Author’s Note: for the second time, I have written a chapter based off of a prompt provided by the brilliant brickroad16: “the removal of a corrupt Brazilian government in just three months”. Writing this chapter was a bit tricky, just as writing the Belgrade chapter was, because I had to create a fictional environment that dovetailed with actual history.
There have been a number of questions posed to me lately asking, “When is Bryce going to turn into a douche?” and “If Sarah and Casey work so well together now, what’s going to happen by the pilot episode to make them dislike each other so much?”
My answer to both of these questions is this:
All in good time, my friends, all in good time. According to the outline I drew up for myself, I’ve still got six chapters and an epilogue within which to answer these questions. I promise you, you will get answers.
October 31st, 2005
The first thing that Sarah noticed that morning when she entered the CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, was the piece of paper taped to the main entrance.
Pulling it down, she read it as she made her way up to her rarely-used office. “95 Theses with regard to the Central Intelligence Agency,” she muttered.
Sarah shook her head, smiling. Some smartass at the FBI had apparently decided that he was the second coming of Martin Luther, and that the CIA needed some reforming. Having decided that it was too amusing to toss, she stuck it to the wall of the elevator before she got off.
Upon reaching her office, she began to unlock the door, and then noticed something.
The door usually said “Special Agent Sarah Walker.” But it had been changed. It now read “The Operative.”
“What the hell is this?!” she exclaimed, just as Bryce walked up to her.
“Good morning, Sarah,” he said with a smile. “What seems to be the – oh, dear.”
Bryce turned around to face the analysis bullpen, and raised his voice. “What Joss Whedon fanboy son of a bitch thought he was being funny?”
“Uh, sorry, sir,” came a voice from the back of the bullpen. An analyst who Sarah knew only as Williams stood up, Sarah’s normal door sign in his hand. He brought it to Bryce.
“Completely uncalled for, Williams,” Bryce said, as he replaced the sign. Sarah opened the door, and as she shut it behind her, she heard, “Don’t let it happen again.”
As soon as the door was shut, though, Bryce slipped the “Special Agent Sarah Walker” sign back out of its holder and put the “The Operative” sign right back where it had been. As the analysts stifled their laughter, he made an exaggerated “shush” sign with his hand, and then proceeded to creep off down the hallway.
Inside her office, Sarah blew a rather impressive layer of dust off of her laptop, creating a cloud that made her start coughing. After recovering, she opened the computer and booted it up.
The first thing it did when Windows XP had loaded was tell her that her virus definition files were eight months out of date. “Oops,” she muttered, telling it to go ahead and update the files.
She pulled up her e-mail, and there were nasty e-mails from the administrative branch going back something like six months, demanding reports on the Mexico and Ukraine missions. She composed a mass reply to all of them that said, “Report classified. Please see Director Graham for further information.” That should shut them up.
Then there were the e-mails from the General Services Administration, asking for an accounting of funds and resources used on the two missions. Those she couldn’t ignore. So, with a sigh, she opened up Microsoft Excel, and while it was loading, reached down into her purse and pulled out a fat envelope full of receipts.
An hour later, she was still creating replies to the GSA when her desk phone rang. “Hallelujah,” she said, picking it up. “Walker.”
“Agent Walker… or should I say, ‘Operative’ Walker… this is Director Graham.”
Sarah blew out a sigh. “What is it with this ‘Operative’ business?”
“I take it you haven’t seen the movie Serenity?”
“No,” Sarah replied, “and if you’re talking about the Serenity that’s supposedly the sequel to that TV show Firefly, which I’ve never seen an episode of, I’m not interested in seeing it, either!”
“Alright, alright,” Graham said, surrendering. “Could you come up to my office, please?”
“Absolutely.”
Five minutes later, Sarah was in Graham’s office. As she sat down, he tossed a folder on his desk. “General Geraldo Cardoso da Silva,” he said. “President-for-Life of the Federative Republic of Brazil. Also a total bastard.”
“I’ve heard about this guy,” Sarah replied, confused. “I thought he had been doing good for Brazil. Everything I’ve seen, the people look happy, the country’s economy is doing well…”
Graham shook his head. “The public face of Brazil and its reality are two very, very different things,” he told her. “Homeless people get shipped off to work camps in the interior. Same with political dissidents, illegal immigrants, and basically anybody who da Silva doesn’t like.
