Author's Note: We are on the cusp of having a gentleman back in the White House, folks. I haven't been sleeping well these past few nights and will breathe a long sigh of relief when I know Trump has been defeated. Now, onto the story.

I need to call Polly, but before I leave the condo, I have to make it look presentable again. I quickly vacuum and wipe down the surfaces, then clean the stainless steel appliances which unfortunately show every fingerprint. As soon as I'm done, I lock up and rush to my car, hitting the green button on my phone.

"Hi, stranger," Polly answers after two rings. "Where've you been?"

"You're not going to believe who I ran into," I begin without preamble.

"No pleasantries?"

"Do you remember a girl named Alex Vause from high school?" I dive right in, ignoring her question.

"Mmm…doesn't sound familiar," she responds. "Was she in our class?"

"She was a senior when we were freshmen." I connect my Bluetooth to my car speaker. "She had the dark, shoulder-length hair with bright blue tips. They might've been pink at one point. She was always in trouble."

"The lesbian bitch who egged my house?" Polly inquires.

"You could never prove it was her," I say, hoping not to dredge up that incident. "Anyway, she's a real estate agent now!"

"What?"

"And she doesn't go by Alex—she's A.P. Vause," I say through a single, excited breath.

"That's a dumb name," Polly states. "And I don't get why this makes you so happy."

I get onto I-5 and head North. "It doesn't necessarily make me happy; it's just interesting."

"If you say so," she replies in an impartial tone.

I lift my eyebrows. "Aren't you curious why she changed her name?"

"No, but I'm guessing you're about to tell me."

"She was in prison!" I shout.

"Prison?" That earns me a high-pitched response. "For what?"

"Apparently, she was in an international drug cartel, Pol!" I begin. "From what I could find on the Internet, she worked for them for like three or four years and travelled all over the world, but the authorities caught her. She served seven years in a federal penitentiary!"

"Damn."

"I know, right?" I get off at the Ravenna exit. "She was released early for good behavior about four years ago."

"I can't say I'm all that surprised," she responds. "She was always in trouble in high school."

I'm disappointed that Polly isn't nearly as fascinated by this discovery as I am. "Now she's an agent for that up and coming firm I told you about—Rainier Realty."

"How does a felon get a job like that?"

"I have no idea." I turn onto North 80th Street and make my way home. "Anyhow, she's my competition."

"That'll be interesting," she says in a lackluster voice. Maybe she's trying to placate me.

"It will be," I say. "Hey, do you want to walk Green Lake tomorrow? Maybe get brunch after?"

"If I can get Pete to watch Finn, I'd love to."

I stop at a red light. "I'll touch base with you tomorrow morning."

"Sounds good."

My plan is to do a little more research about both Vauses tonight and fill Polly in on my findings tomorrow. She has to be just a little curious about our old Bellingham High classmate.

I pull into my driveway and hear the sound of a text message come from my phone. It's probably Larry hoping to get together tonight; I'm not interested. I haven't seen him in a week, and I'm perfectly fine with that. I know I need to pull the plug, but I haven't found the right moment.

I enter my house from the side door, toss my purse on the counter, and then check my phone. It's an unknown number. I open the text and read it: We should talk. Maybe Larry got a new number. I know he was talking about upgrading his shitty phone last week, but I thought they'd let him keep his old number.

Who is this? I type. I pull a bottle of Perrier from the fridge, then scan the items I have on hand to make dinner. Other than a few eggs, lettuce and some condiments, I'm shit out of luck. I really do need to go to the store tomorrow.

My phone chimes, so I open the text message and look at the name staring back at me: Alex Vause.

I'm stunned; I was not expecting her to reach out to me. It would be easy for anyone to get my cell number—it's plastered all over the Shadwick-Bloom website and listed on my business card as well. Do I play it cool or show her that I'm curious about her life?

Hi, I type. Thought I was supposed to call you A.P.?

