Chapter 9 – Innocent

Addy –

Coming down the last staircase, I hear voices—a loud, high pitched female’s mingling with the low rumbly one of my neighbor. I hadn’t thought about having a drama like last night’s or my new neighbor sleeping in my bed when I invited my employees, who have become my friends, to come on in whenever they pleased.

It didn’t take me long to pass out last night. I haven’t had a panic attack in years, well over a decade, but they always exhaust me. Plus, I was lying in Crew’s arms, I was warm and it felt good. I slept hard, but had no trouble remembering last night’s disturbing events the second my eyes opened. Even if I hadn’t, the mess created from my escape plan was enough to jolt me back to reality. I’m not sure when Crew left my bed, but the moment I looked in the mirror, I was mortified he slept with me.

Horrid. I looked absolutely horrid.

I’m not one of those women who cry elegantly, or even delicately, for that matter. Maybe that’s just in movies and books, but even so, horrid doesn’t even begin to describe it. My eyes are swollen, red, and my face is still puffy from my crying jag. My hair was a mess. I brushed it into a low ponytail, which helped a little, but I’m going to need cucumbers or tea bags for my eyes. Who knows when they’ll deflate. Brushing my teeth and washing my face helped a bit, but not much. I was still in my dress so I changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

“I can’t believe you’ve lived here for a couple months and I’m just now meeting you,” Clara declares as I hit the bottom step and wonder if I should go back up to my room to take a shower. I’m not sure I’m up for Clara this morning, especially since she’s talking to Crew. Not only will she demand to know what’s wrong the second she sees me, but she’ll also demand to know why I have a man in my house.

I haven’t dated since I moved here, but she’s tried to set me up with one of her husband’s co-workers a few times. I wasn’t interested and really, I never wanted to take the time. Whitetail is more than a full time job. I work at least six days a week, sometimes seven if we’re slammed. I’m too preoccupied protecting my investment to worry about adding a man to the mix.

“I’m busy with work,” I hear him say and that makes me wonder what he’s really busy with, since I’m pretty sure after last night, he’s not clicking away at a keyboard creating accounting programs.

I should turn around and take a shower, but my curiosity gets the best of me. I need to know what’s going on. I need to decide if I can really trust Crew. Most importantly, I need to make the decision if I have to leave or if I get to stay. A decision like this requires a clear head and all the facts, so I’m grateful for my decent night’s sleep. If Crew hadn’t broken into my house, I’m sure I’d be gone right now. My instinct to flee would’ve gotten the best of me, I’m sure.

I also need to figure out how he broke into my house without triggering the alarm. I did my best not to think about that one last night when he held me tight in his arms. I didn’t need anything else to stress me out.

All eyes come to me when I turn the corner. My old farmhouse is built hell for stout, there’re no squeaks or creaks in the old wood floors and stairs. Although, I could’ve used a creak or two last night when Crew snuck up on me like a stealth ninja.

“Holy shit. What’s wrong with you?” I knew that was coming and Clara certainly didn’t let me down.

I’m forced to look away from her. This is because Crew is standing against my counter holding a coffee cup. If my eyes weren’t so swollen, I’m sure they’d pop out of my head at the sight of my neighbor. His shirt is unbuttoned and hanging open, giving me a glimpse of his chest and abs. He has a smidgen of chest hair trailing down his tanned skin, disappearing into his now wrinkled suit pants. When I look down, his large feet are bare and crossed at the ankles.

It’s crazy, but even his feet look strong.

“You sleep okay?” I look up and he’s tipping his mug to his full lips. Lips that’ve been on mine—in the White House of all places. Oh, and in my bedroom. And my bed. His dark eyes are narrowed, and if I had to guess, he’s trying to figure out what he’ll get from me after last night.

“Addy, what happened to you?” Clara interjects, demanding an answer. She’s sitting in a kitchen chair leaned back, making room for her growing belly.

