“Are you ready yet?” Garrett calls before I can further deny Rayelle’s assumption. “I was hoping to get there before all the kidneys are gone.”

Rayelle giggles, and I swing open the bathroom door. “You’re not funny—”

He’s stands with his hair perfectly mussed, his signature three black bars in place under his left eye. My heart stalls. Oh. My. God. I clamp my mouth shut. Dressed in a fitted charcoal suit reminiscent of what the thieves wear in Ocean’s 22—one of the most-watched films in the Vault—he’s my dream thief.

His eyelids flutter rapidly, like he’s trying to focus. “Those shoes are a dead giveaway.”

My heart ticks back to life, and blood rushes to my cheeks. “What’s wrong with them?” I look down at my black boots. “I think they give me an edge.”

He shakes his head. “Heels. Betsy is all about heels. Think about everything when you get into character. What would you carry in your pockets if you belonged here? It’s all about the details.”

Feeling like a child who has just been scolded, I grit my teeth. “But I can’t tie heels with paracord.”

“Don’t worry about that. I have enough for the both of us.” He opens his jacket and unzips the lining, revealing everything we could possibly need—paracord, lock picks, a pocketknife, bobby pins, a Zippo, a tape recorder, a tactical pen. “And this jacket is made of bulletproof fabric. We can use it as a shield if necessary.”

“But what if we get separated? I need to be prepared, too. I have a tactical pen and lock-picking kit.” I raise the hem of my dress, exposing the tool garter strapped to my thigh.

He sighs. “We won’t get separated—I have no intention of letting you out of my sight—but wrap some paracord around the pen so you can change your shoes. And hurry. You’re going to make us late.”

Pivoting on my heel, I head to the closet to change. “You have an answer for everything,” I mutter.

When I return, he frowns at my silver flats.

“They’re all I have,” I say. “Besides, I’m a transplant survivor. People will cut me some slack on my shoe choice.”

“I guess so. Come here.” He gestures me forward. Grabbing my shoulders, he lowers his face to mine, peering into my eyes.

“What are you doing?” I squeak, my pulse throbbing in my throat at his proximity, trying to wiggle away from him.

“Hold still.”

“No.” I duck, and he lets me go.

“Are you wearing your AMPs?” he asks. “I don’t see them.”

“I don’t like stuff in my eyes. I was waiting until the last possible second.”

He frowns. “You’re getting on my last possible nerve. I know you’re anxious, but can you please stop stalling?”