Originally, Spy by Night wasn’t going to feature Danny’s POV. After the first chapter’s spy adventure, it was time for Danny and Talia to meet. A couple years before, I’d begun to write the story of how they got together, possibly as a novella from Danny’s POV, or just for my reference. Although I only wrote three or four scenes of his story, I knew the outline by heart. And when something about the scene just wasn’t working from Talia’s POV, I dug into my files and pulled out his version to show to a friend for comparison. She agreed: we needed to hear this story from Danny, too.
So here’s that original, rough draft of the “meet cute” that just wasn’t working for me.
Really not ready to go in and face the “meet” market. Mom’s right about one thing, church is the best place to meet a spouse. And right now more than ever, I want nothing more than to be alone.
Being late does have its advantages. Rather than walk in in the middle of the meeting, I head through the glass doors and pick a floral armchair in the foyer, out of sight of the chapel doors. The speakers overhead pipe in the music of the sacrament hymn and I try to focus on that instead of my mom, my non-existent life, my jobs, and everything else I have to do (or avoid) this week.
Spies often do their best to blend in, but really wishing you’re invisible when you’re not working probably isn’t a good sign. Of course, I claim to be many things — just a law intern, the daughter of a normal, loving mother, innocent, not dangerous — but well-adjusted isn’t one of them.
Movement from the chapel doors catches my eye and I glance over without turning my head. No threat here, but my heartbeat quickens for a totally different reason.
Danny Fluker. The newest American import to the congregation (there aren’t too many of us), he’s more than tall, dark and handsome. He’s smart and funny and nice — and a prize pretty much any woman over the age of twenty-three is vying for.
Yes, I fall into that pathetic category.
I try to focus on the foliage outside the foyer, but my eyes flick back to Danny, standing five feet away.
Staring at my calves.
I can’t decide whether to be offended or flattered, so for now, I’m both. I turn my gaze back to the windows. He has three seconds to look away or I’m choosing offended.
When I swivel back, he’s looking at my eyes. Before I can force it down, one of my eyebrows sneaks up, silently challenging him to start the conversation.
And he does. “You know, you can see better in there.”
I glance at the speakers in the ceiling. “What, does Coop have puppets and posters?” (Neither are allowed.)
Danny laughs softly, shaking his head.
“I’m not here to see — or be seen,” I conclude.
“Wish I were that smart,” he mutters.
“What, the pressures of the ‘meet market’ suddenly too much for you?”
He shrugs. “That and the fact I catch an elbow every time I fall asleep.”
Eesh. Wonder which harpy’s homed in on him. (That’s a joke — ten bucks says it’s “Sassy” Beth.)
“Talia, right?”
I can’t help a flinch, blinking and tilting my head half an inch. He knows my name? “And you’re Danny.”
“That’s me.” He smiles, and I catch a glimpse of reason #673 he’s one of the Dow’s Lake Ward’s hottest commodities. And if I’m honest? My stupid heart catches.
This is dangerous. I avoid romantic entanglements for very good reasons, all of which escape me right now — except for my mother’s harping. Unfortunately, she’s right about one thing: church is the best place to find a husband, and I am not looking. There’s no point in leading Danny on when I’m obviously not the person he’s looking for.
Inside the chapel, Coop pauses in his droning. Danny and I both look up at the speakers overhead, waiting for Coop to continue. He starts what’s obviously the windup of his talk.
And when he finishes, a mini parade of people needing water or wakeup walks will tromp through here. Definitely time to make my escape. I stand and start for the hallways back to the classrooms.
“Where are you going?” Danny calls.
“Getting a drink.”
He casts a meaningful glance at the water fountain a few feet to my left, behind me.
“Yeah, people are going to come out here and get a drink there during the rest hymn. And I will be —” I point down the hall and around the corner, where another water fountain waits — “over there.”
“You’re taking the ‘not being seen’ thing to the Olympic level.”
I allow a tiny smile to sneak free. “You have no idea.” I start to turn around to continue on my course — but instantly, I feel the tug of regret. What, am I going to walk away from a hot guy who’s actually made the effort to learn my name just to spite my mother?
I pivot back to him. “You know, some water might help you stay awake.”
Danny casually follows, and we make our way down the hall. The sudden noise of families from another congregation in our building, meeting up after church reaches us, but I’d rather been seen by these strangers than the people who are supposed to be my friends.
