Page 47 of Mountain Target

“Sure thing, Commandant,” they replied in chorus, then laughed. And it was good to see them laughing and relaxing slightly. As if just being back in town and off-duty was having the right effect on them.

He pulled on his black helmet and rode his bike home, going slower than usual, because he didn’t have a death wish, but also because he’d never hear the end of it from his team if he ended up crashing his bike tonight.

He got off his bike at the entrance to the driveway and pushed it in the rest of the way. Valentina’s windows were dark, and he didn’t want to wake her or the girl.

He hoped they were okay.

In another world, he could imagine going up those rickety stairs and knocking on her door—could imagine asking for another kiss, just to see if it would be as earth-shattering as the first one.

But that was a different world, not the one he currently lived in.

In the real world, the best thing he could do for Valentina was to keep his distance. Particularly after that kiss.

He walked into his place and took off his uniform jacket and his boots, enjoying the warmth of the underfloor heating against his socks. He’d have to turn it down some, or he’d never be able to get any sleep, but for now, it felt nice.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything all day, and he opened the fridge, debating briefly with himself. Food or sleep? He’d been up for over twenty-four hours. He was a big man—a day without food was nothing to him. He knew, intuitively, that he needed sleep a lot more than he needed food. But he also needed time to unwind—time to relax, so that sleep became an actual possibility.

There was a carton of eggs inside the fridge, with three eggs still inside. In the vegetable drawer, he found a lonely tomato and half a green pepper.

He diced the vegetables roughly—he wasn’t a careful cook, but he’d been feeding himself for a long time and wasn’t about to poison himself either—then stir-fried them gently in the pan with a bit of olive oil.

He much preferred the taste of eggs cooked in butter, but he was getting older now, and olive oil was better for his heart.

The end result was less an omelette and more a plate of scrambled eggs with green and red specks, but he could tell the time spent making it had done him good. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to get up again if he sat down, he ate standing up by the kitchen counter, washing the food down with a beer—his limit, except for special occasions.

He’d only just placed the empty plate in the sink when the doorbell rang. He froze, wondering whether to ignore it.

Valentina

Beau opened the door fully and stood aside, leaving ample room for her to walk by without touching him.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” she said. “You expected me?”

“Not expecting you, no,” he said, his full lips pulled into a thin, straight line.

Hoping, then?

Or fearing it?

A braver woman would have said it out loud.

As he closed the door behind her, she looked around the living room. It was unsettling, finding herself in a space that was so much like hers, yet completely different at the same time.

“You still haven’t unpacked,” she observed.

“You would have said the same thing if you’d visited me in Annecy, and I lived there for years.”

“I see.”

“How’s Ren?”

“She’s resting. My friend Marie’s with her. She’s going to be fine. Thanks to you.”

“How bad’s the sprain?”

“Not too bad. Second degree. It could have been much worse. Everything could have been much worse if … if you hadn’t been there.”

He nodded, and she knew he wasn’t expecting an apology, but she wanted to get it out.