Tucker didn’t want to leave her room. But he knew he had to. He should make it quick, like tearing of a bandage. He had to leave whatever fantasy they’d just conjured up, and return to the world of DARC Ops, of uranium and the dangers of a hotly contested South-African-regime change. And when all of that blew over and the dust settled, he would have to regroup with Macy and try to figure out what had just happened between them. They needed to repair whatever it was they’d broken—the idea that they’d been merely platonic friends having been just blown to smithereens. Either that, or they’d make excuses, dismiss their little romp, and rationalize it all out. He didn’t want to dismiss it. Any of it. They needed to talk it out, and then decide if what they had together was worth the unavoidable trouble. If the lives they both led made it at all possible to be together. It had taken Tucker only seconds after laying eyes on her for the first time in years to decide that’s what he wanted. He wanted it now still, even when she looked his way with a confused look on her face, her eyes staring a thousand yards beyond him.

She blinked hard, as if snapping out of it. Without saying a word, she walked around him, toward the bathroom.

Alone, Tucker looked at the bed, then back to the door, and the takeout boxes stacked in the recycle bin. Macy left the bathroom a moment later, this time more clothed. “Should we . . . talk about it? Or no?” she said.

“I’m sure we will, eventually.”

She nodded.

“But right now we’ve got some work to do.”

“Yeah.” She was wearing a robe and looking as tired as ever.

“At least I do. Before we can leave, we have to—”

“You mean, leave Africa?”

“Yeah. Tonight. But before that, we have to head to Pretoria and deal with some bureaucracy. And then we have to secure the shipment, and then . . .” He sighed, the long to-do list leaving him increasingly exacerbated.

“Sounds like you could use my help.” Her smile returned to her face. Tucker was glad to see it. He was worried it had been tarnished somehow.

“I’m not just good at running away from things,” she said.

“I know.”

“Or surviving.”

“I know. You can thrive.”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe. But what I’m saying is that, I come with all the training that you have. And more, with the CIA. To quote you, I’m no slouch.”

“I know.” Tucker could feel his own smile warming up across his face. For a brief second, things felt almost normal again, or at least as normal as they could.

“So then you’ll talk to Jasper? I just . . .” Her words, and her smile, seemed to fade away into the abyss. She was just staring at him now, cold and hard. “I just can’t feel like I’m tagging along. Or like I’m some type of cargo.”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “But you’d be the most beautiful cargo in the world.” And it was true, definitely true compared to a lump of uranium.

But she didn’t seem to hear it. She scratched at her forehead, her eyes squinting. Was she trying to remember something? Finally, in a quieter voice, she said, “I know it probably looked bad. Your friend, I mean. Finding us in here like this and everything.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll just say . . . um . . .”

“That we were watching a movie.”

Tucker laughed. “It’s like I’m trying to explain it to my parents or something.” He looked around for a clock and then sighed, remembering. “Jesus, what time is it?”

“Your phone’s on the table,” Macy said, turning to the window.

Tucker looked there too. The sky had begun to go a slightly lighter shade of blue. God, was it morning already? He felt like he hadn’t slept a single second. “I can’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head at the miserable, oncoming reality. “Tomorrow’s already here.”

Macy walked out of his line of sight, leaving him to look with almost fear at the approach of morning. Another day of adventure lay ahead. Great . . .

“There is no tomorrow,” Macy said, her voice suddenly sounding soft and melodious. “Or yesterday.”

“Only here,” Tucker said, appreciating the philosophy. “Well, should I order up some coffee?”

“I’m already on it,” Macy fumbled with the in-room coffee maker. He watched how her hands worked the machine, those fingers. Just a few minutes ago they’d been on him, not so fumbly, but pleasuring him, working him. The whole thing seemed crazy, now.

Macy looked through the plastic coffee packets, throwing one of them back on the table. She looked at it with disgust. “I’m guessing you don’t want decaf at 4:30 AM, right?”

“Hey,” Tucker said, faking surprise. “You’re right. You are helpful.”

She didn’t laugh. And he supposed it wasn’t very funny to begin with, the demented product of his own fatigue and sexual frustration. He took a few steps around the room, pacing, planning the day that lay ahead, the steps he would have to take for everything to run smoothly . . .

It only took him two minutes to remember the day’s first fuck-up.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I’ve got to track down my laptop. I totally forgot about that.” Tucker went to move toward the door, but he stopped with the sound of Macy’s voice.

“Wait.”

Tucker waited. He turned to face her, watching her how hand played with the end of her robe belt, her fingers against the terrycloth. She was biting her bottom lip again, releasing it only to say, “You don’t want coffee?”