“Their economy is doing well because of drugs,” he continued. “They ship drugs out through Colombia, Venezuela, so on and so forth. The cartels in those countries export them out – Colombia primarily to the United States and Canada, Venezuela to Australia, South Africa, the UK – all five of those countries having large populations of young, affluent people who seem to like to snort their money up their nose.”
He took a moment to express his disgust at those individuals, and then continued. “The money goes back to the da Silva administration, which in turn invests it in high-yield bonds – mostly on the Euro market. As the Euro has skyrocketed against the dollar in the last few months, they’ve been making huge amounts of money. So, yes, Brazil is doing well, but on the backs of drug addicts.”
He sighed. “Finally, their military is being a damn nuisance. They’ve somehow managed to get their hands on almost two thousand old M60 tanks – not top of the line equipment, but certainly better than anything anybody else in South America has. They bought India’s two old aircraft carriers, the Viraat and the Vikrant, and renamed them the Humberto de Alencar Castello Branco and the Artur de Costa e Silva, respectively. They’ve equipped those with enough A-4 Skyhawks and FRS Mk.1 Harriers to be a real annoyance.
“The worst part, though, is this – and I imagine it’s going to particularly piss you off. Last month, they bought, from Russia, two Tu-160 Blackjack strategic bombers. Those were delivered last week, and they’ve been flying them up and down the Atlantic coast of South America, scaring the bejeezus out of everybody else.”
Sarah just looked at Graham. “You have got to be goddamned bullshitting me,” she finally uttered. “After everything we went through to keep those three Ukrainian Blackjacks out of the hands of the Chinese, the Brazilians just pony up the cash, and Russia says, ‘Here ya go?’!”
Graham shrugged. “We just don’t have the pull with Russia that we do with the Ukraine.”
Sarah leaned forward until her forehead rested on the edge of Graham’s desk. “Isn’t life just super,” she muttered.
“Walker,” Graham said quietly. Slowly, she sat back up. “I want you to lead a team in Brazil to depose the current government.”
“Really,” she replied sarcastically. “Would you then like me to pull a monkey out of thin air? Reanimate the corpse of Richard Nixon, perhaps?”
“I’m serious, Agent Walker,” he said. “Pick whoever you want, whatever resources you need, and do it.”
“Fine,” she replied. “I want Agent Bryce Larkin, Agent Carina Hansen, DEA, Major John Casey, NSA, Special Agent in Charge Silvester Villanueva, FBI, and Agent Markus Sobukwe, NIA of South Africa. I want a Dassault Falcon 7X aircraft at my disposal at all times, in addition to a UH-1H Twin Huey. I want USAF Captain Rick Mahoney assigned as the pilot of the Falcon, and I want authorization from the President to either steal or destroy those Blackjacks.”
Graham leaned back. “So, let me get this straight. You want agents who are among the best from three different agencies, the Washington DC SAC, a foreign intelligence officer, an aircraft that hasn’t yet been certified by the FAA, and a helicopter which we’ll have to borrow from the Colombian Army, in addition to a pilot who ordinarily flies for the Thunderbirds, NOT TO MENTION authorization to conduct what amounts to a strategic strike against a titularly friendly nation. Did I miss anything?”
“No, but I did,” Sarah said, thinking. “I need a co-pilot for the Falcon and a pilot for the Huey. I want them both to be either Marine Recon or Navy SEAL trained. Also, I want Father Michael O’Halloran there as the mission controller.”
Graham shook his head. “What can I say, but… mi casa, su casa. You’ll have everything, including authorization to destroy the Blackjacks.”
Three days later, a gleaming black business jet streaked south toward Brazil at just under the speed of sound. The latest in Dassault’s Falcon line, the aircraft was rated to travel at Mach 0.96. Supposedly, one of the test aircraft had broken the sound barrier in a dive, but Captain Rick Mahoney didn’t figure his passengers were in any particular hurry to find out.
