Erasing Faith (6 page)

I should’ve recognized him, but I didn’t.

He turned slowly, as though he felt the weight of my eyes on him. When his face lifted and I realized it was
him
, my stranger, I nearly had a heart attack right there at the cocktail table.

His eyes locked onto mine. Hands frozen midair, canvas hovering half-stored inside his portable easel, he stared across the expanse between us. Our eyes held for five unblinking seconds, and I felt a slow, disbelieving smile spread across my lips. My mind blanked except for one word.

Fate.

I should’ve been embarrassed to be caught staring. I should’ve looked away, as this fleeting glance between strangers had stretched on for too long. But I couldn’t.

“Hey, you still with me?” Earl’s voice invaded the moment and my eyes flew back to his face.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said, my heart thundering in my chest. “Spaced out for a minute there. What were you saying?”

“I was telling you about snowboarding at my dad’s chalet in Switzerland.”

“Oh, right,” I murmured. “Carry on.”

Happily back on track, Earl launched once more into his monologue of self-congratulation, and I let my impatient eyes fly back to the lakeshore. But there was no easel on the bank. No brushes scattered on the ground. And no handsome artist, painting my night a little brighter with his mere presence.

Maybe he hadn’t been there at all.

Maybe I was imagining him again, like I had in the club the other night.

I sighed and turned back to Earl, my chin resting in my palm as I counted down the seconds until the next bell.

A WATERY GRAVE

I picked this spot on purpose.

I knew she’d be here. Just like I’d known she’d be at the club the other night, and at the café last week. I was fully aware that if I sat here long enough, she’d grow so bored with whatever moron was currently chatting her ear off, she’d let her gaze wander down to meet mine.

Just because I was prepared for it, didn’t make it any easier, though.

When you jump into a really cold body of water, there’s a moment when the breath is stolen from your lungs, when the icy waves close over your head like a liquid tomb. It’s bone-chilling. It hits you like a kick to the stomach. Like knives piercing your skin. You choke in a lungful of ocean, push your way to the surface, and assure yourself that you’ll adjust. That the shock will wear off and, eventually, your body will go numb enough that you don’t feel the frigid water lapping at every inch of you.

Every time my eyes locked on Faith Morrissey’s, it was like jumping into the fucking Arctic Sea: instant shock to the system.

Except it didn’t go away.

There was no adjusting to her. No way to numb her effect or ignore her influence on my body.

It wasn’t pleasant — drowning never was. I hated her for it. I fought against her hold on me, but I couldn’t shake her. I couldn’t prevent her effect any more than a drowning man could resist gasping for one last mouthful of air when he was 10,000 leagues underwater. Though it promised certain death, that final, fatal gasp for air was unavoidable.

I was drowning in the ocean that was Faith Morrissey.

***

I let her spot me on the bank, but only for a moment.

Just long enough to peak her interest further. She was a little more skittish than most of my targets — I wanted to make sure she was truly on the line before I set my hook and reeled her in.

Hidden from view in the shadows, I watched her for another minute. Her chin was planted in one palm and her eyes glazed over as her sixth match of the night talked on.

What a prick. He was more interested in regaling her with his life story than he was in getting to know her. She could’ve been anyone — he didn’t care, so long as she had ears and was forced to listen to him talk for five, uninterrupted minutes. I knew his type. The melody of his own voice was his favorite sound in the world.

Maybe if he pulled his head out of his ass for thirty seconds, he’d realize what he was missing. He’d learn that the girl sitting across from him was bright and beautiful, fierce and funny as hell. But he didn’t. Like the five who’d come before him, he ignored her. He didn’t see her at all. And, as the minutes ticked by, I watched her slowly deflate, gradually retreating into herself as though their asinine behavior was somehow
her
fault. As though she was the one with something to be ashamed of, rather than those useless pricks.

Seeing her like that — diminished by this parade of assholes who’d never be good enough for her — pissed me off beyond measure. I didn’t fully understand why, but seeing this beautiful girl begin to question her own worth because of a few idiots had me ready to throttle each and every one of them, until they were bleeding and begging to apologize for their own ignorance.