I watch the three little dots dance on the screen. Didn't know if you'd recognize the name.

Is she kidding? Of course I do. It's not like our encounter was a month ago—we spoke less than an hour ago.

I want to clear some things up, she types.

I'm not sure how to proceed, so I'll let her take the lead. Ok… I write.

Are you free this evening?

She wants to talk today? I wasn't prepared for that. If I'm not seeing Larry or getting together with Polly tonight, I suppose I could chat with her.

Yes. I type.

I can come to your place or you can come to mine.

I'm surprised she wants to meet in person. If I invite her here, she'll know where I live. If she's still connected to the drug cartel in any way, that might put me in danger. If I go to her place, she might do something…illegal.

Why not meet somewhere neutral? I suggest.

Do you really want to be seen with the competition in a public place?

I never considered that. If I bump into anyone from my firm, it would be awkward as hell. I'm the one who's been enquiring about Rainier Realty, so if someone sees me with one of their agents, it could look like I was cavorting with the enemy.

I'll take my chances and meet on her turf. Where do you live?

Spire on Wall Street.

I recently sold a condo for $1.2 million in that new, 25-story high rise in downtown Seattle. The cheapest home is a lower-level, one bedroom unit that's listed for $850,000. The six penthouse suites are listed at just over $4 million. As far as I know, only one of them was sold.

Text me details and I'll be there in an hour, I write.

I have no idea what to expect from this meeting. Is she going to confess to the whole prison thing or is she going to invent something to appease me? She must know I could do some research on the Internet, so I can't imagine she's going to lie about her past.

I take a quick shower and dab on a little makeup. I run a curling iron through my hair, remembering what my style was when I was a freshman in high school—a high ponytail with a colorful bow. I don't know if Alex had ever seen me with my hair down until today. Perhaps that's one reason she didn't recognize me at the Met. I was also about 30 pounds lighter. Scrawny is a good word to describe my physique back then. I'd barely hit puberty and had just discovered running as a hobby; I was all disproportionate with long legs and thin arms.

As I tug on a pair of designer jeans, I try to remember what Alex looked like in high school. The dark hair with blue or pink tips is easy to recall, but she styled it differently in those days—her part was straight down the middle. Her hair barely reached her shoulders and it was bone straight and rather limp like maybe she didn't wash it daily. Her face seemed longer, too. She wore glasses, but they weren't the secretary-style specs she wears now. They might've been round. Yes, I think they were oversized round frames similar to John Lennon's famous glasses. She always wore faded black jeans and some heavy metal concert t-shirt with black boots. I think the boots were studded with silver accents. She was a waif of a girl back then, but she was still pretty with her pale skin, green eyes and thick lips.

I get in my car and head South on Aurora. Spire wasn't built when I bought my house three years ago, but I toyed with the idea of living in a condo downtown for a while. The monthly dues are what ended that fascination for me, plus I'm a runner and felt like jogging the path around Green Lake would be more my speed than running on the hilly streets of downtown Seattle.

The closer I get, the more anxious I become. Alex and I were never friends, and I have no expectation of that changing now that we're adults. I'm sure she struggled to remember who I was when I mentioned that we went to Bellingham High together. Why would she remember me? She was a senior with one foot out the door. By the end of my freshman year, I'd all but forgotten about Alex as my focus was on making the varsity track team and hanging out with sophomore boys on the weekends. In fact, I don't remember seeing much of her the last couple months of school and wonder if she ultimately dropped out.

I pull into one of the guest parking spots in front of the high rise and take a deep breath before getting out. I scroll to the text message that Alex sent and enter a four-digit code on a panel next to the front door. I remember the elevators being high tech the last time I was here—you have to punch in a different code or scan a barcode and it takes you to the proper floor. When I sold the condo in this building, I remember the new owner loving this security feature.