Trying to ignore Crew, I answer her, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Did he do that to you? Your face is swollen and puffy,” she snaps. Then she turns to Crew and pointing a finger straight at him, not letting the fact that he’s built like a brick house compared to her petite pregnant frame frighten her. “What in the hell did you do to her? You were obviously with her last night and she’s been crying. Why was she crying—”

“Clara, enough,” I have to raise my voice to get her attention. After last night and how Crew proved he’d do anything to keep me safe, I don’t like her accusation, and I really don’t like her yelling at him. I go on firmly, “Lower your voice. You don’t know him yet, but Crew wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t want you speaking to him like that.”

At my defense of Crew, her eyes get big and she looks taken aback.

Her voice dips when she asks, “What?”

I sigh, still tired. I look over at Crew whose head is tipped with his eyes on me. They’re sharp with a hint of surprise, too. Looking back to Clara, I reiterate, “You’ll see in time. He’d never do anything to upset me. This,” I flip my hand toward my face as I move to get coffee, “is nothing. I must’ve had an allergic reaction last night.”

“I didn’t know you were allergic to anything.” She frowns as she stares, confused by everything, I’m sure.

“Me either. Maybe it’s just the White House. I’m probably allergic to politicians.” Of course Crew is standing in front of my coffee cups. I do my best to ignore his bare chest and abs when I bite my lip while saying, “You’re…in my way.”

He doesn’t move, but his free hand comes around my lower back, hauling me to him. When my body is plastered to the front of his, he holds me tight. He doesn’t look away when he sets his mug down on the counter while pressing in on my back. The next thing I know, he’s leaning in to kiss me, and not at all chastely, right in front of Clara.

Just like last night, both at the White House and in my room, I melt into him.

When he finally breaks his kiss, he leans away just enough where I can only see his eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

I don’t say anything, but give him a ghost of a smile.

He gives me a squeeze. “You didn’t answer me.”

Putting my hands to his shirt, I try to push away and my voice comes out small. “I need coffee.”

“How did you sleep?” he repeats, and damn if he doesn’t sound as if he really cares.

Looking up into his dark brown eyes, I give up. He’s not going to let me go until I answer. “Better than I thought I would.”

He finally pulls away a bit, still keeping me close. “I’m glad you slept. How do you take your coffee? I’ll get it for you.”

I tip my head and raise my brows. “I thought you knew everything.”

He smiles big enough that his dimple greets me. “I know a lot, but I don’t know that.”

This brings my thoughts back to last night, wondering about his so-called clearance and what he actually does know. For now, if he wants to get me coffee, I’ll let him. I can’t remember the last time someone got me a cup of coffee.

“Lots of cream and a half-teaspoon of sugar.”

He grins and kisses my forehead before releasing me.

When I turn, Clara’s eyes are bugged out of her head. Shrugging, I give her the look that threatens, not now. She frowns, unhappy as she likes to be kept abreast of all juicy details in life, no matter the subject. I shouldn’t be surprised when she keeps at me. “Politicians might be jackasses, but no one’s allergic to them. Why do you look like that?”

“It’s not a big deal. I’ll be fine.” I try to appease her so she’ll quit badgering me and decide to change the subject. “Why’re you here? I can’t remember your schedule—do you need help?”

“No.” She starts as she rubs her belly and continues to be the in-your-face friend I know her to be. Usually I love it, but today it’s annoying. “I wanted to see how last night went. When I saw the cows without you this morning, I couldn’t wait any longer. That’s when I found hunka-hunka burning love here, making coffee in your kitchen. I gave him the what-for, he explained he’s your neighbor. I bought it, deciding not to kick his ass until you came down looking like that. But just sayin’,” she raises her brows, giving me her serious face, “he didn’t have a shirt on when I got here.”

Huh, I don’t remember him taking his shirt off last night.

“Anyhoots,” she continues, “Mr. Fancy Pants convinced me he was A-okay. I figured you hooked up with someone at the White House. I was all excited for you until he told me he was your neighbor and you were still in bed. Then I find out he’s not only your neighbor, but he’s the smoochie kind of neighbor who you’re a teensy bit protective of. So, I want to know—why haven’t I met him? And if everyone else knows about the smooches but me, I’m gonna be pissed.”

