It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

Chapter 6: A Date with Miss Fortune

In the short amount of time it took me to drive from the Buy More to Bryce's apartment, my mood did a complete 180—from total elation that Chuck had asked me out, to crippling panic as the reality of the situation set in. My anxiety owned me, pushing against me like an invisible gale, attempting to reverse my course.

But I wasn't willing to keep living life trapped behind self-imposed, refortified walls, never peeking over the top to see what lay beyond. I was so tired of existing in a world where people justified their actions for the sake of the greater good. I didn't know what I was going to do, but unless this tempest could turn back the clocks, drag the sun from the sky, and inject Chuck and Ellie with amnesia, my time had come … as would the truth. It had to. I could no more avoid it than the beating of my own heart, pounding fitfully against its cage of bone and cartilage. The falsehoods I'd perpetrated felt like a personal demon, sitting heavily upon my chest—and only I could hear the sharpening of its blades.

I was all in, and that was the problem. The truth could either set me free or bury me where I stood.

When Bryce opened the door of his apartment, his jaw was set and his eyes held a look that could only be described as flinty. He didn't say a word when he saw me standing there, just stepped aside so I could enter.

Great. He was sulking, like the world's most chiseled three-year-old. Well, that didn't mean I had to put up with it.

"What's your problem, Larkin?" I said, folding my arms across my chest.

He shut the door behind me and leaned against it, looking pissed. "My problem? I'm not the one that looks like she's falling for her mark. You may be able to fool Graham, but not me. No … it looks to me like the Ice Queen's been defrosted by a gangly nerd working at a fucking Buy More. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Try and deny it all you want, but I know what I saw. That was no performance."

He glared at me, and I glared back, unflinching. Maybe it was a strange parallel to draw, but the situation reminded me of the parable of Peter's denial of Christ. My grandmother had recited that story—along with the rest of the Bible—to me when I'd been forced to stay with her, in an attempt to safeguard me from my father's 'misguided influence.' I was determined not to wait for the rooster to crow before I acknowledged Chuck … and what he meant to me now.

Earlier, I'd asked myself whether secrets were necessarily bad, if they ended up helping someone else. I decided that it depended on your goal. In this case, if I wanted to be a part of Chuck's life, my secrets were like a slow-acting poison that could destroy any chance for a future with him … if they hadn't already.

Squaring my shoulders, I answered Bryce in the calmest voice I could muster. "You're partially right. That was no performance. You saw what you saw."

"Partially right? What the hell does that even mean?"

This felt pretty good, actually. "Well, you were off the mark by just a tad. You see, I'm not falling for Chuck. No, I'd say I've fallen for him—as in past tense. We're talking hopelessly head-over-heels, can't think about anything else, wanting to jump his bones every time I look into those gorgeous brown eyes of his, kind of fallen."

Bryce squirmed a bit where he stood.

"And I doubt he'll be working at the Buy More for much longer," I went on, feeling more confident by the second. "My guess is he'll give a two-week notice. He's just that kind of guy."

The confused look that etched its way across his face was as pathetic as it was amusing. Obviously, Graham hadn't told him about what the fallout from today's meeting would mean for him … nor had Stanford. All in good time.

This was more fun than I would've ever imagined—and liberating, too.

"Why would he quit?" Bryce asked, stalking across the room and coming to a stop in front of the monitors. "You're not making any sense, Walker. I'm starting to think this is some kind of elaborate hoax."

Before I had a chance to reply, the monitors came to life and Graham's face appeared on one of the screens. I struggled to keep my posture relaxed, so as not to betray the nervousness I was feeling. This was it. All in, I kept reminding myself. All in.

"Report, Agent Walker," Graham said, the way he had so many other times during my career.

"Yes, sir." I took him through what had happened at the Buy More—from the moment Dean Adams walked into the store until the moment he'd left, complete with his apologies, Chuck's diploma, the settlement check … and Bryce's rescinded degree. My voice never wavered; I was simply stating facts. Let Bryce make of them what he would.