I step out of the high-speed elevator on the 12th floor and walk around the corner to Unit 1205. As I recall, all the units ending in the number five are one bedrooms. I straighten my blouse before knocking on the door made from walnut wood. I hear what sounds like loud bass music coming from inside. The volume goes down, and I figure she must've heard my knock.

"Hey." Alex's lips tug up, and I remember instantly that she has always had a beautiful smile. "Come in."

"Hi." I step inside and my eyes are drawn to the floor to ceiling windows with an unobstructed view of Elliott Bay. I'm guessing if I step onto the balcony, she has a peek-a-boo view of the Space Needle, too. "This is gorgeous."

"Not bad for an ex-con," she says.

Well then…we're going there right off the bat. I guess she figures I did my research. I'm not ready to dive in within seconds of arriving, so I don't respond but I'm sure she can tell by my facial expression that I know.

"I moved in three weeks ago," she comments. "I still have a few boxes in the little storage area in the parking garage."

"I like how sparse it is. It feels airier—almost like you're outside." In my line of work, not only do I see interesting homes, but I see all types of furniture, too. Alex clearly has modern taste and is on a West Elm budget. The entire living place looks like a featured room in their catalogue.

She walks past the green velvet sofa towards the balcony. "Have you been in the building before?"

I nod. "I sold a condo on the 19th floor not that long ago."

"Same, but the one I sold was on the 16th floor," she responds, opening the door and allowing me to go outside. "I almost bought it for myself, but the interest rates were still a little high back then."

I step onto the balcony and confirm there's a view of the Space Needle to the North. "What rate did you end up getting for this place?"

"Two point eight," she replies. "I didn't think it would go any lower than that."

I'm guessing Alex paid just shy of a million dollars for this unit. It's beneath the 15th floor and is only one bedroom, so it's not one of the higher-priced condos. Still, it cost significantly more than my 1930s Craftsman that still needs work.

"I'm sure every agent is thankful interest rates remain so low," I comment. "Makes our job easier."

"It does." She moves inside. "Can I get you something to drink? Beer, wine, cocktail?"

I follow her into the kitchen, which has white Quartz surfaces and a matching backsplash, as well as high-end Bosch appliances. "I'll have whatever you're having."

I didn't know what to expect upon coming here—if we'd awkwardly converse while standing in the living room or have a relatively painless conversation over a few beers.

"We didn't get to have that martini at the Metropolitan Grill." She grabs two glasses from a cupboard. "I won't pretend mine are as good as Carlos' but I'm a decent enough bartender."

I smile, remembering the night we met on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant. I wonder what would've happened if I'd had a drink with her that night.

She moves to a vintage-looking bar cart with gold trim and mirrored trays. "Gin or vodka?"

"Gin, please," I say. "Vodka martinis aren't real martinis."

Alex grins. "I agree."

I've been so busy checking out her condo that I haven't checked her out yet. She has on a gray Cashmere sweater and black jeans. These jeans aren't reminiscent of the ones she wore in high school—those were probably from Walmart or a second hand store. These are Helmut Lang skinny jeans—I can tell by the emblem on the back. I own a similar pair that I bought on sale for $120.

"I just got some blue cheese stuffed olives from DeLaurenti's." She pours a few ounces of Hendrick's into a cocktail mixing glass. "Would you like one or two?"

She not only exudes confidence but also wealth. The only similarity between present day Alex and high school Alex is the sound of her voice. I don't think she's had plastic surgery, but the bone structure in her face looks different; I don't remember her having such high cheekbones. Of course, she was 17 back then and very thin. She's still thin, but she's filled out nicely—especially her chest.

"I love DeLaurenti's," I comment. "And blue cheese olives are my favorite."

"I'll make it three, then." She grins as she skewers the olives, then places them in each glass. "So, I take it my ex-con comment either fell flat or you were just being polite by not responding."

"I'm nothing if not polite." This is the gray area—the part where I'm not sure how to proceed, so I'll let her do the talking.

