I was toying with her. Of course, I wanted to kiss her. More than anything. But I wanted to see that she wanted it as badly as I did. She was such a flirt over text, but my experience tells me that some girls can say the dirtiest things in texts and not have anything to show for it in real life. Our texts didn’t get dirty, but they were fun. Still, I wasn’t sure how surprising her at her shop would go. It could’ve been a total disaster. Luckily, it wasn’t. She said yes.

I try to make the kiss last as long as possible. I hold her by her waist and bury my head in her bosom. They are just the right size. And natural. Perfect. She tastes of wine and fruit and chocolate. I lick my lips after we pull away.

“You taste delicious,” I say. She blushes.

“I had some sangria earlier. And chocolate,” she puts her hand over her mouth. I pull it away, and kiss her beautiful lips again. I want to rip off her shirt and hike up her skirt. I want to fuck her. Hard. From the look in her eyes, I’m pretty sure that she’d let me. Maybe even close down the shop so that we aren’t disturbed. But I’m running late. I already stayed much longer than I should have.

Reluctantly, I pull away from Avery.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, tilting her head and flashing me a smile. My knees feel wobbly. I know I’m in trouble.

“I have to go.”

“Noooooo.” She pulls me closer.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I push away. Shit. Why did this have to happen today of all days?

“Where do you have to go? You don’t have a job!”

“I do have a job. An obligation. It’s a pretty serious one too,” I look down at my watch. I’m late. Really late. He hates lateness. Doesn’t tolerate it.

“What is it?” she asks, jumping off the counter. She crosses her arms across her chest. She pouts her lips. If only I didn’t have to leave right away. I have a few ideas of how I could make that pout disappear.

“It’s difficult to explain,” I say. I don’t want to lie to her – wow, that’s a first – but I can’t tell the truth either.

“I’m going on a very important business trip tomorrow. I won’t be able to stay in contact. Not constant contact.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Avery turns away from me and pretends to work on a centerpiece.

I turn her around.

“Because I don’t want you to think that I’m ignoring you. I like you Avery. A lot. But I can’t stay. I have to go. I have a meeting with my director, and I’m running late. Tomorrow I have to leave. I’m not sure when I’ll be in touch again, but I will pick you up for the wedding. I promise.”

She shakes her head, as if she understands. In today’s age of constant contact and almost infinite technology, it’s a little hard to explain why I’m going to go pretty much underground for a month, but this is the best explanation that I can offer.

I bend down to her ear. I move hair off her shoulders and kiss the back of her neck. She moans a little. I want her to remember these words.

“I like you, Avery. A lot.”

I race through Topanga Canyon, breaking all speeding records. Here, the problem is not so much the police hiding behind curves, but the curves themselves. The road is windy and steep.

It’s not advisable to go faster than 50 miles per hour. I’m meeting Franklin Truman on a park bench on the Santa Monica Pier. I’m late, of course. It’s only by fifteen minutes, but fifteen minutes is like two hours in Truman time.

“I was about to leave,” he says, looking straight at me. I don’t apologize. That would be admitting a mistake, and that’s a big no-no with Truman. To him, an apology is a sign of regret, and regrets are unprofessional.

Santa Monica Pier is swirling with happy families and pets. Everyone around us is having fun and smiling.

“This isn’t the best place to meet if you wanted to fit in,” I say. “Given your propensity to stare ahead with a serious expression on your face.”

He turns to me. I know better than to expect a sarcastic smile from him. Franklin Truman has no sense of humor. I’ve never seen him smile or even make a joke. Perhaps that’s one of the requirements of being the director of Daffodil, but I have the feeling that I’d run it completely differently. Daffodil is the name of the secret organization within the CIA I made the terrible mistake of joining all those years ago. Part-time work, my ass.

“Augusto Sanchez has already started to consolidate power,” Truman says. “He’s had at least five ministers who helped him conduct the military coup arrested. Many have disappeared. None of our operatives on the ground know how many civilians have vanished. He has completely taken over the newspapers and the media. Analysts are saying that he’s well on his way to becoming the next Kim Jong-Il.”

I nod.

“We have intelligence that suggests that he’s going to be on his yacht on the night of the 18^th. Are you still going to your brother’s wedding?”

“I’m the best man.”

“Fine, that will do. It might actually be a good cover as to why you’re there.”

“A convenient cover is not really what I’m looking for that weekend,” I say. Truman ignores me. My wisecracks used to get under his skin. He used to take them very personally. Over the years, he has learned to pay them no attention.

Truman is in his late 50’s, but his body looks like it belongs to a 70 year old. He doesn’t take care of himself - he eats too much and drinks too much. He has no sense of style or fashion. He’s wearing a relatively new suit, but the collar is open and the shirt is crumpled. The pants look like he has slept in them for three days straight. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that he’s some put upon traveling salesman, a Willy Loman type.

“They are expecting you in D.C. tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there. Of course, I have nothing better to do than to go through more useless tests.”

Testing and training is very important in the CIA, and it’s especially important in Daffodil. What they conveniently forgot to mention to me when I signed my contract with them is that, though I’m only obliged to complete a certain number of missions a year, each mission also comes with extensive training, planning and testing components. There are tests on stress and concentration, fatigue and general physical discomfort. There are tests on conventional firearms and tactical training and, of course, analytical training. The training and testing vary depending on the depth and the scope of the mission, but they do have one thing in common: they are all a major pain in the ass.

“Don’t forget the bag,” Truman says, getting up.

“Now, when have I ever forgotten the bag?” I hiss back. That one was just to irritate him. I’ve never met any other agents from Daffodil – it’s not like we have conventions every year to discuss our career paths – but I really hope that I’m the most annoying one that Truman has to work with. Anything short of that, and I’d be disappointed in myself.