I hear a chuckle when a steaming cup of coffee appears in front of me at the same moment I feel his lips on the top of my head. I ignore him and glare at her. “You’re fired.”

“Ha!” she belts. “I’m not fired. You’re already worried what’s going to happen when I pop this next monster out and I’m down for the count. You know I’ll bring the baby to work just to get out of the house. Trust me—kids have you snowed for at least the first fifteen months before they turn on you.”

“You want coffee?” Crew asks Clara.

She smirks. “No thanks, Hot Lips.” Looking back at me, she adds, “He hasn’t met my children. They don’t need any caffeine in the womb to spur them on, do they?”

Well, at least she speaks the truth.

“How was last night? Did you see the President? Or get close to him? Did people fawn over our wine? Please tell me you drummed me up some business,” she rapid fires questions at me.

I sit back in my chair and sigh, angry my big night for the winery was ruined by Sheldon O’Rourke or whoever he is, and whatever he’s trying to do. Thinking back before the drama in the Red Room, I look at her across the table. “It was great. Everything was from the region. Obviously, there wasn’t any fanfare about the wine, that wasn’t what the night was about. But there was a write-up about it in the program and menu. I stole a copy, it’s in my purse. I’ll find it later—we’ll have it framed or something.”

“So cool. I still can’t believe our goods were served at the White House.” She smiles, hauling herself up to her feet. “I can’t wait to get the marketing materials back—I plan on slapping potential clients silly with it. I’ve gotta go, I have an appointment in thirty and I walked up that damn hill. I should’ve driven.”

“I—” but stop myself. Not knowing what’s going on, I decide to finish carefully. “Maybe I’ll be in later, but I might work from here. Call if you need anything.”

Clara looks at Crew and then back to me, smiling with big eyes. “If I wasn’t married with three monsters and one on the way, I’d work from here, too. Especially if he’s all you made him out to be.”

“You’re fired again.” I finally smile.

She waddles to the back door of the kitchen, but on her way she leans in close to me and whispers, “Put some ice on your face. Later, I’ll send Evan down with some cucumbers for your eyes. You need a little…um…rejuvenation.” When she stands, she gives me a serious as shit look, telling me I look as bad as I thought I did.

When the door slams, my chest instantly tightens. I’m alone again with Crew. I came down this morning, planning to demand answers, but now I’m afraid to ask and more afraid of what I might find out.

I huff once and shake my head. Leaning my elbows on the table, I rub my swollen eyes. “I look like shit.”

“Addison,” he calls for me. I look up and to the side. He’s standing at the counter again, this time with his arms crossed, his voice soft. “You don’t look like shit.”

“I feel like shit. I’m sorry about last night. And I’m really sorry about your car.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

“I haven’t had a panic attack in years. I learned to cope as I got older, but last night I…lost it. Controlling my environment is the only way I can keep it in check. I haven’t had one like that in a long time.”

He doesn’t respond, but moves to me and yanks out a chair. Before I know it, my hands are in his where I’m forced to turn and face him. Leaning in to rest his elbows to his knees, he pulls us close, nothing in my sight but Crew.

He continues with his soft tone and ignores everything I just said when he states, “You were five.”

I pull in a breath, realizing he’s not wasting any time or letting me drink my coffee first. I nod, but don’t utter a word.

He tips his head, his deep dark eyes searching my face. My house is eerily silent but his voice is low and soothing, cutting through the quiet, when he asks, “Do you remember?”

My eyes burn thinking of it, because yes. I remember everything. Every second.

I sound rough and hoarse when I answer. “Yes.”

I’m not sure at what age you start remembering every detail of your life, but for me, it was that moment. From then on, I’ve remembered everything in grave detail. Before my dad was killed, my recollection was hazy. When I got older, I spent years searching out details in my brain. I remember little things about happier times with both my parents, but it’s like comparing a snapshot to a feature film. Glimpses, hints, images. Up until that day, my life was flashes of memories. But from the instant my dad fell to the ground next to me on that bright, sunny, winter day, I remember everything like it happened two minutes ago.