On board with Mahoney were his co-pilot, Marine Lieutenant Kayla Martinez, the Huey pilot, Marine Chief Warrant Officer Kevin Donaldson, FBI Special Agent Silvester Villanueva – the son of Portuguese immigrants, he had been picked for his language skills; NSA Major John Casey, plucked from a mission in Somalia; DEA Special Agent Carina Hansen, pulled from a drug enforcement mission on the Arizona-Mexico border; CIA Agent Bryce Larkin; CIA Agent Reverend Michael O’Halloran, who, though not actually in charge of the mission, would be the one who was really running things; and the mission leader, CIA Special Agent Sarah Walker, who everybody had taken to calling “The Operative”, much to her chagrin. The only member of the team not on the plane was South African NIA Agent Markus Sobukwe, who would be meeting the team in Brasilia.
Sarah had spent the first two hours of the flight briefing her team, but now, she was seated in the back, next to Father Mike, catching up on how things were back “home”.
They talked for a little while about how life was back in Boston, what he was doing with his time, some of the things she had done lately, but finally, it got around to the topic she’d been avoiding. “How’s Dad?” she asked, with a sigh.
“It’s strange,” O’Halloran replied, his lilting Irish accent flavoring his voice. “Both good and bad. He misses ye a great deal, but his mind has begun to register yer prolonged absence as a negative, and has started to block it out. Most days, he doesn’t realize that he hasn’t seen ye for nearly three years. But some days are very bad – he’ll wake up, and all he can think about all day is 9/11, yer mother’s death, the fact that he hasn’t seen ye since Christmas of 2002.”
He shook his head. “It’s goin’ to be even worse this year – with me bein’ absent from the parish – takin’ a sabbatical, as it were – there’s goin’ to be a substitute there for Christmas, and that’s bound to make him unhappy.”
“Dammit,” Sarah whispered, closing her eyes. “I didn’t even think of that when I asked for you.”
“Yer just doin’ what a good CIA agent does, Sarah,” O’Halloran replied. “Ye thought of yer country and the mission before yerself.”
“But after the service my father gave, it seems like the country should think of him every so often,” she sighed.
After arriving in Brasilia, the group went immediately to the American embassy, where Agent Sobukwe met them. The whole team, less the military pilots, met together in one of the secured conference rooms.
“Alright,” Sarah began. “I have assignments for all of you. Major Casey – your assignment is to develop a way to infiltrate Santa Maria Air Base, in the city of Santa Maria, and destroy the two Tu-160 Blackjacks. Agent Hansen – you are to figure out who the leaders of the Rio de Janeiro Cartel are, and send them to speak with Jesus.”
“Wow, an actual drug-related overseas mission,” Carina deadpanned. “Unbelievable.”
Sarah ignored her. “Agents Larkin and Sobukwe, your assignment is to tail General da Silva and his Chief of Staff, Gerhardt von Beethoven – no joke – and figure out any dirt you can get on them. I will be attempting to develop contacts with non-corrupt members of the Parliament. I will be posing as a wealthy German of some influence, and Agent Villanueva will be posing as my husband, a native of Brazil.”
Bryce didn’t look very happy about that last bit, but Sarah didn’t have time to explain, so she moved on. “I will be in command of the overall operation; however, when you are in the field, you will report to Father O’Halloran. He is the controller of this mission, and will relay reports from you to me, in addition to relaying orders from me to you. He is also our contact with Washington, should you for any reason need to contact them.”
Sarah stopped, then opened a cardboard box that had been delivered just before she began briefing. She reached in and withdrew a stack of slim black plastic boxes. “These contain your identification and your funding,” she informed them. “Memorize your name. Make up your back story – it’s fairly unimportant in this case, because the likelihood of you actually dealing with anybody is slim. There’s an American Express Black card in there that matches your identity. Unlimited line of credit. You also have one thousand Brazilian Reals in hard cash for use in the event of an emergency.”
She paused. “Any questions?”
There were none. “Dismissed.”
Everybody filed out of the room, except for Bryce. When everybody was gone except for him and Sarah, he approached her. “So, Villanueva’s your husband for this mission, huh?”
“That’s correct, Bryce.” She looked up at him. “Is that a problem?”
“I guess… I don’t feel comfortable with that, is all.”
“It’s the mission, Bryce. Just because I’m posing as Villanueva’s husband in public doesn’t mean that I’m going to be acting like his wife in private.”