She uses an extra-long spoon to stir the gin and olive brine in the mixing glass. "You strike me as someone who does her research."

I tilt my head. "Are you saying that from knowing me in high school or as a fellow real estate agent?"

"I didn't really know you in high school," she responds. "I vaguely remember you barging in on me and Sylvie in the bathroom stall, and then attending one of those Gay/Straight Alliance meetings before I got suspended for the first time that year."

"You don't remember when I caught you and Nicky Nichols smoking pot in the chemistry lab?"

She pours the liquid into the two glasses and chuckles. "No, but that sounds accurate."

"Are you still in touch with her?"

"Nicky? Kind of." She slides one glass across the Quartz countertop. "She's in and out of rehab facilities. I think she's at Promises in Malibu now; I haven't seen her since the holidays."

"Sorry to hear that."

Alex walks around the kitchen island and holds her glass up. "To old times."

"Old times." I clink my martini glass against hers, and then take a sip. "Mmm. This is perfect."

"If you want perfection, you really have to go to the Met again." She walks into the living room, lowering the volume on the downtempo music on a wall-mounted control panel. "I don't know what Carlos does to make his martinis so good but it's worth the $18 splurge."

I don't remind her that I did have a martini that night, but not with her. I take another sip. "I can't imagine it tasting any better than this."

She sits in a mustard-colored swivel chair and crosses her legs. "I'm glad you could talk tonight."

I take a seat on the sofa, setting my drink on the marble-topped coffee table. "I'm not usually free on a Saturday night, but I figured it would be good for us to clear the air."

She sips her cocktail. "Do you usually hang out with your boyfriend on Saturday evenings?"

"Either that or with friends." She's fishing for information, but I'm not going to make it overly easy for her. "What about you? Don't you typically have plans on the weekend?"

"Always." She pops an olive into her mouth. "But when you agreed to meet, I cancelled them."

Interesting.

"What you know about me could end my career, Piper." She sets her martini glass on a side table and leans forward, elbows on her knees. "I figured canceling plans for one night was worth trying to save it."

I'm not sure how to respond; I just nod.

"The owners of Rainier Realty know about my time in prison, but no one else does," she continues. "Not even my closest friends."

I smooth a hand down my thigh. "That seems like a pretty big thing to keep from your friends."

"That's the way it has to be," she sighs as if regretting the way things have to be. "You want the long or short version?"

"You pick."

"We'll go with the mid-sized one." She leans back, appearing more relaxed now that she's conveyed the weight of the situation to me. "After high school, my mom and I moved to Lynnwood where the rent was like half of what we were paying in Bellingham. I worked at Taco Time for a few months, then at the food court in Alderwood Mall. I just kind of existed for a few years, you know?"

"Did you graduate from high school?" That question has been nagging me since I learned her identity.

"Barely. I think I ended with like a 1.8 GPA," she replies. "Nicky and I still hung out a lot and smoked a fuck ton of pot, but she started getting into the higher priced drugs. She could afford that stuff, but I couldn't, so I mostly stuck to pot and the occasional line of Coke."

I take a sip of my martini to try to hide the judgment that surely registers on my face. I've smoked joints a few times in my life, but I've never done anything 'harder' than that.

"I fell in with a wealthy crowd who partied pretty much every weekend, and one night, I met a guy who worked for an international cartel." She stops for a sip. "I did small jobs for him before I was 21. Eventually, I started traveling to Central America, Europe and even one trip to Asia."

"You sold drugs?" This shouldn't be a surprise to me since I read about it on the Internet but hearing it directly from her makes it more tangible.

"We're not talking dime bags here," she begins with a light laugh as if I don't understand the kind of drugs she sold. "Before I joined the…management side of the business, I was peddling $500,000 worth of drugs a month."

My eyebrows skyrocket.