"Wait," Bryce said when I finished. "So my degree's just … gone? The CIA threw me under the bus?" He didn't sound nearly as calm as I had. His voice was inching upward by degrees; soon it would reach a pitch only dogs could hear.

I wanted to tell him that it was only what he deserved—that now he'd know how Chuck felt. But I didn't speak. I didn't have to. The truth spoke for itself … as did the director.

"You brought this on yourself, Agent Larkin." Graham's voice was pure ice. "As you'll recall, the CIA never sanctioned your actions in the first place. And as you'll also recall, you still owe me a sizable debt. This would be a poor time to develop a reluctance to pay it."

Bryce sputtered into silence, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The air around him telegraphed menace and frustration, but I ignored it. If everything went well, I wouldn't have to put up with him for much longer. And if it didn't—well, the same went for that situation, too.

"Is there anything else, Agent Walker?" Graham said, pointedly choosing not to direct any more of his attention Bryce's way.

"Yes, sir. Tonight, I have a date with Chuck. He asked me out right before I left."

"Excellent." He gave what I'd come to think of his Plotting Villain smile. All it lacked was a mustache to twirl and the requisite evil cackle. "Now that you've ensnared him—so to speak—I want you to start pressing him for more information on how we might be able to find his father."

Before I could tell Graham that I'd happily burn in hell before I pumped Chuck for information about Orion, Bryce interrupted. "Sir … I feel it's my duty to inform you that Agent Walker's been compromised. Just before this meeting, she informed me that she's fallen for the mark—for Bartowski, sir. She shouldn't be allowed to remain part of this mission."

"Is this true, Agent Walker?" The smile was gone. In its place was a blank expression, waiting to be shaped by whatever I said next.

Without any qualms, I spoke the truth. "Yes, sir. It is."

He let out a heavy sigh. "Then I'm afraid Agent Larkin's right. You'll need to be reassigned and replaced."

"That is, of course, up to you, sir. While I disagree with your assessment—the decision still falls under your purview."

His mouth was a thin line of disapproval. "It certainly does, Agent Walker. You'll need to report back to Langley."

Here we go. "With all due respect, sir, I'm afraid I'll have to respectfully decline."

I'd never contradicted Graham like this, not even in the beginning, when I was seventeen and rebelling against everything and everyone. His eyebrows rose in surprise. "That wasn't a question, agent. It was an order," he said, each syllable a steel trap. "I need you back at Langley … immediately."

This was it—the moment where I found out just how much Graham valued what I brought to the table. I opened my mouth and, with perfect poise, said six words that would've been unthinkable for me to utter just seventy-two hours ago. "In that case, sir—I quit."

In my peripheral vision, I saw Bryce's jaw drop, but I didn't bother to look at him. All my attention was on Graham, who seemed as stunned as if I'd smacked him across the face with a carp … and just as horrified. "Now, Agent Walker, I think we should all calm down and take a deep breath," he said—which was ironic, because he was the one whose voice was threaded with panic. "There's no need to get carried away."

It seemed like this was the afternoon of never. I'd never felt the sort of feelings I had for Chuck, much less admitted it to someone else; never told Graham I wouldn't comply with something he'd ordered me to do; never been willing to walk away from the only career I'd ever had—and I'd certainly never heard Graham sound anything less than perfectly composed, except for the rare occasion on which he'd let his irritation bleed through. In that moment, I had a heady realization: I had the advantage here. Graham didn't want to lose me. The only question was, how far he was willing to go to make me stay?

Watching his face on the screen, I didn't say a word. Silence was by far my best weapon in this situation—as Graham ought to know. He'd used it against me more times than I could count.

"All right, Agent Walker," he said at last. "What do you propose?"

