I, SPY by Jordan McCollum--Book Buzz/Tour

We're celebrating the launch of I, Spy! Read on to find out more about the book, get a cool spy tip for your daily life and download a free gift! Then find I, Spy on A mazon, Kobo, and JordanMcCollum.com!

About the Book

Canada is probably the last place you'd expect to find an American spy. But even idyllic Ottawa

has its deadly secrets—and so does CIA operative Talia Reynolds. She can climb through ventilation shafts, blend in at the occasional diplomatic function, even scale buildings (small ones). But there’s one thing she can’t do: tell her aerospace engineer boyfriend Danny about her Top Secret occupation. It worked for a year, keeping Danny in the dark, keeping him away from danger, keeping her secrets. And then Talia finally catches a hot case: Fyodor Timofeyev. Russian. Aerospace executive. Possible spy? She can make this work, too—until Danny needs her at the same time her country does. And when Fyodor targets Danny? Suddenly her schedule isn't the only thing suffering. Now to save her secrets and her country, Talia must sacrifice the man she loves. More about I, Spy | Add I, Spy to your Goodreads to-read list!

Advance praise

The edge-of-my-seat undercover operations kept me turning pages, and just when I thought the story would go one way, plot twists sent it down another path. Thrilling, adventurous, and romantic, this book has it all for an Alias fan.

— Jami Gold, award-winning author

Jordan McCollum’s debut novel is a delightful combination of mystery, action, and romance. Talia’s CIA training and almost OCD caution feed her quirky humor while exposing her very human fears and insecurities. Add in her boyfriend Danny, and it's enough to twist your heart.

— Donna K. Weaver, author of A Change of Plans

Clever, suspenseful, and charged with political intrigue and romance, I, Spy is the perfect combination for a fun and captivating read!

— Michelle Davidson Argyle, author of Monarch

About the author

An award-winning author, Jordan McCollum can’t resist a story where good defeats evil and true love conquers all. In her day job, she coerces people to do things they don’t want to, elicits information and generally manipulates the people she loves most—she’s a mom. Jordan holds a degree in American Studies and Linguistics from Brigham Young University. When she catches a spare minute, her hobbies include reading, knitting and music. She lives with her husband and four children in Utah.

Hone your spy skills

What happens when an asset turns to you for relationship advice? You all get a surprise: and here's an exclusive I, Spy Extra: a bonus scene inspired by Bonnie's suggestion!

I commit the intel to memory, but I can’t take my eyes off my asset’s bouncing knee. Sitting in this cheap motel room chair, Nikita has practically danced his way across the room over the course of the last half hour. (Yeah, it’s actually a man’s name.)

I appreciate him keeping a respectful distance, but something isn’t right. It seems like Nikita’s just about done spilling his guts for today, but his body language has been off all night.

And that could be really bad news — especially for me.

His last little morsel of information limps to its conclusion, and he starts making noise, flicking his fingernails off one another.

“Are you feeling okay about this?" I ask. Not that I want to give him the chance to back out, but it’s not too late.

“Yes, yes," he rushes to reassure me. Too quickly?

My paranoia meter redlines. Yep, really, really bad news. It could be anything from nerves about going back to Russia to do this whole spying thing for real to guilt over betraying his country — to guilt over setting me up. Laying a trap.

I practically have to bolt myself to the edge of the rock hard bed to keep from checking the windows.

No. No. I throw the proverbial wet blanket over the panic embers smoldering in my brain. I’m going to stay in control of the situation by staying in control of myself.

I hope.

I’ve been through this before. I do know how to handle it — I can address my worries by addressing his.

“Ready to meet with your contact in Perm?" I try. “He’s a good guy." (Yeah, never met him.)

Nikita waves a hand. “Of course, yes."

“I think you’ll do fine. I’m sure of it." Tactic/topic two.

He shrugs with his lips. “I expect no trouble."

Well, that makes one of us. “You seem a little worried."

Now his gaze drifts away. Evasive. Crap, crap, crap.

“Can I ask you question?" His eyes snap back to mine.

I decide to spare him the correction and the second-grade smart-aleck answer, settling for a nod.

“You are a woman, yes?"