I didn’t recognize these unfamiliar emotions raging inside me — I had no name for them, no experience to compare them with. All I knew was that I was so mad, I couldn’t think straight. So angry, I was out of my fucking mind. The tightly-reined control that I’d counted on for as long as I could remember suddenly fled and, for a moment, I lost myself.

That was the only possible explanation for what I did next. 

Because when Linda, the obnoxiously enthusiastic brunette in charge, rang her bell to signal the end of round six, I didn’t slip out of sight and leave the girl behind, as I’d planned to. I didn’t walk away. Instead, I found myself emerging from the shadows, heading determinedly for the cocktail table I’d been watching for the past thirty minutes.

Asshole number seven was reaching for the stool, but I cut in front of him and quickly slid onto the seat. I set my easel case on the ground, propped my forearms on the table, and turned to face the shocked girl seated across from me.

Her eyes were wide with disbelief. Her lips were twitching as though torn between two expressions — unsure whether to stretch in a smile or part in shock. I grinned wolfishly at her and was pleased when, after a few seconds, her lips curved up in response.

“Hey, Red,” I said casually.

“Hi,” she breathed, her eyes scanning my face. “You’re here.”

My grin went crooked.

“Um, hello? Excuse me?” The insistent male voice was an unwelcome intrusion on our moment. I glanced dismissively at the short-statured man who should’ve been Faith’s partner during this round, before turning my eyes back to her.

“So, where were we?” I asked her. Before she could speak, I launched in.  “Ah, yes. Speed-dating. Well, I’m Wesley Adams — though, only my mother is allowed to call me Wesley. To everyone else, it’s Wes. Twenty-five years young. Capricorn. And yes, before you ask, I do in fact like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.”

Her mouth dropped open and her whisper was full of breathy outrage. “You broke the first rule of stranger club!”

“This is not an official stranger club meeting — this is speed-dating.” I managed to laugh, but inside I was kicking myself. I couldn’t believe, of all the names in the world, I’d given her that one. My entire cover story had been there, poised on my lips. I’d had it prepared for weeks.

I was Joshua “Josh” Collins — stationed here on business for the next year. A pharmaceutical researcher studying the healing properties of Hungary’s famous thermal springs, as well as their applications for modern medicine. Unmarried. Originally from a small, oceanfront community in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. A stand-up sort of man, with a safe set of interests — golf, sailing, skiing. I was the stereotypical New England WASP, who’d gone to a good, solid college and was looking for a good, solid woman.

Except, when I’d opened my mouth to reveal my name, the cover I’d carefully rehearsed hadn’t come out. Because I didn’t want to be
Josh Collins
when she looked at me. I wanted to be myself — or, at the very least, some close derivative of myself. So, I said
Wesley Adams
.

Wesley. Fucking. Adams.

Might as well have blown the whole fucking mission wide open and told her my real name.

Hi, I’m Weston Abbott, the CIA operative attempting to infiltrate your life. Wanna grab a coffee?

I was such a fucking idiot.

I could’ve tried to justify it — could’ve told myself I’d only chosen a name similar to my own because it would be easier to remember, that lies were always more convincing when they held a grain of truth. But that was all bullshit. I’d changed my cover at the last second for one reason only: because when I finally heard Faith Morrissey say my name, I didn’t want it to be fake. I didn’t want it to be a lie.

And that was the most dangerous, reckless thing I’d ever done in all my years dodging bullets and running for my life on this job.

“Excuse me!” Match number seven was really getting flustered now. “You’re in my seat! I’m supposed to be with her this round.”

I looked up at him once more. “Are you sure? I think you should go check with the brunette with the bullhorn. She looks like she’s a good mediator.”

“But, I—”

“Dude. You’re hovering.”

“But—”

I turned back to Faith, who was barely managing to contain her laughter as the man stormed off to find matchmaker Linda. “Anyway, where was I?”

“Breaking all my rules,” she muttered darkly, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms over her torso.

“And my own,” I added under my breath.

“What?” Her brows lifted in question.