At this, Bryce finally lost his grip on his professionalism—and his temper. "I'm sorry, sir. Let me see if I've got this straight. She just confirmed that she's compromised—that she's got an inappropriate emotional attachment to the mark. She's willing to defy your orders … and beyond that, she flat-out stated she'd rather quit the Agency than follow them. And your response is to ask for her opinion?"

Graham stared him down, his expression hewn from granite. "It is, Agent Larkin. And I don't recall asking for yours."

Bryce subsided into silence, looking like he had to bite his tongue to make it happen, and Graham returned his attention to me. "Agent Walker. Your thoughts?"

"Well," I said, weighing my words, "I think we need to come clean with the Bartowskis and ask for their help instead of trying to coerce it out of them. And we need to remove the surveillance from their residence. Quite frankly, I'm surprised you were able to get a FISA warrant to bug their apartment in the first place."

Graham glared at me, his mouth twitching.

"If they found out about the bugs on their own," I said, thinking about the fierce intelligence in Ellie's eyes and Chuck's extraordinary affinity for all things electronic, "there's no way they'd ever cooperate. Chuck in particular has been screwed over too many times—pardon my language, sir—to forgive something like that. They'll get angry, and justifiably so … and then they'll refuse to help in any way, shape or form."

"Any more concerns?" Graham said, his tone arid as the Mojave.

"Yes." Feeling free to speak my mind was, indeed, incredibly liberating; what was he going to do—fire me? "Promise them that you won't try to force Orion into cooperating. Tempt him if you will—make him an offer he'll find hard to refuse. But don't browbeat him into it. He hasn't done anything to deserve that."

Graham's expression was as inscrutable as one of the faces carved into Mt. Rushmore. "Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. Remove Agent Larkin as my partner and from this mission. He's too much of a wild card and a sore subject when it comes to both siblings. Why risk his exposure to them?"

Next to me, I heard Bryce suck in what sounded like half the air in the room. On some level, I felt bad for the guy. He was new; he was green; back in Graham's office, he sounded like he might've genuinely regretted what he'd done to Chuck. That didn't excuse him—but I wasn't without compassion. I'd been green once too, and all too ready to con anyone who crossed my path at the wrong time. I'd figured it was their fault if they were gullible enough to fall for one of my ploys. Now, of course, I knew better—but it had taken years of lurking in the shadows, then meeting the right person to give me the perspective I needed to find my moral center.

Graham's gaze flicked to Bryce, and I followed his lead. My fellow agent looked furious. "Permission to speak, sir?" he said, but Graham ignored him.

"Agent Walker, I'll agree to your proposals … for now … but I'll expect results," he said, folding his hands on top of his desk. "Agent Larkin, report back to Langley for reassignment." And he cut the feed.

Before I had a chance to savor my victory, Bryce stepped into my personal space, his face contorted with rage. "You bi—"

His eyes sprang wide at the sight of my knife—the same one I'd threatened him with on the plane. "Oh dear," I said, spinning the blade casually between my fingers and clicking my tongue like an exasperated schoolmarm. "Perhaps I've overstayed my welcome. I'll just see myself out."

Turning my back on him, I strode to the door and yanked it open. Emotions roiled within me as I stepped into the hallway—pride at besting Graham at his own game, relief at being rid of Bryce, happiness at not having to leave Chuck behind—but one feeling bubbled to the surface, overpowering everything else … spurring me onward, lightening my every step.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt free to follow my heart.

OoOoOoOoO

As I slipped on the little black dress I'd chosen to wear for my date with Chuck, my hands shook too hard to close the zipper. Since I'd left Bryce's apartment a little over three hours ago, my emotions had been ricocheting like the balls in one of those old-fashioned lottery machines. I'd felt excited, hopeful, determined, anxious, and resolved by turns. At the moment, the 'anxious' ball seemed to have landed on top, with no intentions of moving anytime soon. I had to sit down on the edge of my bed and remind myself to breathe.

