Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,38

circle yes or no,’” I said lightly. “I mean, that’s the only letter I’ve ever gotten.”

“You had all those writer boyfriends, and none of those nerds ever wrote you a damn letter?” Sam sounded pissed.

“Girls like me don’t usually inspire grand romantic gestures through the written word.”

“Girls like you?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’m guessing high school was pretty easy for a six foot three, broad-shouldered jock with perfect grades.”

“You don’t know shit about what my life was like in high school,” he muttered.

“Right back at’cha, Agent Byrne.”

By the time I’d arrived at Princeton, my only goal was to be the smartest person in the room. And to black out every fucking memory of the bullying I’d experienced back home. Finding a burn book specifically about me and my many faults was not the most enjoyable way to celebrate my high school graduation. Every friendship I thought I had was a cruel deception. I’d been a joke to my classmates the whole time.

The only thing I had left to be proud of was my genius—which I coveted and protected until Sam Byrne swaggered into criminology club and proved himself to be my academic equal.

“You really did keep a lot of things from me, didn’t you?” The ghost of something melancholy flitted across Sam’s face.

“What? You mean at Quantico?” I asked. “We weren’t friends. And we certainly weren’t friends at Princeton. Rivals don’t bond over high school memories.”

“You’re right. How could I have forgotten.” His tone was chilly. Unforgiving.

“Should I…keep reading?” I finally asked.

“Is it going to actually help us?”

I sighed, irritated. “Here’s a thought. We figure out what event Thomas and Cora want us to attend with them tonight. Work our magic as Julian and Birdie, reinforced by this secret weapon we have here.” I pointed to the Under the Rose messages. “Try to pin down who has the letters. Thomas and Cora made it seem like they were a hot ticket item and we’d have competition. Find the competition. Find the letters.”

“Here’s my better idea,” he replied. “Find this Dr. Ward guy, who seems to be in charge. Threaten him with calling the FBI. Get the letters.”

“Does he have them though?” I asked.

“Someone has them, Evandale,” Sam said wearily. “I know this is how private detectives work, but I genuinely think these trust-building exercises over martinis and pearl-clad gossip will fuck us in the end. It’s time to move. We have less than three days. Abe would agree.”

“I’ve worked with Abe for three years now,” I shot back. “He’d want us to keep infiltrating. Play at being thieves, even if we lose a day. It’s worth it in the end.”

“And I’m a goddamn FBI agent,” he growled. “I know more about these situations than you.”

Fury blurred my vision. Every fucking time. One measly inch forward, one mile hurtled back. Sam unrolled his sleeves, donned his jacket, and strode toward the door with angered purpose.

I darted ahead. Got there first—my back against the door, hands on my hips. He stopped short, bringing us literally toe-to-toe.

“Evandale.”

“Byrne.”

Another irritated sigh. “I’m calling Abe, and I’m making a move whether you like it or not. We’re partners—which means you should be coming with me,” he said.

“Tell me what to do one more time, and you’ll experience my knees back in your groin again.”

His lips twitched. The look on his face was one I recognized from our countless times sparring. Sam and I always walked into those classes bickering. And ended them with one of us pinning the other to the mat.

Every time we’d fight, these flickers of sexual hunger would transform his otherwise stoic expression. And not necessarily when he won.

No. He’d stare at me like this when I won.

Sam Byrne always liked a challenge. And I was his greatest challenge.

“It’s the hostage simulation again,” he insisted. “If you won’t listen to reason, shit’s going to blow up again. And this time, we have more at stake than fake bystanders.”

“I know what we have at stake,” I said. “I’ve worked this job for three years. Worked it passionately, I might add. Because I believe in what we do. A thief is going to make off with rare love letters because you’re too proud to admit that the actual private detective knows what she’s doing.”

He took a step closer, big hands landing on either side of my head. Both of us were breathing heavily—glaring with the full force of years of frustration.

I dream of that place between your legs where my mouth wants