"Papers?"
"Marriagelicense.Unlessyou want to live in sin."
"Ithought you hacked the state database and backdated it three years?"
"Idid."Hestands up, towering over me. "ButIwant to do it real.Iwant the ink on the paper.Iwant the ring on your finger.Iwant the whole damn town to know that if they look at you sideways, they answer to me."
Heatclimbs my throat, a sudden, sharp constriction in my chest.Ipunch him lightly in the arm. "You’rejust doing this so you can drag me to the hardware store afterwards."
"Frankgot a new shipment of copper wiring," he admits, deadpan. "Butmostly, it’s the ring thing."
Thedrive intoPineValleyis different this time.
Thefirst timeIwas in this truck,Iwas a captive.Iwas terrified, freezing, and plotting five different ways to stab him with a soldering iron.Now, the heater is blasting, country music is playing low on the radio, andDaniel’shand is resting on my thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles on my jeans.
Thesnow is piled high on the banks of the winding road, turning the trees into white-dipped sculptures.It’sbeautiful.Inever noticed the beauty before.Iwas too busy looking for sniper nests.
Wepark onMainStreet, right in front of theCozyCup.Thetown looks like something out of a snow globe—red brick buildings, fairy lights strung across the street, smoke curling from chimneys.It’sdisgustingly charming.
Danielkills the engine but doesn't move.Hescans the street.Left.Right.Rooftops.Alleyways.
"Clear," he mutters.
"Youcan relax, you know.Youdeleted me."
"Inever relax."Heopens his door. "Comeon."
Themoment we step into the cafe, the smell hits me—roasted beans, sugar, and cinnamon.It’swarm and noisy and alive.
Thenoise dies instantly.
Eyestrack us with raw curiosity.DanielGunnaris a myth to most of these people.TheNomadwho never stays.TheTrackerwho haunts the mountains.Seeinghim walk in the front door, in broad daylight, with a woman’s hand tucked firmly in his, is apparently the equivalent of seeing a unicorn order a latte.
"Well, look what the blizzard blew in."
Apetite woman with dark hair and an apron that saysEspressoYourselfleans over the counter.Thereshe is.Christie, the central node of thePineValleyinformation network.IftheNSAhad her, terrorism would be solved byTuesday.
"Christie,"Danielnods. "Twoblacks.Andwhatever pastry has the most sugar in it."
"Howabout you,Kaila?"Christie’seyes dart to me, sparkling with mischief. "You’reout in public now; you really caught the tracker."
"Technically, he caught me.Ijust hacked his firewall."
Christielaughs, a bright, chiming sound. "Ilike her.She’sgot sass.Youneed sass,Daniel.You’retoo grumpy."
"I’mnot grumpy,"Danielangles his chin in a sharp, singular motion. "I’mfocused."
"Focusedon being grumpy,"Christiecorrects.Shehands me a massive blueberry muffin. "Onthe house, honey.WelcometoPineValley.Ifyou need to know which mechanic rips you off or which hairstylist burns scalps, you come to me."
"Noted,"Isay, taking a bite.It’sheavenly.
Wetake a table in the back corner—Daniel’schoice, obviously.Wallat our backs, full view of the entrance.
"Sheknows,"Iwhisper.
"Sheknows everything,"Danielsays, sipping his black coffee. "Mike, the owner, is solid.ButChristietalks.Bynoon, everyone from the hardware store to theLodgewill know we’re here."
"Isthat safe?"