The fact of the matter was, I'd never been on a date before. I knew 52 ways to kill a man with my bare hands … but when it came to romance, I was a total neophyte.

What if I messed this up completely? What if Chuck didn't like me as much as I thought he did? What if, once I told him the truth, he never wanted to speak to me again?

Shaking off the jitters, I got to my feet and resumed trying to zip up the stupid dress. Chuck had refused to tell me where we were going for our date, so I'd chosen my trusty LBD and a pair of black stilettos. Nude lipstick and gloss, a dusting of sparkly eyeshadow, blush, and mascara completed my ensemble. I applied my makeup as lightly as I could, figuring that on a first date, less was more—not to mention that my cheeks were already a hectic shade of pink.

What would I do if he ended up hating me after tonight? What if the look of total adoration he'd had since he laid eyes on me morphed into contempt and disgust? What if—

The doorbell rang, startling me out of my reverie. I went to answer it—and found Chuck standing on the other side, a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand. I noticed them first, along with his light-blue button down, navy-blue tie and blazer, dark-wash jeans, and black-and-white Converse. It was too nerve-wracking to look at his face. The guy'd been engaged, for God's sake. No matter how nerdy he might be, he'd probably been on dozens of dates. He knew how to act, whereas I had no clue.

Summoning my courage, I forced myself to glance upward—and was glad I had. Chuck looked as nervous as I was. He kept biting his lip, those gorgeous dark eyes of his fixed on me, his pupils wide. He tried to speak, and failed … adorably.

How could I tell him that I'd been spending time with him under false pretenses, but that meeting him had changed my life—in such a way that he'd believe me? How could I risk losing him? It was a good thing he spoke first, because I was suddenly too choked up to speak.

"Sarah." He cleared his throat. "Wow. You look … amazing. I—um—here … these are for you."

He thrust the flowers in my direction, and I took them, glad for something to do with my hands. "Thank you," I said, turning three shades of pink. "And for the flowers, too. They're beautiful."

"I—I hope you like them," he said, almost tripping over his words. "When I saw them, they somehow reminded me of you." His eyes fell from mine, and his face flushed bright red. "Oh, God, that was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it? Jesus, I can be such an idiot sometimes."

With my free hand, I reached out and adjusted his lapels, happy to have an excuse to touch him. "Relax, Chuck. That was sweet. And you look great, too. Very … dapper."

Dapper? What the hell was wrong with me—had I somehow fallen into the 19th century? "Please … come in. I'll just put these in water, and then we can go." I turned away and rifled through the kitchen cabinets to hide my embarrassment, hoping the CIA had conveniently stocked my apartment with a vase. They hadn't, but I found a glass pitcher that would do, filled it with water, and arranged the sunflowers in it. I set them on the table and turned to find Chuck glancing around my apartment, doubtless taking in what he thought was my personal taste. Watching him, I felt even more guilty than before. This isn't me, I wanted to tell him. Anything you think you're learning about me right now is a lie.

I had to tell him the truth tonight … but I didn't want to ruin our evening before it had even started. If he wanted nothing to do with me after this—for which, quite frankly, I wouldn't blame him—then at least I would have some memories to savor.

I grabbed my clutch and we walked into the courtyard. As we passed Chuck's apartment, I caught a glimpse of Ellie peeking through the curtains again and had to suppress a smile, despite my guilt. I reached out and looped my arm through Chuck's, partially for her benefit and partially because I wanted to. He looked down at me with such a warm, tender expression that it almost knocked me off my feet. Anxiety welled in me once more, and it took everything I had to shove it down.

We made our way out of the courtyard and onto the sidewalk, where he gestured to a burgundy Honda Accord at the curb. "I rented it for tonight," he said, hurrying forward to open the door for me. "I didn't want you to have to drive—not because of some stupid chauvinistic reason, but because I asked you out, and you're new in town, so you don't know where things are, and … anyhow, I normally drive the Buy More's Herder, and it's definitely not a date-worthy car. So I rented this one. I know it's a little white-picket-fence-and-2.5-kids. I hope you don't mind."

