The Blonde Identity

by Ally Carter

Here’s the thing about waking up with no memory in the middle of the night, in the middle of the street, in the middle of Paris: at least you’re waking up in Paris.

“Ooh! I speak French!” Alex exclaimed, entirely too pleased with herself. But after hours of nothing, that felt like something. She wanted to make a T-shirt that said i speak french. She wanted to stroll up to the first person she saw and stick out her hand and say, Hi! I’m Alex, and I’m bilingual! She wanted to pretend that her memory might come back as soon as she started thinking in the right language. But the past stayed blank, and the present stayed cold, and the future loomed before her, totally empty.

He’d never known anyone so alive, and he suddenly felt it like a weight in his chest—like he’d never be able to forgive himself if he couldn’t keep her that way.

He got her a fucking ring. Like a fucking moron.

Ahahaahha

“Did you just break an assassin’s nose with a telephone?” Her eyes were wide. “I think so?” He absolutely beamed. “Good girl.”

Ahhhh

“Hey.” His hands were warm on her cold skin as he tilted her face up to his. “I’m—” She jerked the gun from his waistband—tossed it into the woods and stormed away. “That’s my second favorite gun!” he called after her. “Then go get it!” she shouted.

Eyes bright. Skin glowing. The single-most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen as she yelled, “I know how to hot-wire cars!” For a moment he just stood, heart pounding, skin sweating, not sure whether he should laugh or cry or kiss that sly smile right off her face. So he just dove in and shouted, “Drive.”

Zoe looked back at the little boy in the photo. “It’s you! Gasp!” Sawyer let out a weary, put-upon sigh. “You know, most people don’t actually say ‘gasp’; they just—” “You were a child!” She took a step closer to him. And he took a step closer to her. “You were cute!” she said, like that was the most vicious accusation in the world.

“Hi. Hello. It’s me. Zoe. This message is for Sawyer. Or whatever his name is. If he gets this. If this is even a real number, which . . . nothing else was real, so . . .” Her voice cracked then trailed off and he heard the muffled words, “Shoot. Delete. Delete. Dele—” BEEP. When the second message began it was still Zoe’s voice but everything about the tone was different, like she’d spent an hour on YouTube watching videos called How to Be a Badass.

Because he loved her. Because he cherished her. Because he had chosen her in a hundred different, little ways and one big way that mattered.

So she leaned against him one last time, felt his arms go around her, and breathed him in. “Thank you. For the dancing and the lingerie strangling and the . . . all of it. Thank you.” She went up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingered a heartbeat longer than she should have. “I’ll never forget you.” And then she walked away.

“I do. I know you. You’re the woman who is strong and tough and funny and sexy as hell. You’re mine, lady.” He smoothed her hair. “Remember that morning at the cabin? When you said I made you sleepy? Well, you didn’t. You made me forget. About all the bad things that have happened and the even worse things that I’ve done. You made me forget. So please. Please let me spend the rest of my life helping you remember.”

So they stood there—a woman with no history and a man with way too much—and there was really only one thing to say. “I think I’d like to be Mrs. Michaelson?”

But Alex just looked . . . annoyed. “Long story short, I’m in an enemies-to-lovers situation.” Alex took a deep breath. “And I think I’m gonna need your help.”