She should have been on her knees, thanking God for this gift—for this miracle—rather than wondering whether he had some kind of weird fetishes or some other reason to explain why he wasn’t sitting at the bar with a gorgeous woman on each arm.
God, she was cynical. Why did she find it so hard to believe that an exceptionally good-looking guy could be interested in her? Why couldn’t she just enjoy herself? And why, for God’s sake, was she bored? This was interesting! He was telling her about going back to school as a twenty-six-year-old and...
She glanced down at her phone, sitting there temptingly on the chair beside her. She nodded and gave him an encouraging laugh, while surreptitiously touching the screen so that her messages would pop up.
What was she, seventeen? Only teenagers and rude adults checked their phones while at the table.
Suddenly, her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth to muffle the strangled gasp that snuck out from between her lips.
“What’s wrong?” Mick asked, stopping his story to lean across and put a hand on hers. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She had. Brittany was reeling from shock, trying to control the sudden flood of converging emotions. She looked over at him, trying to think of what to say. “I’m sorry. Would you excuse me for a moment? I... I’m not feeling very well.”
“Of course,” he said. “Is there anything I can do? Something I can get you?”
He was so concerned and sweet, it made her feel even worse. But she shook her head and got up. “I’ll be back in a minute. If the food comes, please don’t wait for me.”
“Of course I’m going to wait for you. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can—”
“I’m sure,” she cut him off, and then hastily added, “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.”
She followed the signs to the restroom, surprised that her liquefactioned legs were keeping her upright and that she wasn’t swaying side to side, using the tables to steady her as she made her way across the candlelit restaurant.
Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer.
Her phone felt like a brick in her hand. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she’d read it too quickly. Maybe it was a joke. A horrible, cruel joke.
But not trusting her emotions to stay contained, she waited until she was in the bathroom before checking her phone again. Her hand shook as she touched the screen.
The blood drained from her face all over again.It can’t be....
But the message clearly saidBrandon Blakeand seemed to be from his personal e-mail account: snowman123. Was it possible he was still alive? She’d been so certain that something horrible had happened to him.
She hit the message and read the words on the small screen. She really needed to get a better cell phone. But it wasn’t in her starving-reporter fund. The money her parents had left her had run out a long time ago.
Brit, I can’t take the time to explain now, but you have to stop what you are doing. Your articles are causing me a lot of problems and putting both of us in danger. If you don’t stop writing them, I’m going to end up dead.I’m sorry for not writing you sooner. I know you’ve been worried. I’ll explain everything when I can, but please don’t try to contact me. It’s too dangerous right now, and both our lives may depend on it. Stay frosty, Brand.
Brittany read the note over at least a half-dozen times. She didn’t know what to think. The “Brit” bothered her. He hadn’t called her by her childhood nickname in five years. As did the “Brand.” That was what his SEAL friends called him, but she’d always called him by his full name. And the note didn’t sound like him. It was—she didn’t know how to put it—too considerate? Too nice? Their exchanges since their big fallout had been much more stilted and formal.
But the “stay frosty” gave her pause. That did sound like him. The warning to stay cool and not let down her guard was what he was known for and had given him the nickname of “Snowman” in the SEALs. But similar to addressing her as “Brit,” he hadn’t signed off on messages to her like that in a long time.
She didn’t know what to think. She wanted to hope, but...
Someone jiggled the handle of the single bathroom, reminding her of where she was. She couldn’t do this here. She needed to think, but not in a restaurant bathroom. Dropping her phone in her bag, she unlocked the door, gave an apologetic smile to the older woman whose expression suggested that Brittany had been in there longer than she realized, and returned to her date.
“Is everything all right?” Mick asked, standing as she reached the table.
Brittany didn’t sit down. She shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s not. I think it’s best if I go home.” He looked so crestfallen, she added hastily, “I’m really sorry about this.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “Just let me take care of the bill, and I’ll walk you to your car.”
She tried to protest—both on his paying and on him missing his meal—but he insisted. He really was a nice guy, she realized, which made her feel even worse for her attitude earlier.
“Thanks again,” she said, getting into her car. She didn’t bother saying “see you next time.” She knew there wasn’t going to be a next time. She’d blown this date big-time. It was too late to regret it. Story. Love life.
“Are you sure you are all right to drive? Do you want me to follow you?”
She shook her head. As great as he was being, she didn’t want some guy she’d just met from an app following her home. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He was standing there, holding the door, looking down at her intently. She felt her cheeks grow warm, not knowing what else to say. “I’m really sorry.”
