Epilogue

Logan

I hitthe button on the industrial-sized blender and dance my way to the other side of the juice bar to grab a cup for the customer's smoothie. Sawyer's got a best of Britney playlist going, but let's be honest, everything Britney does is the best.

When the fruit concoction is blended into a fine puree, I pour it into the cup and hand it to the customer.

"Thanks, Logan!"

Ah, it's so good to be back in my natural habitat. It's been six months since the ordeal Jared and I went through, and it's kind of surreal how normal my life is again. It's like that huge, massive upheaval was nothing but a blip, and now everything is back to the way they were before.

Well, not everything.

Jared isn't my mysterious boyfriend anymore. He's my very visible and very real boyfriend, who everyone has met and loves. They can't get over the fact that he's a super secret undercover spy. We've stopped trying to correct them.

I've also been seeing a therapist every week—at the insistence of both Beau and Jared. I was hesitant at first, not wanting to dwell on what happened any more than needed. But after weeks of not being able to sleep, I gave in. The FBI-assigned psychologist has really been helping me work through the nightmares.

The gym's front entrance opens and my super secret undercover spy boyfriend strolls in. He's immediately bombarded by staff and members alike who want to chat and hang out and be his best friend.

I roll my eyes. How the hell did he end up more popular than me at my gym? I'm not really upset. They can vie for his attention all they want, but my Jared only has eyes for me.

I brace my hands against the countertop and wait for Jared to make his way over. He strolls smoothly across the lobby, not even a hint of a limp in sight.

His injuries are all healed now. It took longer than he wanted, but Beau—using his personal trainer creds—convinced him not to push too hard, too fast.

"Hey, babe." He smiles at me and suddenly the room feels way too hot. His golden brown eyes smolder at me and his lips wear the sexiest curl. I might have to drag him to the locker room and have my way with him.

I lean over the counter for a kiss. A long, slow one that lingers until the guys start catcalling us. Even then, we don't move very far apart.

"How did it go?" I ask, holding my breath. It must be good news. He wouldn't look so smug if it wasn't.

"Bureau doctor gave me the all clear for field duty."

"Yes!" I throw my arms into the air and hurriedly run out from behind the juice bar to give him a proper hug.

He catches me around the waist and spins me in a circle as I squeal in delight.

"I knew you could do it." I plant another hard, hungry kiss on his lips. This definitely calls for a locker room celebration quickie.

"Couldn't have done it without you," he says and my heart flips over in my chest.

God, I love him. He's so brave and strong. It's been a difficult recovery and he's had his grouchy moments. But he's never once given up, never once backed down.

My instincts were right all those months ago. I might not have known his real name, but my soul knew he was the one.

"Do you think you'll still have time for boot camp with Everest?" I ask.

Not long after Jared finished physiotherapy, he moved the rest of his recovery efforts to Mars. Beau and Everest were more than happy to work with him as he rebuilt his strength.

Then they came up with the bright idea of designing a boot camp based on the FBI's physical fitness test—Everest's been calling it the "Get Yourself Some Agent Ass" boot camp.

Jared winces. "That's what I wanted to talk to Everest about. He might need to take over. Is he here today?"

I shake my head. "He's at his niece's birthday party."

"Hmm, well, in that case." He gives me a kiss, then another at the corner of my mouth, then one farther along my jaw. All the way to my ear where he nips at my earlobe. "When's your break?"

I grab his hand and drag him toward the locker room. "Sawyer! Taking my break!" Then we make a run for it.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I jump at the pounding on the door and the kiwi I'm scooping out of its skin goes flying across my kitchen.

Bang! Bang! Bang!"Open up!"

Shit! Fuck! What the hell? Is the building on fire? I don't smell any smoke. I throw the spoon into the sink and make a dash for the door, my hands still covered in kiwi juice. "One sec! I'm coming!"

Bang! Bang!

I wrench the door open, ready to stuff my feet into my sneakers and make a run for it. But I don't make it that far.

The guy on the other side of the door is wearing heavy, black boots, polished to a shine. Dark slacks, perfectly ironed, with a detailed stripe running up the outside of each leg. A thick, leather belt around a narrow waist. The button-down dress shirt matches the pants, and it hugs the guy's torso as it widens up toward his chest. Two breast pockets, one with an embroidered ribbon thing pinned on it, broad shoulders, and a starched collar. The NYPD's signature hexagon cap with the brim.

"Mr. MacDonald, you're under arrest."