"Two of the four years I worked for Fahri and Kubra, I lived high on the hog," Alex says with surprising fondness in her tone. "The most expensive hotel I'd stayed in up until that point was the fucking Holiday Inn. When I traveled with the cartel, the cheapest hotel we stayed in was the Intercontinental. We're talking Ritz-Carlton, Four Seasons, Fairmont—places that charged upwards of $600 a night. I wined and dined clients at restaurants on the world's most renowned lists. I drank Tattinger's and Armand de Brignac like water." She pauses. "That was the good life."

"At what expense?" I ask in a disparaging tone. "You were a drug mule."

"I was never a mule." She shakes her head. "I recruited mules. I could turn a pretty young thing like you in the blink of an eye back then." She snaps her fingers.

It's my turn to shake my head. "You would've never turned me into a mule."

"I could be pretty fucking persuasive," she comments around a sly grin. "Which is why selling homes is like second nature."

We'll get to the real estate thing in a moment; I want to hear more about her past life. "Eventually, you were arrested."

"Yeah." She looks away, jaw flexing. "I spent seven of an eight-year sentence behind bars, missing that life of luxury every fucking minute."

"Do you regret it?"

"I've gnawed on that question for a long time." She pops an olive into her mouth. "I know I should regret it, but it's hard when I was living that kind of life, you know?"

"I don't know." I certainly don't approve of how she made a living and think it serves her right for being locked up.

"When you come from nothing like I did, kid, your first taste of money is like a shot of heroin—it's addictive." She stands and walks towards the gauzy curtains, opening them as the moon comes into view. "I started researching jobs I might be able to get when I was released from prison that would help me earn similar money to what I was making in the cartel. Most jobs, as you can imagine, require a college degree. I'd barely fucking graduated from high school."

I turn more fully towards her, admiring her maroon painted toenails from afar.

"That's when I landed on real estate. You take an exam, and if you pass, you get a license."

Obviously, I know that part since that's exactly what I did after college.

"My cellmate's brother owned a struggling real estate company in Seattle, and she convinced him to meet with me." Alex opens the door to the balcony, letting in the cool early Autumn air. "Bruce and his wife agreed to hire me on a few conditions, not the least of which was that I stay clean while working for them." She takes a sip of her drink. "For an entire year, I made $20 an hour, and there was no commission until I proved that I was serious about this profession and that I wasn't doing or selling drugs."

I'm impressed they took a chance on her. My firm probably wouldn't have hired a felon.

"My second year, I made the same hourly wage, but I got to keep half of the one percent commission we charge our clients." She eats the last olive. "Right out of the gate, I was pretty good, but in that second year, I hit my stride. There was one month when I sold 24 homes."

She's piqued my interest. "Are you the reason Rainier Realty is gaining traction around here?"

She shrugs, but a smile dances on her lips. "I'm part of the equation. We have four other agents who hustle their asses off."

I get to my feet. "I hadn't even heard of your company until this summer."

"We were under the radar for a long time." She drains her cocktail, then moves into the kitchen. "That won't be the case ever again…unless you divulge my secret."

I lift my shoulders. "What would be so bad about people finding out you served time?"

She rinses her glass, then sticks it in the dishwasher. "Would you trust a former convict in any area of life, especially if she was trying to help you buy or sell a home?"

I lower my gaze. "I guess not."

"Exactly. There's not a ton of respect out there for ex-cons." Alex grabs two wine glasses from a cabinet. "No one can know, Piper. It wouldn't just ruin my career; it would ruin Bruce and Tabitha and everything they've worked for."

I raise my shoulders. "So, I'm supposed to pretend we don't know each other?"

"That would be best, yeah." She grabs a bottle of wine off a rack and examines the label. "But that's part of the reason I wanted to talk to you. It wouldn't be fair for me to ask you to do this huge favor for me without hearing your thoughts and answering your questions."

"I've never lied about anything in my life," I admit. "And definitely not something this big."

