35. CASSANDRA

I really shouldn’t be doing this.

I’m setting myself up for disaster.

Nothing good can possibly come from this.

Shut up, brain, I’m trying to concentrate on my steps.

Carson sweeps me along the dance floor to the strains of Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” coming from the piano in Piccolo’s bar. He convinced me – against my better judgment – to work off the most exquisite meal I’ve ever eaten in my life with a slow box step waltz. The CIA trained me for an entire year to resist torture, and yet…

I’m practically hanging from him as he swirls around the floor, carrying me along with him like a child learning to dance by standing on her father’s feet.

“I’m sorry I’m so clumsy,” I say weakly. “But you know from experience that I’ve got two left feet.”

“Must be hell buying shoes,” he says, his cheek next to mine.

“Stop trying to make me laugh,” I say. “Besides, not all of us have unlimited time and money to take dance lessons.”

“I was born this way, baby.”

I giggle. “You forget that you’re talking to the girl who once slow danced with you to Hoobastank’s “The Reason”. I still have the bruises on my feet to prove it.”

And God, that dates me!

“I seem to recall I was distracted by something during that dance,” he murmurs.

A thrill runs through my belly as the full memory comes back: his lips were clamped firmly on my neck as we wandered around the gym, trying to avoid the gaze of the chaperones at the dance.

Nothing good can come from this. The Chase is still on. Whatever happens tonight, I’ll be sleeping with another man within a few days.

Suddenly tears threaten to fill my eyes. I breathe deeply and force them down. Compartmentalize. Focus on the now. You’re trained for this.

As if any sort of CIA training could prepare me for the situation I’m in right now. It’s so bizarre, I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone.

“Did you know there are lyrics to this song?” Carson asks out of nowhere.

“Really,” I say, grateful for the distraction. For any distraction. “I’ve only ever heard the melody.”

“Most people know the song instantly, but very few have ever heard the story in the song. It’s about a man standing in the moonlight, singing to his girl’s window.”

He tilts his head close so that his lips are at my ear.

“The stars are aglow, and tonight how their light sets me dreaming,” he croons softly, tickling my lobe. His baritone is slightly flat, almost Sinatra-esque, and utterly charming.

“My love, do you know, that your eyes are like stars brightly beaming?

“I bring you, and I sing you, a moonlight serenade.”

My God, I just want to melt into him and never let go. This night is so impossibly perfect it makes my heart ache.

Because no matter what happens, it can’t possibly end the way I want it to.

“Carson,” I whisper. It’s almost a sob.

“Shhhh,” he breathes in my ear. “Just listen to the song, Picture the man singing to you from the garden.”

I close my eyes and imagine Carson, dressed in an old-style suit, in a black-and-white movie set of a yard, singing to me under a giant cardboard moon hanging in the sky.

My hand cups the back of his neck and I pull him closer to me, as strong and as desperate as a boxer’s clinch.

“I stand at your gate, and I sing you a song in the moonlight,” he purrs.

“A love song, my darling, a moonlight serenade.”

The song is over for several seconds before I finally realize it. We stop swaying and I let go of his neck. I feel like I’ve just woken up from a dream that I wanted to go on forever.

Carson leans in close and whispers: “That was so much better than Hoobastank.”

And here I go again, giggling like a fool. He somehow takes me from the edge of a melancholy that threatened to drag me under, and manages with just a few words to turn my face to the sun.

I clasp his chiseled bicep as we amble back to our table. There are two dessert plates when we arrive, each with a single biscotti, next to a pair of small glasses filled with a bright yellow liquid.

“Dessert,” I moan. “I can’t.”

We sit down and Carson slides my plate closer to me.

“Trust Piccolo,” he says. “They don’t do things randomly. They probably saw us dancing and knew we were both full. So they gave us these to cap everything off.”

I sigh. “All right, if I must.”

The biscotti crumbles easily between my teeth. The cookie starts to melt immediately, evaporating into a buttery paste that spreads flavor across my tongue. Inside the cookie are slices of macadamia nuts that crumble and disintegrate as I chew.

“Uhmfff,” I grunt through the food. “This is heaven. Exactly what I needed after that meal.”

“Ain’t it?” says Carson, licking the crumbs off his fingers.

I hold the aperitif up to eye level, catch the scent of the yellow liquor.

“Limoncello,” I say with a theatrical pout. “I’m not really a fan.”

Carson looks at me sternly.

“What have I been saying all night?”

“Trust Piccolo.” I roll me eyes. “All right.”

We clink glasses and drain our drinks. Piccolo’s magic stays true: the infusion of lemon oil adds a delightful tartness that cuts the cloying sweetness of the liqueur.

Hell, this place is doing something right. It has me thinking like a restaurant critic.

“It’s like a final palate cleanser,” Carson says with a satisfied smack. “These guys earn every penny they make.”

That piques my curiosity.

“How much would that be, exactly?”

“I don’t know. My accountants will get the bill.”

Someday accountants are going to get my bills. I have to keep telling myself that. It will help with the inevitable crash that’s going to come later tonight.

If I can just keep Carson from bolting for a few more days, maybe… just maybe this can lead somewhere. I just need to endure a single night.

One night out of my life, and then I’ll have the freedom I’ve craved for so long.

But at what price?

I told you before, brain: SHUT. UP.