“I did warn you that I had no intention of following your rules the last time we spoke,” I pointed out.

She huffed. “I don’t like you.”

I shrugged and grinned. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. You were right.”

“I usually am,” she said humbly, her smile reappearing. “But, pray tell, what about this time?”

“Fate,” I said quietly.

Her eyes went liquid with warmth. “So you believe in it, now?”

“No,” I said carefully, gaze still on hers. “But you do.”

The skin around her eyes crinkled when she grinned. “I told you — you just had to have a little faith.”

I caught her play on words, but didn’t let on that I understood. “So, we have approximately two and a half minutes left. Let’s get cracking. I want to know your deepest secrets, fears, and dreams.”

“In that order?” she asked, laughing.

“Of course. That’s what speed-dating is all about, right? Really getting to know someone? Every detailed facet of their personality, each nuance that makes them special, what really makes them tick…”

“Oh, of course.” She snorted, her voice heavily laced with sarcasm. “All of the men I met tonight now know everything there is to know about me. Five minutes is really all it takes.”

“I figured as much. Plus, they seemed like total gentlemen.”

“Six Prince Freaking Charmings in a row, let me tell you.”

“Why are you here?” I was truly curious. “This doesn’t seem like your scene.”

Her eyes darted left, three tables down the row to where her roommate was sitting. “My friend Margot kind of tricked me into it. Personally, I would’ve preferred an evening of medieval torture.”

“Hmm, what’s your pleasure? The Iron Maiden? Heretics Fork? Judas Cradle?”

She winced. “None of the above. Just guillotine me and get it over with.”

I laughed — a real, genuine chuckle that ricocheted inside my chest like a ping-pong ball. The sensation was totally foreign to me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed without pretense; not because I was obligated to, not because it was something the man I was pretending to be might’ve found amusing, but because I actually wanted to express enjoyment at the words and wit of another human being.

“So…” She trailed off for a moment, a contemplative look in her eyes. “Wes.”

She said it slowly, as though she was testing out the feeling of the name as it rolled off her tongue. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself in check when she stared at me with those molten gold eyes and said it again. “Wes Adams.”

“That’s my name.” I swallowed roughly, my mouth suddenly dry. “Speaking of… isn’t it about time you told me yours?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. Just because you broke the rules of stranger club doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

“And how many times do you have to meet someone before they stop being a stranger?”

She shrugged and smiled unapologetically. “It varies.”

I sighed. “Wasn’t there a fair trade clause somewhere in the stranger club charter?”

She laughed full out now. “Fair trade only applies to questions, not names. But valiant effort.”

When the bell rang abruptly, neither of us moved. I listened to the sounds of the couples around us, saying their goodbyes and starting for the next table. I sensed Faith’s new match, hovering at my elbow, waiting for me to move. Waiting for his five minutes with her. But I didn’t get up.

“Linda is going to be mad at you,” she whispered, still grinning at me.

“I don’t fucking care, Red,” I whispered back.

“Dude, are you planning to move along any time soon?” Match number eight was not pleased with the delay. Five seconds later, the sound of a woman’s shrill voice, magnified through the megaphone, rang out in the air.

“Sir! Yoo-hoo! There at table nine!” Her voice was stern, but still bubbly with enthusiasm. “Please remember the rule! When you hear the bell
toll
, it’s time to
stroll!
” She rang it again for added emphasis.

Faith burst into laughter.

“Alright, alright,” I said, pushing back from the table and rising to my feet. The waiting man immediately slipped into my spot and I turned my eyes to Faith, who was suddenly staring anywhere but in my direction. She looked a little crestfallen and, irrationally, I was pleased that the thought of me leaving upset her.

I was so fucked up over this girl.

Leaning down, I grabbed the strap of my easel case and slid it over my shoulder. When the man in my seat began to engage Faith in conversation, I extended my hand to her.

Wide caramel eyes flew up to my face.

I raised my brows and waggled the fingers on my open-palmed hand. “You coming, Red?”

Her face broke into a smile as she nodded and slipped her hand into mine.