear it, and stood up.

  Seeing her reaction, he felt a quick flash of frustration. Did she really think so little of him that she was worried he would be anything other than professional in this? He opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, but then she paused where she was standing, pretty close to him. She cocked her head, and something about the way she was looking at him right then made the curt words die on his lips.

  “What?” He shifted uncomfortably, his tone suspicious. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Her mouth curved at the edges. “Just trying to picture you with a man bun.”

  For chrissakes. Apparently, word about that had spread far and wide throughout the office.

  “The remarkably clean-cut John Shepherd I knew six years ago never would’ve gone for that,” she continued. “I guess a lot has changed.”

  He leaned in, lowering his voice as they stood close. “Or maybe you only think you knew me six years ago, Jessica.”

  Satisfied by the flash of surprise in her eyes, he let her stew on that as he turned around and walked toward the gate, giving her a nice, long look at his man buns since she seemed to be so interested.

  8

  The flight attendant stopped by their aisle with the beverage cart. “Can I get either of you anything to drink?”

  With a smile, Jessica gestured to the bottled water she had tucked into the seat pocket in front of her. “I’m good, thanks.”

  John sat next to her on the aisle. “I’m fine, too,” he told the flight attendant.

  “Well, if you change your mind and there’s anything you need, just let me know.” The flight attendant held John’s gaze for an extra-long moment. “Anything at all.”

  Observing this from her seat by the window, Jessica resisted the urge to roll her eyes as the flight attendant moved on to the next row.

  It was possible, she supposed, that the flight attendant—who was aware that both Jessica and John were armed federal agents via a code word on the passenger manifest—was just checking out John out of curiosity. But since Jessica herself had received little more than a passing glance, she suspected it had more to do with the fact that John looked . . . well, like John Shepherd always looked. He was definitely a man that people noticed—as she’d witnessed firsthand. Before takeoff, he’d stood up to help an older woman lift her carry-on into the overhead compartment and there’d literally been sighs of appreciation coming from the women in the nearby seats when he’d picked the thing up like it weighed nothing.

  Yes, fine, he’s good-looking, people. And oh-so-strapping. She got it.

  Although, for the record, she noted that his facial scruff was quickly approaching that fine line between dirty-hot and “MAN LOST AT SEA, SURVIVES ON KELP AND RAINWATER FOR THREE WEEKS!”

  Just saying.

  She checked the clock on her iPad mini, which doubled as her e-reader, and saw that a mere five minutes had passed since the last time she’d checked it.

  Crap.

  They were only a half hour into the flight, and this lack of conversation between her and John was beginning to grate on her. Granted, she came from a boisterous family—some probably would say “loud”—in which her lawyer father and psychologist mother had always encouraged her and her brother and sister to express their opinions and feelings. So, even under the best of conditions, she didn’t do well with awkward silences.

  In this particular case, however, she was trying to stifle her natural urge to fill the void, seeing how John clearly had zero interest in talking to her. The moment the plane had hit the runway, he’d pulled out of his briefcase a small stack of newspaper articles about Jacksonville’s culinary scene and had barely looked up since.

  Which was fine. The two of them would just sit here, mere inches from each other, partners but not talking.

  Nope, that wasn’t weird. Not at all.

  After Jessica had read the same paragraph on her e-reader five times and still had no idea what it said, she gave in and decided she would just have to be the bigger person here.

  “So have you been to Jacksonville before?” she asked politely, breaking the silence. She kept her voice down, just as a precautionary measure, even though she and John had the only two seats on their side of the aisle and no one was paying any attention to their conversation.

  John glanced up from the article he was reading and looked at her like she’d just said she wanted to yank open the emergency exit door and go for an impromptu skydive. “Of course I have. With you, Ashley, when we visited to look at possible locations for the restaurant we want to open. Remember?”

  Jessica stared at him. Ashley?

  Oh, for Pete’s sake . . . what was this, some kind of method-acting shit he did to get into undercover roles?

  She was never, ever working with anyone from organized crime again.

  “Right. Okay there, Dave,” she emphasized dryly, humoring him. “Not sure how I could’ve forgotten that.” She turned back to her e-reader, thinking she and Daniel Day-Lewis here were going to have an even longer couple of days than she’d imagined.

  After a few moments, she glanced over and saw John covering the side of his mouth with his hand as he read the article.

  She put down her e-reader. “You’re messing with me.”

  “You should’ve seen the look on your face.” He stretched out his legs, appearing far more comfortable than any man his size should when stuffed into an economy seat. “And in answer to your question, no, I’ve never been to Jacksonville before.”

  Jessica waited. When he went back to his reading, she cleared her throat pointedly. “And this would be the part of the conversation when you ask me if I’ve ever been to Jacksonville,” she said sweetly.

  He looked up. “Oh. All right. Have you ever been to Jacksonville?”

  “No.”

  Another silence fell between them.

  “Not much of a conversation starter, is it?” he asked.

  Cute. Fine, since inane pleasantries seemed to be beyond them, there was something she would, in fact, like to address. “What did you mean when you said that I only think I knew you six years ago?”

  “Been stewing on that, have you?”

  Not stewing. Just . . . interested. “I found it to be a curious statement. Especially since I think I got to know you pretty well six years ago.”

  He let out a bark of wry laughter. “Right.”

  Hmm. Rising t
o the challenge, she began ticking off the facts. “Born and raised in Chicago. Your father was a homicide detective, which got you interested in a career in law enforcement. You played football, well enough to get a scholarship to the University of Wisconsin, which I assume is where your huge competitive streak started—”

  “See, right there.” Cutting her off midsentence, he pointed and angled his body to face her. “That’s what I’m talking about. You say I’m the competitive one—because in your mind, you think that I was the bad guy with everything that happened at the Academy.”

  Jessica stared at him, thinking this was self-evident. “Well . . . yeah.”

  He shook his head. “And here I’d thought maybe, just maybe, you’d gained a little perspective over the last six years. But apparently, you’re still deluding yourself with this revisionist history.”

  Oh my God—revisionist history?

  Hell, no.

  She leaned in closer, being careful to keep her voice calm despite her rising temper. “What I remember—and, please, do correct me if I have any of this wrong—is you spending most of the training program hounding me, correcting me, telling me that I sucked, and then getting pissed off when it turned out that I didn’t.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the most incredible thing happened.

  John Shepherd blushed.

  “I only said you sucked that one time,” he grumbled. “And of course those are the parts you remember.”

  She threw up her hands in exasperation. “What other parts should I remember? If you weren’t the problem six years ago, then how do you explain all our disagreements?”

  He gave her a long, pointed look.

  “Wait. You’re saying I was the problem?” she asked incredulously.

  “Sucks learning that you aren’t perfect, doesn’t it?”

  Jessica opened her mouth to fire off a snarky reply, and then thought, no, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Okay, Shepherd. Let’s hear it. Lay out all your grievances. Because I’d love to know how, exactly, I was such a bad guy.”