"I'm not necessarily asking you to lie for me." She shoves a corkscrew into the bottle. "I'm asking you not to divulge what you know about me or to use my old name."

"Did you get it legally changed or something?" I scoff.

She stops her twisting motion and stares at me. "Yeah, I did."

I didn't expect that. There's a lot that's eating at me, but the biggest thing is that I have the power to destroy my competition. Sure, Alex has yet to make the top seller list in any of the notable reports, but it might be just a matter of time before she does. It took me eight years to make that list, and she is getting awfully close after only three and a half years in the business.

"So, you're suggesting that if anyone asks if I know you, I what? Change the subject?"

She pulls the cork out. "What could you say that would make you comfortable?"

I let out a light huff. "I have no idea."

"You're a smart woman, Piper. Think."

I finish the last sip of my cocktail, then slide my glass towards the center of the island. "I could say that I knew you a long time ago."

"Go on." She pours a small amount of red wine into a glass, then swirls it.

"Even that we went to high school together, but you were much different then."

Alex smells the wine, then tosses it back. "And if they pushed you further, maybe asking how I was different?"

"I could say you were all Goth and stuff; we didn't hang with the same crowd. Besides, you were much older than me."

"Three years is hardly much older." She smirks. "And I was never Goth."

"What would you call your style back then?"

She lifts her shoulders. "Punk rock."

"Fine."

She pours wine into both glasses, then hands me one. "How did that feel?"

I never asked for something else to drink, but damn if I don't love a good Pinot. Maybe that's a bit of the persuasive charm that helps Alex close deals—anticipating desires.

"It didn't feel like a lie," I admit. "But what if they push even further?"

"They won't." She opens the refrigerator. "But if they do, you can end it right there—tell them it's not like we were close or stayed in touch. You never have to reveal my name."

"That's going to be even more difficult." I take a sip of wine; it's delicious. "How am I supposed to switch to calling you A.P.?"

"Practice."

There's still something that doesn't add up. If she made $20 an hour her first year, and that plus half of one percent in commission the following year, how in the hell did she buy this place? "Doesn't the government seize all your assets when you're convicted of a crime?"

"They did," she responds as she opens the fridge. "But I had a decent chunk of change in an offshore account."

I lift my brows. "And you got away with it?"

"I was heavily monitored my first two years, but after that, they kind of just let me fade into the night like other felons," she states, pulling out two cheeses and a tray of cured meats. "I started withdrawing money little by little every few months, and when I was convinced they weren't going to discover my stash, I took it out more often until I had enough for a down payment on my condo."

"That's dangerous, Alex," I say with a quick shake of my head. "What if they catch you?"

"Trust me, they have much bigger fish to fry than me and my $80,000 that I pulled out of my Grand Cayman account." She rips the wrapper on one of the cheeses. "Hungry?"

"Yeah, actually." I don't agree with Alex and her illegal holdings in an offshore account, but I have no reason to question her any further. Besides, this might be the only time we socialize in our adult lives. "I haven't eaten since lunch."

"Neither have I." She grabs a wooden cheese board and a couple of knives. "Will you cut that apple and maybe rinse the grapes?"

"Do you always have a charcuterie plate ready to go?"

"I do a lot of entertaining," she says as she hands a cutting board to me. "Not so much here since I've only lived in the condo for three weeks, but prior to this, I had people over fairly often."

I learned a lot about Alex today, but there's so much that remains a mystery. Before I can ask more about her hostess skills, she turns fully towards me.

"So, what do you say? Do you think you can keep this between us?"

I stare into her green eyes and nod. "I can try."

She squeezes my arm as her lips slowly tic up. "Thank you, kid."

I nod again, flabbergasted by the power she holds in those deep green eyes.

"Can we stop talking about me for a while?" She lets out a long breath as if this pivotal conversation has taken a toll on her. "What do I need to know about you?"

