Life With A Spy

Chapter 1

The bar was packed for a Thursday night—bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, voices competing with the bass-heavy playlist thrumming through overhead speakers. Austin squeezed through the crowd near the entrance, already second-guessing his decision to meet his coworkers here. He'd had a long day at the office, the kind where spreadsheets blurred together and coffee became a food group, and honestly, his couch and Netflix had been calling his name.

Then he saw her.

She sat at the far end of the bar, perched on a stool with her back partially to the wall—a position that gave her a clear view of the entire room, though Austin didn't consciously register that detail. What he *did* register was the cascade of red hair falling past her shoulders, catching the amber glow of the pendant lights above the bar. She wore dark jeans and a leather jacket that somehow looked effortlessly cool rather than trying-too-hard, and she was nursing what looked like a vodka martini.

But it wasn't just that she was beautiful—though she absolutely was, in a way that made Austin's brain temporarily forget how words worked. It was something else. The way she held herself, maybe. Composed. Alert. Like she was simultaneously part of the scene and completely separate from it.

She was pretending to blend in, Austin realized, though he couldn't have explained how he knew that. There was just something about the careful casualness of her posture, the way her eyes tracked movement in the mirror behind the bar rather than staring at her phone like everyone else.

Way out of your league, buddy, Austin thought, already planning his retreat to find his coworkers in whatever corner they'd claimed.

But then she glanced toward the entrance—just a quick sweep of the room—and for half a second, her eyes passed over him. Green eyes. Sharp and assessing, but with something softer underneath, like sunlight through leaves.

Austin's feet stopped moving.

His brain, the rational part that had gotten him through college and into a decent job and generally kept him from making a complete fool of himself, started listing reasons why approaching her was a terrible idea. She was clearly out of his league. She probably had a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or was a CEO. Or a spy. Or literally anything that made random guys hitting on her in bars the last thing she wanted.

But there was another part of Austin—the part that had convinced him to take that spontaneous road trip to Austin (yes, his parents had a sense of humor) last summer, the part that had made him adopt a three-legged cat named Tripod, the part that occasionally did things just because life was short and regret lasted longer than embarrassment—that part was already moving his feet forward.

*What's the worst that could happen?* that part whispered. She says no. You survive. You've survived worse.

Austin took a breath, adjusted his glasses and squeezed past a group debating the merits of some reality TV show, and headed toward the bar.

Toward her.

Natasha had clocked him the moment he walked in.

White male, late twenties to early thirties, approximately six feet tall, athletic build beneath the button-down shirt and jeans. Non-threatening body language. No visible weapons. No suspicious bulges in his jacket. Eyes scanning the crowd in the universal pattern of someone looking for friends, not targets.

Civilian. Harmless.

She'd dismissed him and returned her attention to her actual target—a mid-level arms dealer currently playing pool in the back corner, three drinks in and getting sloppy. The mission was simple: observe, record his contacts, report back. She'd done this a thousand times.