“I know that, but still. Here we are, in Brazil, and you’re going out to pose as some FBI agent’s wife, just as I’ve realized that I’m falling in l-“
Sarah’s head whipped up, and she held up her hand to stop him. “Bryce, please, don’t. Okay? Don’t take this the wrong way, but that is the last thing I need to be dealing with right now. I need to be able to go into this mission with a clear head, not one that’s clouded with emotions.”
As she watched, Bryce’s face took on a hard cast. Her words had clearly hurt him.
“Bryce,” she said, softening her tone, “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. I do care about you, I really do. But please just understand my motivations here. The last man that I admitted I fell in love with was killed forty minutes later. I’m sending you out on a mission that could get you killed, and you’re going to be working with that man’s partner. I just cannot have concern for you clouding my judgments throughout the duration of this mission.”
Bryce’s face didn’t soften at all. “Fine,” he replied, biting off the end of the word. “I understand. I will perform my mission to the best of my abilities. I wouldn’t want concern to overshadow you at all,Agent Walker.”
And with that, he stalked out of the conference room, leaving a very quiet and very hurt Sarah Walker behind him.
November 17th
Two weeks into the mission, absolutely no progress had been made. Sarah was getting discouraged. Beyond that, though, she was dealing with exactly what she had wanted to not deal with – negative emotions caused by Bryce.
He hadn’t spoken to her in any manner other than a professional one since the day in the conference room. She would find herself alternately mad at him and upset for herself that he wouldn’t reconcile with her. The multiple times she had tried, he had simply brushed her off.
“It’s a fucking nightmare, Markus,” she had confided in the NIA agent after a few too many beers one night at the CIA-owned safe house. “I allowed myself to get close to another agent, and look what’s happened to me. I’m stuck in Brasilia, trying to oversee a dead-end mission, while trying not to think about the fact that he’s given me the cold shoulder for the last two weeks.”
“Sarah, you just have to give him time to come around,” Sobukwe replied. “You know, eventually he’ll understand your reasoning for your actions on this mission, I’m sure. But I’m also sure it can’t be easy for him to be working with me – you know, the knowledge that I was Piers’ partner, the fear that he’s being compared to Piers all the time.”
“But he’s not!” Sarah insisted. “Piers and Bryce are like night and day, apples and oranges. I loved Piers, I really did, but I have never compared Bryce to him. Bryce is just so different, in so many ways, and I like that so much about him…”
Her voice trailed off. Markus shook his head. “Why don’t you tell him that?”
Sarah was trying to figure out how to respond when Father Mike came into the room. “Major Casey’s on the phone,” he informed Sarah. “He really needs to speak to you.”
Frowning, Sarah picked up the kitchen extension. “Casey?”
“Walker, I’ve got it. I’ve got how to infiltrate the air base, and I know when I’m going to set the planes off to cause maximum political damage.”
Sarah smiled. “My goodness, Casey, thinking in terms of something other than brute force?”
She could hear him laugh at the other end. “You got it! I’ll go in the night of December 23rd, put the explosives on the planes – not much – just enough to destroy the landing gear struts, which, with the weight of the Blackjack, will cause them to crash to the ground hard enough to pretty much shatter the fuselage.”
“And you said you had a when in mind as well?”
Sarah could almost hear Casey nod at the other end. “Christmas Eve. The commanding general of the Air Force – who happens to be one of da Silva’s cronies – will be at Santa Maria Air Base, giving a speech, with the two planes parked RIGHT BEHIND HIM. They’ll be destroyed on national television, totally blowing his credibility and putting a major dent in General da Silva’s.”
Sarah’s smile grew bigger. Finally, something about the mission was going right. “Very well done, Major,” she said. “You have my approval to get moving on this right away.”
Christmas Eve
The television was on, and the team was watching the commanding general of Brazil’s Air Force give his speech on national television. Sure enough, the two Tu-160 Blackjacks were parked right behind him. Agent Villanueva was giving a running translation of the speech.
At one point, the general turned and gestured to the bombers. “See here our two newest birds of prey,” Villanueva translated. “This is how they would look if they were loaded for war, but fear not, citizens – these are but dummy missiles. They are no danger to you.”
A few minutes later, Casey came in – and the beer bottle in his hand went crashing to the floor. “Why are those bombers loaded?” he gasped in horror.
“They’re not, really,” Sarah assured him. “The general himself just said that they’re dummy missiles.”
“The hell they are,” Casey replied. “Dummies are painted blue. Those are painted white. Those are live, honest to God, Exocet cruise missiles.”
