“We’d better get going,” he said as he donned a tailored navy-blue blazer over a coral button-up shirt and tasteful stonewashed jeans. He had applied that cologne that smelled of vanilla and leather and cedar, like a cabin in the mountains, and the sight of him so confident in his own skin, the smell of that cologne, made her mouth go dry, and she hoped he didn’t notice the slight tremor that ran through her. She looked at his bed.

So out of my league . . .

Kaveh had spent most of the previous day coaching her on how to present herself and prepping talking points that wouldn’t potentially be read as revealing state secrets or threatening national security. He’d assured her that no matter how restrictive the terms of her clearance were, there were certain things they could not bar her from discussing. In short order, they hopped into his Land Rover and began the hour-ish journey to the salon in Hollywood.

First stop, the task of de-blueing her hair, which took about two hours. She spent most of that time reading through the binder she’d gotten from DHHS’s information release office, and Kaveh spent most of that time on the phone. When she was done, the stylist presented her hairstyle opus to the man bankrolling it.

“Wow, look at you,” he said in a tone that could either be read as brotherly or . . . not brotherly, and her mouth went dry again. “I’m getting ‘Jennifer Aniston opens up about life, love, and divorce,’ vibes. Chic, professional, yet relatable.”

Cora looked into the mirror and hardly recognized herself. She hadn’t ever gotten her hair styled and colored before. Hell, ever since she graduated high school, she’d cut her own hair to save money. Normally, it was the texture of dry chaparral right before a wildfire broke out, but this was sleek, straight and shiny, framing her face in a perfect oval. She didn’t look like Jennifer Aniston, as she lacked the pointy Anistonian features, but she looked . . . changed.

She looked like an adult.

She followed Kaveh to his Land Rover, his sunglasses glinting in the sunlight as he chatted away on his BlackBerry in a language she assumed to be Farsi, or rather, a sort of Spanglish version of Farsi. Farglish.

“No, I can’t right now.” Pause. “Dooroogh nemigam. Could you help me out?” Pause. “Yeh dagheh gooshi. Damet garm. Okay, bye.” Click. “Hey, Paris. No, I was just talking to my sister. No, it’s fine, we were done talking, anyway. What’s up?”