Chuck, I realized, tended to babble when he was nervous—which was convenient, because I pretty much stopped speaking entirely under the same circumstances. "I don't mind at all," I said, and slid onto the seat, smoothing my dress beneath my legs.

He started the car and I rolled down the window, breathing in primrose and sage—and the comforting, entrancing scent of the man beside me. How could a person feel like home, when I'd never had a home to speak of?

"So," I said as he pulled out of the parking spot, "I guess you're still not going to tell me where we're going?"

Shaking his head, he grinned at me. "Not a chance. Although I will say that, much as I personally love your dress, you may find it a little … confining for what I have planned."

"That's not my fault," I protested, grinning back. "You wouldn't tell me where we were going. I had no idea what to wear."

"I didn't want to ruin the surprise." He merged into traffic. "This is our first date. I wanted it to be special."

We drove for about thirty minutes, with Chuck pointing out places he liked to go, telling me silly stories from when he was little, and asking me questions about life in D.C. I was as honest as I could be, but I was painfully aware of everything I was leaving out. Later, I vowed, I would tell him everything.

"Okay," he said at last, turning onto a side street. "Close your eyes."

"What? Why?"

"Please … just humor me. I'll let you know when you can open them again." He turned the full effect of his eyes on me … and I caved—I couldn't help it.

"Fine," I said, somewhat grudgingly, shutting my own eyes—not the easiest thing to do for a hardened spy. "Have it your way."

"It won't be long. I promise."

True to his word—and well before my patience ran out—my weight shifted against the seatbelt as he took a right turn, and the car began to slow. "Don't look … but we're here."

I felt the car come to a stop. The motor turned off, and I heard the tick-tick-tick of the engine cooling. Chuck's door opened, then shut again. The next thing I knew, he'd opened my door and I felt the warmth of his hand in mine. "Okay," he said. "Do you trust me?"

"Absolutely," I said without a second thought, feeling the ache in my heart deepen. The other day, I'd asked him to trust me. Now he was returning the favor—but only one of us was worthy of that trust.

"This is gonna be so great." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Try and keep your eyes shut for just a little while longer. I'm going for maximum effect here. I promise, I won't let anything happen to you."

He tucked my arm through his as he led me through the parking lot—I could feel the rough surface of the asphalt under my heels—then into a place where I could hear the exuberant thrum of people milling around. He guided me a little further, one careful step at a time—and I felt the cool nip of fresh air on my face as he said, "Okay. You can look now."

I blinked … and my mouth fell open. We were standing in the midst of a winter wonderland. In front of me was an outdoor ice skating rink, festooned with stars and lanterns that hung suspended over the ice. Not ten feet away was a Christmas tree, all lit up for the season … and across the rink were screens featuring projected images of snowflakes. I breathed deeply, smelling hot chocolate and the citrusy scent of fir. Children and adults spun across the ice, some more graceful than others, laughing and holding on to each other for support. It was like someone had taken all of my childhood dreams of what holidays were supposed to be like and brought them to life.

"Chuck," I said, my voice cracking, "what made you think of this?"

He shrugged, a self-deprecating reflex. "I didn't want to do just any old thing with you. Dinner and a movie didn't quite cut it. I told you … I wanted this to be special. I'm a horrible skater, but this seemed like fun—something you'd enjoy—something you'll remember. If you hate it, we can go somewhere else—"

I couldn't help myself; I flung my arms around him. "How could I hate … this? It's perfect. Thank you."

He froze for an instant, and then his arms wrapped around me in return, holding me close. "You're welcome. A hug like this is worth all the bumps and bruises I'm sure I'll have after tonight."

I giggled, pulling away. "Where do we get our skates?"

