Chloe pops the last bite of cookie into her mouth and eyes me while she chews. Her brows pinch together. “Why wouldn’t you have seen me?” she asks.
And it slams me in the face that I didn’t even tell her I was leaving town.
Not that I planned on sleeping with her last night, but that would have been pretty shitty to slip out from between her sheets and answer her phone call from the other side of the country. No warning. No explanation.
My beard rasps against my palm as I run my hand down my face. “I was supposed to fly out to California today. My trip got postponed at the last minute, so…”
“Oh. I had no idea.”
How would she? I was a schmuck and fucking hid it from her.
“So, you’ll go later? For work stuff?”
My hesitance to respond is just enough that she nods once and turns back to look down the beach to where Jake is tossing the ball with some other kid, Bronson running between them. I should suck it up and tell her. Lay out the reasons behind my stellar hangover at the rugby game. Explain why I couldn’t hang with her and her friends that night. And just tell her about a cross-country trip that I purposely kept from her.
I’m not proud of the choice, but I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I take advantage of the fact that as a former Special Forces wife, she knows there’s shit we don’t talk about. Things we just can’t. I might not be on a SEAL team anymore, but Chloe knows from talking to Erin that we still deal in some hairy shit.
For now, it might be better if she doesn’t know what has me in knots. That I lose sleep at night, thinking about all the ways I’ve failed.
SEVENTEEN
Chloe
There’s a code. Elite service members do things, run missions, that keep the world safe, but there’s no way in hell the general population needs to know what’s going on. Details are a privilege, not a right and certainly not an expectation. Whatever was going to pull Miles away to the other side of the country is obviously not something that I need to know about.
I understand the demands of Special Forces. SEALs. And by extension, even Fire Born Security.
Jake barrels down the beach to where I sit with Miles’s arm tucked behind my back, the boy he was throwing ball with abandoned.
“Who was that? Did you make a new friend?”
Obviously, my questions are far too immature for the worldly tween because his eye roll could win awards. Or strain a muscle—whatever.
“Fine. Good job tossing the ball. Nice moves,” I add, changing directions. My body shakes as Miles jostles me with his rumbling laughter.
The insolent child graces us with a huff of a reply, “That was Ben. He’s in my class, Mom.Globrammit.”
“Nope. Not okay, friend. I don’t care how you substitute it. That’s still goddammit, and that’s just not cool. Try again. Or don’t,” I add sternly.
Jake kicks at the sand, spraying us. Balling my hands into fists, I give Jake themomlook. I’ve about had it with the hot-and-cold attitude from him, and while I have never been one to wish life away, not even during back-to-back deployments, I can’t wait until puberty is in the rearview mirror of life. This is why I teach high school and not middle school.
“I know you have better manners than that,” Miles says casually.
Jake blinks, looking from Miles, to me, and back again. I can practically see the wheels turning as he processes just how much trouble he’s going to get in.
“Rules of being a gentleman, Jake. I know you know it,” Miles prompts.
“Always treat women with respect,” Jake replies, his shoulders slumping as he uncomfortably shifts his weight.
“Right.” Miles puts his hands out, indicating that he wants the rugby ball. “And were you showing your mother respect just now?”
“No, sir.”
I don’t know whether to be pissed or impressed, but somewhere along the way, a strong bond has developed between my son and this man. A relationship that was desperately needed. I never sat Jake down and talked to him about dating, about including Miles into our lives. It just happened. Seamlessly. Naturally. And Jake hasn’t pushed back against it at all. It’s almost like it was meant to be.
“What are the rules of being a gentleman?” I cock an eyebrow and pull Bronson in to scratch his ears.
Jake stares at where his toes dig into the sand, making deep grooves along the edge of the blanket.
