And then came Alan.
Alan picked up his water glass. Set it down. Adjusted the silverware.
Wait, was henervous?
Stop.
This was an op. Sophia Randall was a target. A means to an end. He would be warm, attentive, interesting—the version of himself that opened doors and lowered defenses. Three months of careful cultivation, maybe four, until she trusted him enough to let details slip about a certain Russian General, and his movements. Then he’d pass the intel to Crowley, and this particular domino would fall, and the next phase would begin.
Clean. Simple. No one gets hurt.
He almost believed it.
The front door opened, letting in a gust of October air and the sound of rain, and?—
There she was.
The dossier photo had been her CIA badge picture. Flat lighting, the kind of expression people wore when told to look at the camera and not smile. It hadn’t prepared him for the woman who stood in the doorway shaking rain from a dark blue umbrella, scanning the room with quick brown eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
She was smaller than he’d expected. Five-five, maybe five-six in the low heels she wore under dark jeans and a fitted blazer. Sable brown hair, damp at the temples, pulled back in a way that was professional but not severe. No flashy jewelry—just small gold studs and a watch that looked practical rather than pretty.
She spotted him.
And smiled.
Not coy. Not performative. Just—warm. Open.
Something shifted in his chest. Subtle. Involuntary.
He stood. Extended his hand as she reached the table. “Sophia.”
“Alan.” Her grip was firm, confident, her palm cool from the rain. “You’re taller than your photos.”
“You’re prettier than yours.”
“Flattery already?” She hung her umbrella on the back of her chair and sat, one eyebrow raised. “We haven’t even ordered bread.”
“I believe in getting an early start.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Good to know.”
The waiter arrived—young, tattooed, a Georgetown kid working the dinner shift. Sophia ordered the house red without looking at the wine list, which told him something. She knew this place. She was comfortable here.
He ordered the same.
“So,” she said, settling in, elbows on the table in a way that was slightly unladylike and entirely charming. “Alan Martin. You’re not catfishing me.”
“Nope.”
“I wasn’t sure. Your profile was very... curated. Private security consulting. Well-traveled. ‘Looking for someone who can hold a real conversation.’” She tilted her head. “That last part either means you’re genuinely interesting or you’re very good at seeming interesting.”
“Can’t it be both?”
She laughed. A real one—surprised out of her, short and bright. “We’ll see.”
The wine arrived. She swirled, sniffed, sipped, all without pretension—just a woman who liked wine and knew what she liked. The house red was a Montepulciano, and it stirred up memories that he dashed in a second.
“Your turn,” he said. “Government consulting.” He made a face. “That’s even more curated than mine.”