“What do you mean, you’ve never baked before?” he asked incredulously, as they skidded around another corner.
“Really? You still want to continue this conversation?” she shouted back over the roar of motorcycles closing in behind them.
“Of course we need to finish this conversation! How can you be, what, 30, and never baked before?” he panted, abruptly pulling her aside into an alley. Their chests rose and fell, brushing against each other with each breath, as they waited for their pursuers to zip by them.
“I’m 27, asshole,” she muttered, peering back out at the street. “And not everyone has the suburban three-bedroom and white picket fence childhood like you did.” She fought to bring her breathing under control. She had to find a way out of here, or they were screwed.
She looked back at him, realizing how close they were. She started to step back, but he gently held her arm.
“It’ll look more innocuous if we are close,” he murmured. “And if we aren’t arguing,” he added, as she opened her mouth to do just that. She sighed, knowing he was right. She glanced over to his face, and looked away again quickly. She did not like the look in his eyes, the look that said he had latched on to the bitterness in her voice when she had spoken about childhood.
“No picket fence, huh?” he asked softly, and she leaned closer at the sound of his voice. It had been a long time since someone had spoken to her with care.
“Yeah, well, most people who become freelance spies don’t really have a lot of happy memories of childhood. Hard to disappear when you are writing birthday cards every year, or to do your job when you are worrying that your family will be hurt to get to you.”
Breathing finally under control, she listened. Just the babble of tourists on the street beside them, a mix of languages that was fitting for such a large, popular city. There were some cars on the road, but no growling motorcycles. If they could just slip out into the street, blend in with the tourists, they might be able to make it to the safe house.
She grabbed his arm and hung on, giggling as she pulled him out into the bustling street. He seemed bemused by her sudden change in demeanor, but thankfully picked up on her plan.
“So, where to next?” he asked, leaning close, with a grin that anyone else would think meant he was whispering sweet nothings in her ear. She stayed relaxed, even though she was scanning the crowd, ears alert for anything out of the ordinary.
“There’s this place I know that’ll be perfect,” she said, veiling her meaning. “It’s very… romantic.”
He chuckled at the little frown that crossed her face at the words. “Does it have a kitchen?”
Her pace faltered at the question. “I think so. Why?”
He grinned again, and this time she was worried – there was all-too-much glee in his expression.
“Then we’ll need to stop and pick up a few things. I’m going to show you how to make my famous chocolate chip cookies tonight.”
“I don’t know if we have time, babe,” she said, pinching him slightly.
He kept grinning. “Oh, we’ll have time. Our flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow, right?”
She swore under her breath. He was right; there was no way they were going to be able to leave tonight. Too many people were looking for them, too many people who could tip off police or station attendants to have them stopped. They needed things to cool down before making their way out of the country.
“Look, perfect, there’s a grocery store right there,” he said, steering her across the street. “We can get everything we need.”
She let herself be dragged along, and felt a little smile pull at her lips. There was an absurdity about making cookies in the middle of a mission, when so many people were out to kill her and torture her companion for information. But really, you didn’t get that far in her line of work without embracing chaos and unforeseen challenges, and apparently tonight that included chocolate and an ineffably cheerful hacker.
© The Lightning Tower, 2020