He shrugs. “I’m fine.”
Fiona appears in the doorway. “Pizza or Chinese? You can pick, Finny.”
Connelly hides a small smile. Sasha knows they’re thinking the same thing. Finn’s not really fine, but Fiona most definitely is. She’ll take care of her brother.
Sasha stands. “Take a look at the menus and let us know what you want. We’ll get you both fed and settled before we go. And we’ll be back before you know it.”
Finn nods and carefully unlatches the carrier. Java emerges, tentative and low to the ground, and immediately slinks under the bed.
“See?” Finn says, crouching to peer underneath. “He just needed time.”
Sasha’s throat tightens. She exchanges another look with Connelly.
An hour later, Sasha slips on a silk wrap dress in deep emerald and fastens a strand of pearls around her neck. Behind her, Connelly adjusts his collar in the mirror. Downstairs, the smell of Chinese takeout fills the house. The kids are settled in the family room with dumplings and lo mein, a movie queued up on the smart TV.
“We could cancel,” Connelly says quietly.
“We can’t.”
“We could.”
She meets his gaze in the mirror. “And then what? Dean Ashworth wonders why we’re too important to show up for your colleagues’ baby shower? Why the new teacher and his wife couldn’t be bothered?”
“She’d understand. We just drove four hours, we’re settling in?—”
“She’d notice. She runs a school for the children of diplomats and intelligence agents. She’s not going to miss a thing. And we can’t afford for her to notice anything about us except that we’re a normal faculty family. Gracious, collegial, and delighted to be here.”
She steps into a pair of stilettos. She’s gotten better about not always wearing sky-high heels. But sometimes, she needs the shot of confidence they give her. This is one of those times.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Finn’s okay. You know that, right?”
“I know he says he’s okay.”
“He’ll adjust.”
“I know.”
Finn is resilient, thoughtful, capable. But that doesn’t make it easier to leave him on the first night, when he’s still finding his footing.
She leans back against Connelly’s broad chest, and he wraps his arms around her. She allows his warmth to envelop her for just a moment, then she straightens her shoulders and steps out of the embrace. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Five
Caleb sits at his desk staring down at the notebook dedicated to his literary fiction novel. One of the notebooks dedicated to the novel, he corrects himself. Beneath the notebook is a printout of the most recent statement for the joint bank account.
He slides the statement out from under the notebook and wills the numbers to increase. They don’t.
On the one hand, he’s grateful. For the first time in, well, ever, he and Emmaline have a financial cushion. It’s a small one, but it’s a cushion. It’s enough that he can say no to Biz and book two. Or at least not right now. But it’s not enough that he should.
What he should do is take the job. And just like before, follow the outline, write the book, cash the check.
But he has a story he wants to tell. It may not be marketable, but it’s the story he was born to tell.
Even as he struggles with the decision, he knows this is nothing new or special. It’s the age-old dilemma that every artist faces at some point: do it for the love or do it for the money? Art versus commerce.
Although his particular version comes with a side of worry.
Turkey happened three weeks ago, and he’s following the developing story. While the attack isn’t exactly the same as the one The Payback, it’s awfully close. Too close.