Sarah’s eyes widened in dread. “What, exactly, are you saying here, Casey?”
His face was pale, his hands trembling. “That when the explosive charges on the landing gear struts of those planes go off, and the planes come crashing down, one of those missiles could well be set off.”
O’Halloran crossed himself. Villanueva, Sobukwe, and Bryce all looked horrified. Carina stared at the television, an emotionless mask covering her face. Sarah felt like she was going to be sick.
“We’ve got to stop them,” she muttered, picking up the phone.
“It’s too late,” Casey replied. “Those charges are set to go off in less than twenty seconds.”
Her heart feeling like it had been replaced with a boulder, Sarah slowly set the phone back in its cradle. Fourteen seconds later, a series of sharp cracks emanated from the television screen, and the two Blackjack bombers collapsed to the ground.
Nothing happened for a moment, other than the crowd gathered at the air base being highly alarmed. The agents all began to blow out a sigh of relief, but then –
Flame broke out along the leading edge of the left-hand Blackjack’s starboard wing. Screams broke out within the crowd, as the flames licked closer and closer to one of the Exocet missiles –
And the screen went dark. “I really don’t think we need to see that,” Bryce said, as he turned off the television.
“I’m gonna be sick,” Casey muttered, and staggered down the hallway toward the bathroom.
An hour later, Casey was still in the bathroom. The rest of the agents, still in shock, had dispersed throughout the house. Sarah found herself back in the living room, where Bryce sat. He had turned the television back on.
Even though she didn’t know Portuguese, Spanish was similar enough for Sarah to get the gist of the news story airing – that is, if the helicopter shot of smoke and roiling flames wasn’t enough.
Apparently, when the first Exocet had cooked off, it had set off the other five on that plane and all six on the other. The explosion had penetrated the air base’s fuel farm, which then erupted in an explosion that knocked down buildings in the city of Santa Maria. Initial estimates were that there could be as many as ten thousand dead, mostly civilians. The primary suspect was Al Qaeda.
Her hands covering the lower half of her face, Sarah sank onto the couch. “I’ve become a terrorist,” she whispered in horror.
Hearing her voice, Bryce turned around. “No, no you haven’t,” he said firmly, crossing to the couch and sitting down next to her. “You did what was necessary. Any time, any place, remember? Neither you nor Casey could’ve had any idea that that would happen.”
“Bryce… ten thousand people are dead because of me.”
“NOT because of you, Sarah,” he said. “Because of General Geraldo Cardoso da Silva.”
Sarah didn’t say anything, just continued to sit, looking at the screen in horror. Without prompting, Bryce put one arm around her shoulder, then embraced her with the other, pulling her to him and holding her.
Christmas Day
International telephone service had been restored for Christmas, having been cut off the day before after the Santa Maria disaster. At about 7:00 AM, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“WALKER!”
Sarah flinched, the voice of Director Graham booming out at her angrily. “Yes, sir.”
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO? AT WHAT POINT DID I GIVE YOU AUTHORIZATION TO GO DOWN THERE AND START WORLD WAR FUCKING THREE?!”
Sarah winced. “We had faulty intelligence, sir. Major Casey was operating based on intelligence that said that the planes would be unarmed and unfueled for the demonstration. I would let you explain it to you himself, but… he seems to have gone missing.”
“No, he hasn’t,” Director Graham replied darkly. “I can tell you exactly where Major Casey is. Apparently, yesterday, after your little escapade, he got drunk, and hopped on the first flight out of Brazil. He wound up in Atlanta, where he had a psychotic break. He is now under heavy guard in the mental health wing of the DeKalb Medical Center.”
He paused to let that sink in. “So far, this mission has killed ten thousand people, been branded a terrorist action, and has turned one of the NSA’s best agents into an overnight burn-out. The only reason I’m not pulling the plug on it, right now, is because whether by accident or design, yesterday’s little incident has caused demonstrations and rioting against General da Silva’s ruling party to break out in Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo.”
Director Graham paused again. “The mission continues, Agent Walker. But be warned – you screw up again, and you’re done.”
