I’ve also noticed how the men here are drawn to her—everyone except Duke, Topper, and Thatcher. Well, they do gravitate toward her, but it’s different. You can tell their relationshipwith Georgia has been built with a foundation of mutual respect and friendship.
On the way to his guesthouse, Topper drops me off at Duke’s so I can finish writing up my notes from the interview.
“Text me when you’re ready to go back to the lodge, and I’ll come and get you.”
“Oh, I don’t want to bother you. It might be late, and I don’t mind walking.”
I’m not sure why I said this. Being outside in the wilderness at night terrifies me, but still, I didn’t want to be an inconvenience.
His face softens as he picks up the slight quiver in my voice. “No bother at all, ma’am. I stay up late anyway.”
I thank Topper and climb out of the cart, and he waits until I get inside before driving away. The porch light is on, casting a faint golden glow over the front steps, and part of me wants to think that Duke left it on for me on purpose. Once I close the door, I hear a soft click upstairs. The man of the house is keeping himself scarce. Better this way, though, so I can fully concentrate on my night’s work.
I curse myself when I sit down at the desk, my AirPods are still charging on my nightstand at the lodge. I load the soundtrack toTosca, one of my favorite operas, and keep the volume low enough to break the silence without waking Duke. The music centers me, and I begin to write.
Staff Sergeant Georgia Lennox keeps her stories locked and loaded with punchlines, but behind the bravado is a woman who spent fourteen years in uniform, survived the blast that nearly killed her, and now shows up for others the way her friends showed up for her when she came back to civilian life.
Georgia doesn’t talk much about the medication. About the mornings she couldn’t get out of bed. The stretch of months where numbness was the only thing that felt safe. This place gave her back her brain and her body learned to follow. She says the people ofFirebird don’t care if you’re broken, they care if you’re honest about what’s breaking you.
I type and type until my eyelids are heavy. I keep typing until the fog of exhaustion reminds me I never texted Topper. I don’t want to stop writing, but I know that anything I type now, I’m going to reread in the morning and thinkwhat the hell is this?
It would feel so good to rest my eyes just for a second, and the desk is the perfect height for me to lay my head on my arm, and …
The first sensationI feel is something licking my toes, but it’s the clink of something being set on the desk that jolts me awake. I blink the sleep from my eyes and my heart slams into my chest, unleashing a wave of butterflies.
There he is.
Cowboy Ken.
His tattered baseball cap is pulled low, but it can’t hide the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. That mouth, slightly crooked, frustratingly kissable, twitches as he watches me rub my sleepy eyes. He’s wearing a threadbare gray T-shirt that clings to him in a way I’m not emotionally prepared for.
I blink up at him, half-suspecting this is still part of a dream. I mean, he’s smiling at me, offering me coffee, and he’s standing close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his neck below the line of his jaw.
“You mumble in your sleep,” he says. “Something about the tragic overuse of ellipses in today’s writing.”
My fingers reach for the mug of coffee, the steam still curling out of the fresh brew. “It’s an epidemic.”
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he says, taking a sip from his own mug.
“Jameson woke me. You brought me coffee, which I thank you for.” The coffee hits my tongue, and I breathe in the earthy and comforting vapors. “I apologize, I meant to text Topper to come and get me, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
His expression shifts and his forehead creases slightly. “You didn’t … you didn’t hear anything last night, did you?”
My head tilts. “Hear anything? Like what? A Bigfoot call?”
He almost spits out his coffee and brings the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. “Uh, no, never mind.”
“I honestly was in another dimension and can’t believe I slept so sound sitting at the desk.”
“Good … good.”
“Didyouhear something?” I tilt my head, wondering if there’s more of a point to his question.
“Nope. Just … are you ready to head back for breakfast?”
I rub my neck. “Shortly, I want to check what I wrote last night. My brain gets a little wonky when I try to write at 1 a.m.”
He tips the bill of his cap. “Then I’ll see you around, Trouble.”
