Look at you, Fancypants.” Barnaby gave his accomplice a once-over before turning his eyes back to the road. It was nice seeing you in something other than those standard-issue uniforms the Corp handed out based on rank. And that something else just happened to be expensive party-wear—party-wear he couldn’t seem to stop staring at.

“At this rate, we might die because of you,” he said, shaking his head as if disappointed. “Seems like my eyes keep falling on you instead of the road.”

It was a stupid, corny pickup line—but he couldn’t help himself. That’s just who Hooker Barnaby was.

It felt like one of those generic scenes from an over-the-top spy movie: the badass, cool main character takes his hot, blonde, and obviously male-gaze-written female lead to a fancy party to dig up intel. Which... was exactly what was happening. So maybe those spy movies were realistic after all.

At the red light, Barnaby glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. He ran his fingers through his black hair, wiped the sleep from the corners of his eyes, and dusted off the clinging particles from his expensive, luxurious suit.

“You remember the plan, right?”

God, he hoped you did—because the moment the boss said the two of you were going to play a married couple, his brain completely short-circuited.

Well, it wasn’t just the undercover act he was thinking about. He actually wanted to get married. Have one and a half kids. Grow old together. Die together. Be buried under one big gray stone carved with both your names—his last name, of course—side by side, so close not even a slip of paper could fit between the headstones.

But this could work too, he guessed.