“Last I checked."

Nikita knits his eyebrows together. Should’ve spared him the smart-aleck answer to that one, too, I guess. “Why do you ask?"

He stands, and my muscles jump to attention, ready to spring up if he comes at me. Not that I don’t trust the guy but . . . okay, I don’t trust the guy.

After two rounds of pacing, my stomach winding tighter with his every turn, Nikita stops and drops onto the bed, sitting next to me.

I’ll give him three seconds to see what he does before I run.

He leans closer. “I need to ask you something."

I just stare at him.

“About a relationship."

“Uh . . ."

“As a woman."

I leap to my feet, practically halfway to the door before I manage to say, “Whoa." My Russian is better than his English, so I switch. “This is not why we’re meeting, Nikita. It’s not allowed."

He furrows his brow again.

“There are rules about these things."

Nikita’s eyes narrow a millimeter, like he can’t possibly fathom that idea.

“I mean, we can’t — you and I can’t — especially I can’t — " I can’t make my brain and my mouth get along. “Aren’t you married?" I finally blurt out.

“Yes, Tara." (My cover name. Super good disguise for Talia, I know.) “I mean a question about my relationship with my wife."

I stand there, dumbfounded, for way too long. “Oh. Oh." I look like an idiot. “Oh." And now I sound like one.

Trying to recover some tiny shred of dignity (and appearance of sanity), I settle into the chair Nikita just left. “I’m not sure I’ll be much help."

Especially since my usual advice about relationships is Don’t.

“My wife . . . it would be hard for her to know I’m doing this."

“Then don’t tell her." Duh.

Nikita’s eyebrow storm turns from worry to consternation. “She would like that even less."

I glue my lips together. I will not say what I’m thinking. Even though it would totally be the thing to do in Russia. Or the US.

I will not tell him to divorce her.

Nikita’s gaze falls to his hands, tapping his fingernails against one another again. “I wouldn’t want to lose her."

My heart drifts downward, like a helium balloon with a slow leak. Yeah, it’s pretty darn cute he cares that much about his wife — enough to say it to me, even, machismo and all. But at the same time, I can’t ignore that little pinprick of Why couldn’t my parents have felt that way?

It’s been almost twenty years, and I hate that I’m not over it.

But right now, Nikita’s waiting for an answer.

I got nothing. I mean, literally. I’ve been in one relationship over the last five years, and it was a horri

I commit the intel to memory, but I can’t take my eyes off my asset’s bouncing knee. Sitting in this cheap motel room chair, Nikita has practically danced his way across the room over the course of the last half hour. (Yeah, it’s actually a man’s name.)

I appreciate him keeping a respectful distance, but something isn’t right. It seems like Nikita’s just about done spilling his guts for today, but his body language has been off all night.

And that could be really bad news — especially for me.

His last little morsel of information limps to its conclusion, and he starts making noise, flicking his fingernails off one another.

“Are you feeling okay about this?" I ask. Not that I want to give him the chance to back out, but it’s not too late.

“Yes, yes," he rushes to reassure me. Too quickly?

My paranoia meter redlines. Yep, really, really bad news. It could be anything from nerves about going back to Russia to do this whole spying thing for real to guilt over betraying his country — to guilt over setting me up. Laying a trap.

I practically have to bolt myself to the edge of the rock hard bed to keep from checking the windows.

No. No. I throw the proverbial wet blanket over the panic embers smoldering in my brain. I’m going to stay in control of the situation by staying in control of myself.

I hope.

I’ve been through this before. I do know how to handle it — I can address my worries by addressing his.

“Ready to meet with your contact in Perm?" I try. “He’s a good guy." (Yeah, never met him.)

Nikita waves a hand. “Of course, yes."

“I think you’ll do fine. I’m sure of it." Tactic/topic two.

He shrugs with his lips. “I expect no trouble."

Well, that makes one of us. “You seem a little worried."

Now his gaze drifts away. Evasive. Crap, crap, crap.

“Can I ask you question?" His eyes snap back to mine.

I decide to spare him the correction and the second-grade smart-aleck answer, settling for a nod.

“You are a woman, yes?"

“Last I checked."

