“Hi, Talon.” I work to keep one out of mine. “Are you at the office?”
“Yes. Disappointed?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m glad you’re there.”
“Right.”
“Look, I know you wanted the account, but Athena made her decision.”
“And we know why, don’t we?”
“What does that mean?”
“Forget it.”
I pray for strength and patience, not to go off on him. “I have a flat tire, and I’m going to be late. I’d rather not waste precious time pulling out my laptop and dialing into the server to check everyone’s availability to reschedule. Would you please notify the team and find a time when we can all meet today?”
“I’m not your assistant.”
“Fine.” I take a breath. “Play it that way, Talon. I’ll call Nori.”
“You do that.”
Prick.I hang up and waste more time on another phone call. Afterward, I slip my jersey over my clothes for some protection and get the tools and the spare from the trunk of the car. When I bend down to change the flat, my concern renews. I see that it is almost completely deflated, which wouldn’t be caused by a slow leak from a nail or some other sharp object that I’d run over. I peer closer and use my hands to search the tire. Holy shit! I find two long gashes near the rim. This had been a deliberate act.
Someone slashed my tire.
JANUARY, FOUR YEARS EARLIER… Outside the windows of the Doubleday Inn, heavy snowflakes tumbled to the ground in sheets of white. Not the crisp powder that coated the ski slopes in Colorado but the heavy blanket of a blizzard that started while I was midflight to Minneapolis. Nearly two hours were spent in turbulence. Although, the flight was the least of it. My jumbled thoughts had been on Lilah.
Christmas with my parents had been brutal enough. But Lilah bringing up marriage again…fuck! She said her biological clock was ticking; she wanted a house, a husband, children—three. She was already picking out names, for God’s sake.
Beyond the danger of being in Special Forces, my assignments were long, and I was out of communication most of the time I was gone. Accepting that reality as a girlfriend was one thing. Accepting it as a wife was another.
Lilah accused me of making excuses because of my parents. It was true they hadn’t set the best example. But I knew their piss-poor marriage wasn’t the sole reason. The truth was, as much as I loved Lilah Jones, I didn’t love her enough. Not enough to put a ring on her finger or to commit to forever.
I should have been honest. That would have been the right thing to do. The honorable thing. But instead of telling her that I was never going to love her the way she needed me to…the way she deserved…I said I wasn’t ready. Lilah took that to meanyet. I saw the hope in her pretty brown eyes, and I let it stay there because the truth wasn’t a scene I welcomed before shipping off.
Now, snowed in for the night—my connecting flight delayed until morning— I was sitting at the bar with my second stout, looking out the window, and stewing over my predicament. That was when she appeared. While everyone else had taken cover, this girl had her face tilted up at the black sky, arms outstretched, twirling in a snowstorm. She was wearing a bomber jacket, and her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders beneath a fitted beanie. I don’t know what would possess any sane person to be out in this. Nonetheless, she seemed so carefree, without any burdens, that I watched her in amazement.
It was minutes before she stopped and disappeared. With an early flight ahead of me, I finished my beer and signaled for the check.
“Want to charge this to your room?” the bartender asked.
“Nah, I’ll pay cash.” While I was lifting one hip to retrieve my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans, the girl I saw outside entered the bar. She had changed into checkered leggings and a purple zip-up. Her hair was in a ponytail, swinging as she walked to the bar.
“Can I get a blueberry tea, please?” she ordered, taking the stool next to mine.
She looked younger from a distance, but closer up, I’d say she was in her mid-twenties. There were pink streaks in her hair, a row of piercings from her helix to her earlobe, and mood rings on her fingers that tapped the wood as if she were playing a song in her head.
“I can feel you staring,” she said, turning to me with a quirky smile that carried a hint of mischief.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m Gemma.” She offered her ringed hand. “And you are?”
“Jay.”
“Jay,” she repeated my name and held my hand for longer than is socially acceptable. “I love the snow,” she said, finally letting go. “Don’t you?”