True to his word, Chuck was a terrible skater. I'd ice skated a few times when I was a kid, and it came back to me easily enough—but Chuck kept falling, and eventually he had to hold onto me so he'd be able to stay upright without clinging to the side of the rink. He apologized profusely, but I didn't mind at all. It felt like something out of a rom-com, me in my little black dress and him in his shirt and tie, spinning across the ice. He was almost comically clumsy, and I wondered after a while if he was doing it on purpose, just to make me laugh.

"Okay," Chuck said on what must have been our fiftieth revolution around the rink, "I think I've got it now."

"Oh yeah? Does that mean you're ready to let go?"

"Not on your life," he said as he slid his arm behind my back, dipping me so far, my head almost touched the ice.

As I straightened up, my cheeks pink from laughter, I caught sight of a couple who must've been in their sixties skating by, eyeing us with nostalgia. They looked so happy together, and for an instant I let myself envision a future where Chuck and I grew old together and came back to this ice skating rink every year to celebrate the anniversary of our first date.

I came back to reality with a crash. All of this—the flowers, his thoughtfulness, this magical night—I didn't deserve it. I needed to tell him the truth, before we went any further.

"Chuck—" I began, but he was determinedly towing me toward the exit.

"That," he said, stumbling but managing not to drag us down onto the ice, "was my grand finale, in case you were wondering. There's no way I can top that, and besides, we've got somewhere else to be before our dinner reservations."

I looked at his face, lit with happiness, and couldn't bring myself to destroy our night—at least, not yet. "Somewhere better than this?" I teased, letting myself be towed. "Maybe you should quit while you're ahead."

"No way," he said, tightening his grip on my hand. "I'm done with that kind of thinking. Besides … tonight, we're celebrating—and the next place we're going is way more my wheelhouse."

OoOoOoOoO

We laughed and chatted until Chuck pulled onto Ocean Avenue, and the sight of the sun setting over the waves stunned me into silence. I glanced over at him in amazement, wondering if he'd timed our exit from the skating rink perfectly so that we'd get here just in time to see the sunset. Knowing what I did about Chuck, I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised.

The sun slipped below the horizon in a dazzling display of red and orange, and the moon rose in its stead. The stars shone through the sheer curtain of the night, dotting the sky. Bathed in brilliant moonlight, the ocean glistened like a quilt of molten silver, scattered with glinting sequins—a mirrored reflection of Earth and the heavens. I gasped, spellbound.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Chuck said, following the line of my gaze.

"Are … are we going swimming?" I said, finally finding my voice. I glanced down at my little black dress, not sure if I was prepared to make the sacrifice. If Chuck intended to get me out of my clothes, he needn't resort to such extreme measures.

He snorted in amusement, shaking his head. "Are you kidding? It's way too cold for that. No … tonight, Ms. Walker … we battle."

My eyebrows knitted in puzzlement as we pulled onto the ramp to the pier and drove beneath the archway. It read, in glowing letters, "Santa Monica: Yacht Harbor * Sport Fishing * Boating * Cafes." There was a small lot on the pier; Chuck got a ticket, found a spot, and extended his hand to help me out of the car.

Walking on a pier in stilettos wasn't the easiest thing I'd ever done, but I managed it, relishing the excuse to once more tuck my hand through Chuck's arm. The ocean breeze blew my hair back from my face, redolent of salt and summer days with my family before everything went to hell. Chuck had left his blazer in the car, and his arm was warm through the cotton of his button-down. This moment was perfect. I wanted to remember it forever … just like Chuck had planned.

He came to a halt, bringing me with him, and I looked up to see a marquee that read, "PLAYLAND ARCADE: SKEEBALL & PRIZES." The light dawned: So that's what he'd meant by 'battle.' I'd never been to an arcade before, but Chuck had been such a good sport at the ice skating rink, I felt like I needed to return the favor.

"Ready?" he said, sounding as excited as a little kid.

