“He didn't look the sort to say 'no' to.” Jewel grinned, gave him an openly admiring glance from her five-feet-two-inches, then made an excuse about work that needed to be done.
Kris hadn't seen him since first returning from France, a quick trip that ironically ended as it had begun, at an airport. He'd been required to report in right away after everything came out in the media.
“He's down to Taunton, I think,” Anne Morgan had explained on that earlier holiday trip. “He wouldn't say more than that. All official, you see.”
But there had been something in her voice, something hesitant, a pause, then a too-quick smile at something she didn't want to think about.
Now he stood in the doorway of her office—jeans, sweater, and leather jacket, but different—clean shaven, hair cut short.
How many times had she seen that same expression—the way one dark brow lifted slightly, that direct look, one corner of his mouth angled up, that thin scar from some teenage mishap, at the airport in Edinburgh, at Danny's flat in London.
How long did it take to know a person? Months? Years? Or only a few days?
She had known her ex-husband for almost eight years, two of the years married to him, but she had never really known him, what was important to him, things that mattered.
She had known James Morgan only a few weeks by comparison, yet she knew him—someone who had saved her life and risked his own, someone with his own pain, the losses, someone who held her when the nightmares slipped out of the box.
She rounded the desk, then leaned back against it, arms folded. She knew him, just as she knew the jeans, the sweatshirt, and leather jacket were deceptive. It was there in the expression in his eyes, and the haircut. High and tight, her brother called it.
“Back at it,” she said, forcing the words past the sudden tightness in her throat. This was what Anne Morgan hadn't mentioned.
He nodded. “I've been cleared to return to active duty.”
Keep it light, she told herself.
“Bullet hole and all? How did you pull that off?”
There was that half smile again. He rubbed the bridge of his nose in that way she had come to know meant something that vaguely resembled the truth was next.
“Aye, well, I explained that it was just a cat scratch while on leave.”
“Blaming poor Robbie, are you now?” Robbie, Cate's resident cat at the tavern, that was now living with Anne Morgan.
He nodded. “Sneaky beast, that one.”
She laughed in spite of the tightness in her throat. He gestured to the desk, barely visible beneath stacks of print-outs, memos—that whole “less paperwork with computers,” that only seemed to add to paperwork.
“You're back at it as well.”
“There's a lot to do. We're hoping to have Cate's last book out by next Christmas.”
“How's the arm?”
She held her cast aloft. “Two more weeks, and it comes off. Then I just have to remember not to swing at anyone for a while.”
And he would be gone, she saw it in the way he looked over at the windows and the dark sky beyond, icy rain hitting the glass.
“When we left France, there was something I should have told you.” He did look at her then.
As in, 'I'm in a relationship,' or 'that was an incredible night, see you around,’ or some sort of bullshit comment that people said to each other to ease their way out?
She'd heard it all before from her ex. She wasn't into explanations.
“I have a lot of work to do...” she said, not quite meeting that dark gaze. “Maybe a drink later?” Keep it light, no explanations, no expectations.
“Kris...”
There was something in the way he said her name, something he wanted to say. “That night...”
