I inhale. Bobbi’s skepticism is understandable. I’d feel the same if the situation were reversed. It’s killing me that full honesty isn’t an option, and I have to choose my words carefully. “I had this idea that when we were together, we’d have a lot of adventures together.”
“Like going to Africa on photoshoots?”
“Yeah, like that. But then I saw some pictures of a guy I knew getting mauled by hyenas…” I blink, trying to keep the image of what happened to Mike Swain and his fiancée out of my head.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is soft, full of sympathy. She squeezes my hand, so I turn mine and thread our fingers together, the warmth from her palm driving out the chill settling along my spine.
“His fiancée was there, too. She didn’t make it, either.” That’s the kindest way to put it. “And I kept seeingusin those photos, and it messed me up.”
“Oh, Noah. It was just an accident. We wouldn’t have been attacked like that. Besides, you know I can handle myself. You saw me in Mexico.”
“I know, but these are animals.” Fucking terrorists who consider raping women an enjoyable way to pass the time. They mutilated Swain’s fiancée. My belly knots again. “I just couldn’t stand the idea of anything happening to you.”
Bobbi wraps her arm over my shoulder and neck, her hand resting on the back of my head. Her lips press against my forehead, offering comfort. I close my eyes and let it soak into me, soothe the frayed edges of my nerves. The men responsible are gone now, their heads blown apart thanks to my cheetahs. But their deaths couldn’t undo what the couple had to suffer.
After a long moment, Bobbi asks softly, “So what changed?”
“I was on a plane after I shot some cheetahs on an assignment.” True enough—my cheetahs fired off a lot of bullets. “The pilot had a fatal heart attack, and there was a problem with the engines.” More like sabotage, but that’s an irrelevant detail. “The plane crashed—”
Bobbi gasps. “Oh my God.”
“—but I survived.”
“Well, yeah, obviously. But were you okay?” she asks, looking me over and running her hands down my shoulders and arms.
“Pfft, sure, it was nothing.” I love her concern for me, but there’s no reason for her to be worried at this point. “Found a working parachute under the pilot’s seat of all places.”
“Thank God.” Suddenly she drops her hands from my body and flushes a little, like she’s just realized what she was doing. So I take her hands in each of mine and kiss their backs, one after another.
“But what fueled me on that plane was the thought of you. I had no regrets about my family, but you… I kept wishing we hadn’t ended the way we did. That I’d been more courageous. I would’ve sold my soul to the devil if he’d guaranteed I’d get to see you again.”
“Noah…”
“It’s weird when you’re about to die. What’s really important and what’s just bullshit—it all starts to crystalize.” I give her a self-deprecating smile. “Took me a while, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, it did,” she says softly, but her beautiful caramel eyes brim with concern and care. “And now I understand where you’re coming from a lot better.” She looks away and takes a moment to think.
Time ticks by, anxiety pooling in my belly. Is she going to ask for proof of the crash? It wasn’t reported anywhere—obviously—and I can’t really share more than this.
She expels a breath, then lifts her chin and faces me squarely with the resolute expression she wears when she’s come to a decision. It’s sexy as hell, but at the same time, I know that whatever conclusion she’s come to will be final. The muscles around my neck and shoulders grow taut.
“I will give you another chance, Noah.”
“Thank you.”Thank God.
“But I’m setting a limit. Three months. If I’m not convinced within that time that we can have a future that’s right for us, I want you to accept it and leave me alone. As inalonealone. Permanently. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” Based on the way she goes whole hog after what she wants, she sometimes appears reckless. But she’s too smart to not leave herself an exit. And it’s irrelevant what she wants if I’m unsuccessful. I don’t plan to fail.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Noah
–Emmett: Hey, can we make our lunch a potluck?
I scratch the spot between Señor Mittens’s ears, which earns me a soft purr, and mull over the group text that arrived early Wednesday morning. Just what is Emmett aiming for here?
The lunch he’s referring to is this Saturday, with not only the brothers but their wives and children, so Bobbi can meet and—hopefully—approve of them. It’s a major milestone in our relationship, especially since family is so important to her. I need to prove to her that mine isn’t a total loss, which is why I’m not inviting Mom or Dad. But if Bobbi tastes something Emmett brings, that’ll be the end of us. Not even a terrorist under interrogation deserves to be subjected to my brother’s food.