"Whenever you are."

We passed beneath the marquee and into the arcade. It was filled with pinball machines, skeeball, air hockey tables, old-fashioned games like Pac-Man, and a ton of other stuff. The place was huge, and smelled of popcorn and adrenaline.

"What do you want to do first?" Chuck said, bouncing on his heels.

I had no idea. "Um … you choose."

"How about WARZAID?" he suggested, gesturing at a game a few feet away. "It doesn't have controls, so it'll be a fair fight. I usually play more technical stuff, but this one and a couple others are more based on reaction time than anything else."

I peered more closely at the game he was pointing at. Were those … guns?

Oh, yes, they most certainly were. My competitive streak reared its nasty head … the same one that had made me first in my class at the Farm. I was going to smoke Chuck at this game.

"It's a first-person shooter," he said, mistaking my anticipation for hesitation. "Is that a problem … are you anti-gun?"

I almost choked on my laughter, but managed to rein it in ... somewhat. The sound that came out of my mouth was somewhere between a cough and a bark, and—understandably—Chuck shot me a disturbed look. "You all right?" he said.

"Yes … sorry. Fine." I pulled myself together. "I'm not anti-gun. Anti-lack of gun control, yes. Anti-gun, no. How do you play?"

The game was weird, but fun. Chuck and I were on the same team, shooting at what I first thought were soldiers in full military gear, but actually turned out to be zombies. Once I got a sense of how to handle the gun, I had a blast … no pun intended. It was easy to figure out how to take cover, aim, and annihilate our enemies. I braced myself in my stilettos like I had on dozens of missions, grateful for the light material of my dress, and took out one zombie after another.

I was having such a great time, I forgot about the fact that Chuck was next to me until the last zombie fell dead and he gave a low whistle through his teeth. "Damn, girl," he said, looking impressed as I lowered the gun. "I thought I was decent at WARZAID, but you totally put me to shame. Have you played this before?"

I shook my head. "Nope. Never been much for video games, but this one was awesome. What next?"

He scanned the room, filled with lit-up consoles and kids cheering each other on. There was even a platform where two little girls were dancing in step, trying to match the pattern projected on a screen. They were having such a good time, I couldn't help but smile.

Chuck's gaze settled on the center of the room. "How about a racing game?"

Could this night get any better? "Sure. Sounds like fun. I like driving fast cars."

This time we played against each other, and Chuck didn't stand a chance. I spun the steering wheel left and right, whipping my car around the track, gunning the engine and taking hairpin turns. My Ferrari screeched through the finish line while his Lamborghini was still rounding the last curve.

In the silence that followed, Chuck stared at me, his mouth open. "How … how did you learn to drive like that?"

"I told you," I said, unable to repress a grin. "I like fast cars."

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any more incredible …" He shook his head. "I thought I was the one who'd be surprising you tonight, but this—you're awesome, Sarah. You couldn't be any more amazing if I'd special-ordered you myself."

I regarded him, half-pleased, half-surprised, and he blushed bright red. "That sounded horrible, didn't it? I didn't mean that you were some kind of commodity, or that you exist for my gratification, or—the hell with it. I'm just going to shut up now."

As I watched him shuffle his feet in embarrassment, I couldn't help be struck by how different he was from the alpha males I'd spent time with at the Farm. Those guys would've been pissed off beyond belief about the fact that I'd beaten their performance. They would've blamed my success on faulty equipment, demanded a rematch—but Chuck just looked proud.

Giving in to a sudden impulse, I leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Do we have time to play something else?"

I loved the way every time I kissed him, it seemed to knock his brain off track for a good thirty seconds. Finally, his eyes cleared and he said, his voice hoarse, "Air hockey?"

So we played. Air hockey, at least, was something I'd done before. I'd always had good reflexes, and my years at the Farm had honed them further. I scored goals again and again, driving them past Chuck's defenses, winking at him to ease the sting.