Nikita knits his eyebrows together. Should’ve spared him the smart-aleck answer to that one, too, I guess. “Why do you ask?"

He stands, and my muscles jump to attention, ready to spring up if he comes at me. Not that I don’t trust the guy but . . . okay, I don’t trust the guy.

After two rounds of pacing, my stomach winding tighter with his every turn, Nikita stops and drops onto the bed, sitting next to me.

I’ll give him three seconds to see what he does before I run.

He leans closer. “I need to ask you something."

I just stare at him.

“About a relationship."

“Uh . . ."

“As a woman."

I leap to my feet, practically halfway to the door before I manage to say, “Whoa." My Russian is better than his English, so I switch. “This is not why we’re meeting, Nikita. It’s not allowed."

He furrows his brow again.

“There are rules about these things."

Nikita’s eyes narrow a millimeter, like he can’t possibly fathom that idea.

“I mean, we can’t — you and I can’t — especially I can’t — " I can’t make my brain and my mouth get along. “Aren’t you married?" I finally blurt out.

“Yes, Tara." (My cover name. Super good disguise for Talia, I know.) “I mean a question about my relationship with my wife."

I stand there, dumbfounded, for way too long. “Oh. Oh." I look like an idiot. “Oh." And now I sound like one.

Trying to recover some tiny shred of dignity (and appearance of sanity), I settle into the chair Nikita just left. “I’m not sure I’ll be much help."

Especially since my usual advice about relationships is Don’t.

“My wife . . . it would be hard for her to know I’m doing this."

“Then don’t tell her." Duh.

Nikita’s eyebrow storm turns from worry to consternation. “She would like that even less."

I glue my lips together. I will not say what I’m thinking. Even though it would totally be the thing to do in Russia. Or the US.

I will not tell him to divorce her.

Nikita’s gaze falls to his hands, tapping his fingernails against one another again. “I wouldn’t want to lose her."

My heart drifts downward, like a helium balloon with a slow leak. Yeah, it’s pretty darn cute he cares that much about his wife — enough to say it to me, even, machismo and all. But at the same time, I can’t ignore that little pinprick of Why couldn’t my parents have felt that way?

It’s been almost twenty years, and I hate that I’m not over it.

But right now, Nikita’s waiting for an answer.

I got nothing. I mean, literally. I’ve been in one relationship over the last five years, and it was a horrific, scarred-for-life experience (as if I wasn’t already scarred enough).

And then my stupid, stupid brain digs up another face. A newer face. A chance to move past the past?

“Is there anything I can do?" Nikita asks.

When an asset needs your help, you play whatever role that requires, from psychoanalyst to bank teller, from philosopher to Dr. Phil. I give the best advice I have: “Have her meet your case officer — just as a new friend. That way she’ll know who you’re out with, and she won’t be suspicious."

Nikita slowly smiles, then nods. Yep, I’m a genius.

Maybe one of these days I’ll figure out my own relationship problems.

Right.

fic, scarred-for-life experience (as if I wasn’t already scarredh enough).

And then my stupid, stupid brain digs up another face. A newer face. A chance to move past the past?

“Is there anything I can do?" Nikita asks.

When an asset needs your help, you play whatever role that requires, from psychoanalyst to bank teller, from philosopher to Dr. Phil. I give the best advice I have: “Have her meet your case officer — just as a new friend. That way she’ll know who you’re out with, and she won’t be suspicious."

Nikita slowly smiles, then nods. Yep, I’m a genius.

Maybe one of these days I’ll figure out my own relationship problems.

Right.

The clue!

As part of the debut of I, Spy, Jordan is hosting a contest to figure out the song that inspired the story. Collect clues at each blog stop and use your spy skills to piece together the clues to win a $25 Amazon gift card! How to enter The clue for this stop is:

The singer-songwriter duo behind the I, Spy song later recorded and toured with two members of the Monkees.

The freebie!

Thanks for participating in this launch tour! As a free gift this week, Jordan is giving out free copies of Mr. Nice Spy, an I, Spy prequel novella. Simply to go http://JordanMcCollum.com/store/<;/a>. You can also get 40% off I, Spy!