There's no question Alex is a smooth operator. The way she talks and moves and looks at me is downright seductive. I don't want to be victim to that, so acknowledging it is my first step in combating it.

"Let's see…" I begin as I start cutting the Granny Smith apple. "After high school, I went to Smith College and graduated four years later with a degree in English. I moved to New York for a year, working for pennies as an entry-level copyrighter for a travel magazine."

"New York, huh?" She removes the wrapper from the Stilton cheese. "I had an apartment there when I worked for the cartel."

"Really?" I glance up at her. "What neighborhood?"

"Midtown. You?"

"The Bronx," I reply. "It was the only place I could afford. Even then, I barely made enough to pay the bills."

"It's definitely an expensive city to live in." She sets the cheese on a wooden board. "I had a sweet loft across the street from the Gershwin Theater."

"That's the only way to live in Manhattan." I fan the apple slices on the board next to the Stilton. "I moved back here after that and started working for Shadwick-Bloom, writing the descriptions for homes."

"That's a cool job." She slices a log of salami. "I don't have that kind of imagination. Tabitha and one of our more seasoned agents do all of our write-ups."

I move to the sink and rinse the red grapes. "It was fun for a while, but you kind of run out of new ways to describe a three-bedroom Craftsman."

"I bet." She sets the Flagship cheddar on the board, then reaches into the cabinet, pulling out a sleeve of crackers.

"Frederick Bloom took me under his wing. He let me tag along when he was showing homes," I say. "I loved it from the start—the pace, the competition, the numbers—seeing people's faces light up when they find their dream home."

Alex puts the finishing touches on the cheese board. "It's definitely a rush."

I sit on one of the kitchen stools. "I have a sort of rivalry with one of our agents, Natalie Figueroa. She's this obnoxious, slutty realtor who thinks she's God's gift."

"Slutty, huh? Tell me more." She lifts an eyebrow, and with that simple motion, I recognize the Alex from high school.

I ignore her request. "But she does make me a better agent." I top a cracker with a slice of Stilton. "Competing with her is what drives me to make more sales."

"Competition is a good motivator." She pops a grape in her mouth. "I don't care about the numbers at other firms though—I care about the money I make for my company."

"That's awfully selfless of you."

"Not completely selfless—I benefit from the profits."

I take a sip of wine. "True."

She sits on the stool next to me, bottle of red in tow. "So, when did the boyfriend enter the picture?"

"He's Freddy Bloom's grandson." I eat another cheese-topped cracker. "We've been together for a little less than a year."

She cuts a chunk of cheddar and lets out a slight chuckle. "Don't get too excited."

Am I that transparent? "Larry's a good guy."

She tosses the cheese into her mouth. "I sense a 'but' coming."

"I hardly know you, Alex." I already told her too much about my relationship that night outside of the Met.

She pauses before bringing the glass to her mouth. "I'd like to change that."

Is she flirting with me? Or is she just trying to stay in my good graces so I don't blow her cover?

I feel my cheeks redden and try to hold her gaze. "I'll just say he's not the love of my life and leave it at that."

The tiniest smirk surfaces. "Fair enough."

"Now you know pretty much the gist of what I've been up to since our days at Bellingham High." I eat another cracker topped with Stilton and a grape.

"Your life is a little straighter and narrower than mine." She eats an apple slice. "I wish I would've gotten into real estate instead of drugs when I was younger. That would've saved me a lot of sleepless nights."

"And prison," I comment.

"That, too," she lightly laughs as she tops off our glasses with Pinot. "So, Piper, what do you do for fun?"

"I run pretty much every day, read, hang out with friends…enjoy trying new restaurants." I shrug. "I like to travel, but I haven't been on any big trips in a few years. Work keeps me too busy."

"I got bitten by the travel bug when I worked for the cartel." She eats another cracker. "But I knew I'd eventually want to buy a condo or something, so I tucked a little away over the years." After a sip of wine she states, "I didn't think I'd end up back in Washington. Back then, I figured I'd buy a brownstone in Greenwich Village or a flat in London."