On January 3rd, a story ran in Jornal do Brasil, discussing how General Geraldo Cardoso da Silva seemed to have a secret sexual proclivity for underage girls. Given that Brazil is a heavily Roman Catholic country, the people were by and large disgusted. With da Silva’s credibility already in the toilet after the Christmas Eve disaster, it was almost completely wiped out by this story, especially when he didn’t come right out and deny it.
Though few would ever know it, the story was planted with the editors of Jornal do Brasil by Ronaldo and Mieke Canto – a husband and wife couple who claimed to work for the Brazilian government, and believed that da Silva and his habits would bring the country to its knees.
When later asked to describe the couple, the editor-in-chief said that the husband was unremarkable, an average Brazilian man, but the woman – “Ah, she was a sight to see,” he breathed, the memory clearly a good one. “Flawless skin of alabaster, blonde hair spun of gold, two perfect sapphires for eyes… clearly of German stock, and so beautiful.”
On January 11th, a Brazilian legislator - Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva – was contacted by the woman, Mieke Canto. She had suggested that his cousin, General da Silva, might be stepping down from the Presidency soon, and as a good and honorable member of the Brazilian legislature, he might want to offer his services to the nation as its next President.
On the evening of January 17th, General da Silva was at his home, agonizing over the decision he would make, when a woman, dressed all in black, appeared in his office.
“How did you get past my guards?!” he demanded, terrified.
“That is of no consequence,” the woman replied, speaking in English. Da Silva studied the woman. She was beautiful – flawless skin, blonde hair, bright blue eyes. The very woman his cousin had described to him. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have been the stuff of dreams.
But these were not ordinary circumstances. “Tomorrow, you will resign,” she informed him.
“And if I do not?”
“Then you will die,” she said, her voice low and even. “It was I who told theJornal do Brasil of your… tastes… and it was I who destroyed Santa Anita Air Base. Do you doubt that I can kill you as well?”
Da Silva felt like his heart had stopped. “I do not doubt you at all,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper. “But tell me, who are you?”
A grim smile appeared on her face. “General da Silva, you may call me… the Operative.”
Leaving da Silva to contemplate his fate, Sarah Walker departed his residence, untouched.
On January 18th, 2006, General Geraldo Cardoso da Silva resigned as the President of Brail. His cousin, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, was named interim president. He called for new elections as soon as they could be held.
On January 31st, Major John Casey was released from DeKalb Medical Center in Atlanta, Georgia. He was deemed to be mentally competent to return to work; however, for the time being, the National Security Agency decided it would be best for him to be assigned to a desk position.
John Casey made it quite clear that he blamed Special Agent Sarah Walker of the Central Intelligence Agency for his mental breakdown. He claimed that she had pushed him to deliver results as part of the mission, and as a result, he had acted based on faulty intelligence.
Sarah Walker received a classified official reprimand from the Central Intelligence Agency for her role in the Christmas Eve disaster at Santa Anita Air Base. Ironically, she also received a classified official commendation for her role in the removal of the da Silva regime.
Sarah was also removed from supervisory duty. It was the opinion of the CIA that she was too hot-headed to oversee missions such as the Brazil mission. Needless to say, she was not pleased with this decision, but Director Graham gave her a choice – deal with it or quit.
She dealt with it.
On February 12th, Sarah was working late in her office, when there was a knock at her door.
It was Bryce.
“Hi,” he said quietly. “So, I know we haven’t gotten along the greatest lately, but what I tried to say in Brazil three months ago – it still stands. And since Tuesday is Valentine’s Day, and I couldn’t take you out last year, I was wondering if maybe I could do so this year?”
Sarah closed her eyes and sighed, and then smiled. She stood up, and crossed the office to Bryce. Wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. After a moment, she pulled back and gently kissed him.
“Bryce,” she said, “I apologize for everything that happened down there. I was out of my depth, and trying to control everything – including you. I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m sorry.
“I was just so scared of the thought of losing you. I don’t know if I could handle falling in love again and then having my world ripped apart all over again.”
Bryce smiled. “Did you just admit that you’ve fallen in love with me?”
Sarah smiled back. “Perhaps.”
“Well, that’s good,” Bryce replied, “because it turns out that I’m madly in love with you.”
He kissed her then, with much more urgency than she had kissed him a moment before. When he pulled back, she smiled again, and shook her head.
“Well, here’s hoping this doesn’t turn into a problem,” she whispered.
No comments:
Post a Comment