"Please tell me you've played this before," Chuck said as he bent down to retrieve the puck yet again. "Or are you just some kind of air hockey savant?"

"I've played it before," I admitted, and he drew an exaggerated breath of relief as he dropped the puck back onto the table and sent it skating my way.

It was time to put him out of his misery. The score was 6-1 … one more point and the game would be mine.

"You know what?" I said, my eyes fixed on Chuck's. "I'm hungry."

Without taking my eyes off his face, I sent the puck across the table with dangerous precision. It slammed home, and the digital scoreboard flipped to 7-1.

"Game over," I said cheerily. "Dinner?"

OoOoOoOoO

Dinner, as it turned out, was at a restaurant called Sushi Roku. "I hope you like sushi," Chuck said shyly as we walked up to the front door, "because if not … well, too late."

"I love sushi," I assured him. "And after kicking your butt at air hockey, I'm starving."

The restaurant was elegant, with high ceilings, interior columns, and tall windows that let in the dimming light. The hostess seated us at a two-top by the one of the windows, and Chuck pulled my chair out for me with a flourish.

We ordered drinks—Sapporo for him, and a Coco Blossom for me: Absolut vodka, mixed with coconut, orange blossom, lime juice, and mint. It tasted delicious … like summer in a glass. I eyed Chuck over the rim, feeling so lucky to be here, in this place, with this man.

Even if I was going to have to break his heart—and mine.

But not yet.

I did my best to put the conversation that we were going to have to have out of my mind. "How do you feel about bacon-wrapped scallops as an appetizer?" I asked Chuck instead, scanning the menu.

"Is there more than one way to feel about bacon-wrapped anything?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Not in my opinion." I took a sip of my drink. "How about … hmmm … miso-glazed popcorn shrimp tempura?"

In the end, we got the scallops and the shrimp, plus an eel avocado roll, an assortment of sushi, and a baked lobster roll with miso hollandaise sauce. The food was delicious, but as our meal went on, I was having trouble swallowing. Every moment brought me closer to the confession I dreaded.

I felt like two versions of myself. The first, Surface Sarah, smiled at Chuck, snuck bites off his plate with her chopsticks, and asked him questions about his life. The second, Subterranean Sarah, had a single loop running on repeat in her head: Please don't hate me, please understand, please forgive me, please don't make me lose you. If it hadn't been for my years at the Farm, which had trained me all too well to operate with a hidden agenda, I would have knocked back the rest of my drink and fled from the table long ago.

After dinner, I'll tell him, I bargained with myself. Just a few more minutes.

We finished our food and ordered coffee. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster as Chuck told me about wanting to start his own cybersecurity company. "Now that I finally have my degree and the money to do it, nothing's standing in my way," he said as the waitress set our coffees down on the table. "But anyhow, enough about me. I've done nothing but talk about myself all night. You must be so bored."

My lips felt numb. "I'm not. But I do have something to tell you." Taking his hand in mine, I readied myself for the worst. "Chuck, when I met you, I wasn't really—"

A high, all-too-familiar, indignant voice interrupted my confession. "You have got to be kidding me."

Oh, no. Surely not. My luck couldn't be that bad.

But yes. Yes, it was. Stalking toward our table in a dress that could have done double-duty as a napkin and a hairdo which required so much spray it was likely a fire hazard was none other than Tiffany, Bryce's flavor-of-the-night.

I was so screwed.

A/N: We'd love to hear your thoughts. How do you feel about the direction we're taking with this story? And how many of you would like to order a Coco Blossom when you're done with social distancing? We know we would, especially after the great news Emily got today.

We're posting this in celebration and as a thank-you to this group for being so supportive. Emily is such a trouper that she even edited this chapter post-surgery. Also, she wrote the majority of it. It'll make her surgery recovery so much more fun if you let us know what you think!

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way. They really do make this all worthwhile.