"What made you move to Seattle?"

"Like I mentioned, my cellmate's brother, Bruce, lived here," she offers. "And my mom was living in Burien at the time, so I figured all signs pointed to me moving back home."

"I still consider Bellingham home since that's where my parents are," I reply. "But I've lived in Seattle for a decade, so maybe I should shift my mindset."

"My mom died nine months ago." She lowers her eyes and makes a sound that comes out as a gloomy laugh—like she can't believe those words came out of her mouth. "It's still hard saying it out loud."

I touch her sleeve. "I'm so sorry, Alex."

Her head pops up and she shakes it in small spurts as if the motion will allow her thoughts to return to the present. She gives me a straight-lipped smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Thanks."

I take a sip of wine and consider changing the subject. I don't know Alex well enough to ask her questions about her mom without coming off as nosy, and if she wants to talk about it longer, I'm sure she'll steer us back in that direction.

"You don't seem to spare any expense on clothing." I eye her body as best as I can from our seated positions.

"I learned early on in this profession you have to look good at all times." She twirls the wine in her glass and a more self-assured smile surfaces. "That includes when you meet with the opposition."

I didn't need the reminder that she's my competition, but it doesn't change the fact that she's got great taste in clothing and looks very good in them.

"When I worked for the cartel, I learned how to manage millions of dollars," she continues. "But since I got out of prison, I picked up a few tricks about how to buy expensive clothing on a shoestring budget."

"How?"

"Consignment shops," she suggests. "Jules Boutique in Madrona is great. Any time they get Gucci, St. Laurent or Hermes in my size, the owner calls me."

I lift my eyebrows. "That's a block away from my office."

"I know." She takes a sip. "I've walked by it a hundred times."

"That's so weird isn't it?" I take a bite of the cheddar. "We went to high school together and we've worked in the same profession for three years—"

"Almost four," she interrupts.

"And we've never seen each other around."

Alex grins. "What are the odds?"

"Exactly." I return her smile, and then return to the topic of clothing. "When I first started in real estate, I bought a lot of stuff at Marshall's. Now, I have a slightly larger budget for clothing and accessories from places like Nordstroms and Ann Taylor, though I still love a good sale."

"So do I, but after buying this place, my budget has shrunk considerably." She glances around the well-appointed living room. "I've been trying to wear what I own and maybe buy a new dress or a bracelet or something once a month."

"I wish I was that disciplined." I drain my wine.

"I don't allow myself to go into stores or shop online," she replies. "If I don't see an expensive new outfit, I'm not tempted to buy it. The whole out of sight, out of mind thing."

"Easier said than done," I say.

"It is a good feeling though when I try something on and it just feels right, you know?"

I can't help eyeing her again, wondering if there's any article of clothing that wouldn't look good on her. Hell, she could make a burlap sack sexy. I catch myself staring and avert my eyes to my watch. "I should probably go."

She lifts the bottle. "I've got plenty more wine."

"Maybe some other time." I stand and give my back a good stretch.

"I'd like that." Alex touches my sleeve near my wrist, rubbing the cotton between her fingers. "Thanks for agreeing to keep my past quiet."

"I'll do my best not to call you Alex."

"I'll make you a deal." She releases my sweater and heads towards the door. "If you call me A.P. in public, you can call me Alex in private."

For some reason, that feels like an arousing secret between us. "Deal."

"Thank you for all this." She shoves her hands into her back pockets. "And for coming over on such short notice."

I smile. "Thanks for the drink and the wine, Alex."

With that, I head to my car with a huge grin on my face. It isn't until I'm about halfway home when I realize I spent the evening not only with my competitor, but also a convicted felon. A knot settles in the pit of my stomach as I consider the ramifications of both. No matter how attractive or charming Alex is, I can't see her socially—I won't.