Blood seeping out of a gunshot wound to the head on stark white snow would be enough to brand anyone’s memory, though.

“You were so little,” he says, pulling me back to the present. “It was just you and your dad when it happened?”

I nod. “We were running errands for my mom. It was right after he got off work, during rush hour. It was so busy, people everywhere. There was so much commotion when it happened. People were running and at the time I didn’t understand, but when I was older I got it. They thought there’d be more shots, a mass incident. Everyone was racing for cover, but I just stood there, confused. I had no idea what happened, why my dad fell to the ground and all the blood.”

“I’m sorry, Addison,” he whispers.

“They never figured out who killed him. Army investigators came up with some retaliation story when the allegations against my dad began. Even the FBI was involved. They said information was being leaked to some former KGB from where he worked at Ft. Meade and all fingers pointed to him. They finally concluded the Russians were afraid their mole was getting cold feet and needed to eliminate him to protect themselves. My mom was adamant he didn’t do what they said. She said he would never act against his country. He went to West Point, Crew. Duty, Honor, Country. He lived by the Coat of Arms.”

“You don’t remember O’Rourke?”

I shake my head adamantly. “I told you that last night.”

With my hands still in his, he keeps on, gently. “He worked with your dad.” At that, I try to sit up straight and pull away from him, but he holds firm, not letting me go. “They served together in the Army and, at the time of your dad’s death, were both stationed at Ft. Meade. You don’t remember him at all?”

I shake my head. “No. He said last night he knew my parents—that I used to favor my dad but grew up to look like my mom. No one’s ever talked to me about my dad. No one but my mom. And he knew my mom, Crew. The real her. Like you know me.”

His eyes turn sharp again and even though I’ve only been around him a week, I realize he falls into a mode when he does this. His stature doesn’t change, but his demeanor does, I see it in his eyes. He exudes it. It’s assessing, imposing, and with all that happened last night, as much as it confused me before, right now it scares me. I don’t know what it means and I don’t like it one bit.

He considers me carefully, as if he’s trying to make a decision. “How much do you know about your dad?”

My answer comes quickly. “I know everything about my dad.”

It’s true. I was five when it happened and it was horrendous. It would’ve been terrifying for anyone, but especially a five-year-old child. My mom made sure I knew the truth.

Pausing, he narrows his sharp eyes before giving my hands a squeeze. His voice is low when he informs me, “Your dad wasn’t guilty of espionage like they claimed. He was framed.”

“I know that,” I respond, quick and firm.

His head jerks as he frowns, surprised by my response. “You do?”

“I told you, my mom was adamant. She knew he didn’t do what they said he did. She knew he would never betray his country. When I was old enough, she told me everything. She even told me more right before she died. I know that’s why we left, why she went to the lengths she went through protecting me. She told me how hard it was changing our identities, but she managed it all by herself. She also knew she made a mistake right after he was killed, fighting for his name to be cleared because they came after her.”

“No.” He keeps frowning. “What I’m saying to you is they know he was framed and didn’t commit treason. And when I say ‘they,’ I mean the government. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you have a right to know. I can’t go into details because it’s classified, but what I will tell you is there’s an ongoing federal investigation that could eventually clear your dad’s name. Officially.”

My eyes immediately fill with tears thinking about my dad’s name being cleared. And more, what it would’ve meant to my mom. But the fear seeps in again and I whisper, “How do you know this?”

After another pause, he continues, but carefully. “I told you, I have a certain amount of clearance. My people alerted me when O’Rourke was headed this way. When I found out he was at your winery, I came to see what he was up to. I saw him with you and demanded to know everything about him. He’s a high level target who’s tied to your father’s death.”

Even though he’s not giving me any real information, I realize how he must know all this. I try to rip my hands out of his, wondering how I missed it. My mom warned me for years. It doesn’t matter how overwhelming his dimple and scruff are, I should have doubted him. He looks nothing like your run-of-the-mill computer programmer. I might’ve just made the biggest mistake ever by trusting my new neighbor.

I’m such an idiot.

Panic starts to creep back in as I accuse, barely able to hear myself.

“You’re CIA.”