Danny sticks with me, but doesn’t make any awkward attempts at conversation — and I like it. We wait in line for the drinking fountain, but even that doesn’t take long enough to be sure the foyer will be clear, so I peruse a bulletin board of photos from this summer’s girls’ camp. (AKA a bunch of teenagers I don’t know.)
After a few minutes, I glance at Danny. He nods, like he’s reassuring me the coast has got to be clear, and we meander back to the foyer. Aside fro a couple with two toddlers on one of the couches, we’re miraculously alone.
Decision time. Really, we should probably both go into the chapel, Danny back to whoever’s throwing elbows, and me to hide by myself in the furthest corner of the room. I avoid people because I can’t let anyone get too close, because I have too many secrets to shield, because I have to.
I should send Danny packing.
Instead, I send the ball to his end of the court, and watch to see what he does. He watches me back for a second, then takes a seat at one end of the empty couch. He’s still looking at me, waiting to see what I do.
The safe move for me would be to return to the armchair where I was a minute ago, too far away to carry on a quiet conversation.
Every once in a while, a spy has to live dangerously. One conversation isn’t a marriage contract. I settle onto the opposite end of the couch.
“So,” he starts. I brace myself for whatever’s coming. He starts with a softball. “What’s your story?”
“Hm?”
“Why’d you move to Canada?”
Once again, I flinch and blink and tilt my head. I’m not sure whether to feel flattered or worried. He knows my name and the fact that I’m also American, and we’ve never had a conversation. Targeting a potential spouse can be a lot like targeting a potential agent — and if Danny’s doing either one with me, he’s headed for a world of hurt.
I go for a neutral answer. “Free healthcare. Got tired of waiting for them to work out the kinks in the States, so I came here to wait for a doctor instead.”
“Oh, are you sick?”
I raise my eyebrows, and Danny backtracks. “Sorry, I mean — I —”
“No. I’m waiting on that part, too.”
He laughs, and I another glimpse of that smile is like a tiny shot of adrenaline. A girl could get addicted to that smile.
I need to be careful. I push the conversation forward, trying to keep it as neutral as he did. “What’s your story?”
“Got a great job.”
“Sweet. What do you do?”
“I’m an aerospace engineer at National Research Council Canada.”
I knew it had to be something smart. (Reason #223.) “So you’re a rocket scientist?”
“Sort of. I mostly work on planes.”
The spy side of my brain registers that this makes him a prime target — but we’re not here to spy on Canada. (They know I’m here and we’re cooperating. Besides, what could they possibly have?) “Are you adjusting to the Great White North okay? Winter starts in two weeks.”
Danny laughs and glances out the plateglass at the gorgeous July afternoon. “Actually, I’ve been through it before. I served my mission here.”
“In Ottawa?”
“Mostly Québec, but my first area was the Champlain Ward.” He nods toward the back hallway where we milled around among the families.
“Ah, so the hair?” I point at his, just long enough to curl behind his ears and at his neck — much longer than missionary standards. (Reason #52.) “Traveling incognito?”
“Hey, I like my hair.”
“No, it looks good — I mean —” I lick my lips and press them together to cut off my rambling. Nice one, Talia.
Might as well own it. Not the end of the world to give him a compliment. “It does.”
He blushes a little. (Reason #675.) “Thanks.” He pulls a photo from his jacket pocket. “If I run into anyone I remember, I’ve got this to prove it.”
I take the picture, of him and his missionary companion on the Rideau Canal locks, the Château Laurier in the background. And he’s kind of adorable in a little-kid way. (Well, a nineteen-year-old way.) “Look at you,” I murmur. “How long ago was this?”
“Nine years.”
Mental math puts him just a year or two older than me. It takes some doing to get to be our age without getting married — or some major hangups. I fall in both categories, and I can’t help idly wondering where Danny is.
“Cool that you get to visit your mission.” I hand the photo back. “Wish I could.”
“Where did you serve?”
It’s kind of a secret that I speak Russian (although it’s on the records of the Church, if anyone bothered to check), so I offer the standard near-lie. (In church, no less.) “Mostly small towns on the border of Georgia.”
“It’s not like that’s Africa or Russia or something.”
I manage to not react to the cosmic coincidence of him naming the country I really did preach the gospel in.
“You know,” he continues, oblivious, “they have these things, they’re called airplanes — I think I mentioned them once already?”
I smirk. “Yeah, I’ve heard of them. What I need is a time machine. Pause my life here, then think about a vacation.”
“You sound busy. What do you do?”