Combustion: Ensenada Heat Book Two

by Tess Summers

  He’d seen the living room, so he explored the other parts of the house. Opening one door, he found a guest room with floral bedspread and sparse furniture. He wondered if it got used very often, and if so, by whom? Another door led to her office/studio. Some of her paintings on the wall he recognized from his online search. He walked in and approached the first one he came to, studying it carefully before moving on to the next—they were even more impressive in person. His heart filled with pride as he realized just how talented his little sprite was. Her work was expressive and beautiful, and a little sad. He wanted to hug her and take away whatever stirred that emotion in her.

  Mason paused in front of an easel with a piece that she was in the middle of working on, tracing his finger on the stool in front of the canvas. He gently spun the seat while his thoughts turned to picturing her sitting there hard at work—her hair up in a messy bun and paint smudges on her face while he fixed dinner for them. Their kids descending on the house after sports practice, creating loud, happy chaos. Her smile lighting up the kitchen when she came out for dinner.

  He could see their future so clearly, making him more determined than ever to close this chapter of his life as soon as he could so he could get on to the next one.

  With a smile, he glanced around the room once more before closing the door, then headed to check out the kitchen. It was very clean and orderly. Reagan had done a nice job of modernizing it, but it had obviously been on a budget.

  His girl was independent, no doubt about it. One more thing he loved about her.

  He chuckled when he opened the refrigerator after inspecting the pantry. She wasn’t lying about there being no food in the house.

  Mason headed back to her bedroom to unpack. She’d made space in her closet before she left and even consolidated her undergarments into one drawer to give him a drawer in the dresser. He didn’t need much; he only had a duffle bag of things. Maybe he’d do some online clothes shopping when he graduated to a cane and didn’t have to wear loose pants to accommodate the bulky bandages on his leg. His wounds were healing, and he’d been able to hobble and hop around the house without his crutches, so he knew with a few rounds of physical therapy, he’d be ready.

  One step closer to his new chapter.

  Reagan had been gone a long time, and when she finally pulled into the garage and opened the hatch on her little, red Ford Fiesta, he understood why.

  “Good grief, woman, did you buy out the grocery store?”

  “Nope, I even have money left over from what you gave me.”

  She smiled and reached into her front jeans pocket, pulling out two one dollar bills, a ten, and some change and proudly putting it in his hand.

  “Change back and everything,” he teased.

  That wasn’t saying a lot, since—unsure of the cost of groceries in Fargo—he had given her three hundred dollars. Judging by the overflowing hatchback and backseat that was filled to the brim, she was either a very good shopper, or groceries were a lot more inexpensive than what he was used to. Probably both.

  “You’re very sexy and manly, but why don’t you go sit down in the kitchen while I unload these. No offense, but you’re kinda in the way.”

  He grabbed as many bags as he could just to prove he was capable and hobbled into the house—regretting his decision the whole way, especially when he realized he’d picked up the bag with eggs.

  As he helped unpack groceries and learned where she put things, he couldn’t help but smile. She’d even bought him toiletries—deodorant, men’s shampoo and body wash, and a new toothbrush.

  “I wasn’t sure how long you’d been carrying yours around. I figured you could use a new one,” she explained when he raised his eyebrows after pulling it from the bag.

  This was his new reality, at least for a little while—Reagan was going to be looking out for him and taking care of him. He was going to be sharing his life with her. The simple act of putting groceries away with her made it feel real, and he fucking loved it.

  She caught him smiling at her while she stacked the pasta in the pantry and did a double take.

  “What?”

  He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her middle, resting his chin on her shoulder.

  “Nothing. I just love being here with you. Being a part of your life.”

  She turned so she could put her arms around him.

  “I love you being here.” Her smile faltered momentarily, and she looked away, suddenly very interested in her countertops.

  “But?” he asked.

  She looked back at him, tears glistening in her eyes.

  “But I worry I’m fooling myself. You can’t possibly be happy here for long. Me, my life, Fargo… we’re about as vanilla as it comes. You’re going to be bored to tears within a week.”

  “I already told you, sassy pants. Vanilla is my favorite flavor. I’ll supply the syrup and toppings, okay? Believe it or not, I’m looking forward to normal and predictable, as long as it’s with you.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder and was quiet for a beat, then whispered, “I just worry I’m not going to be enough.”

  Mason pulled back. He still had one arm around her waist, but there was now space between their chests. He tipped her chin with his thumb when she darted her eyes from his.

  “You will always be more than enough, sweetheart. I told you, once I chose a flavor that was it. You’re it. Don’t doubt that.”

  Her expression told him that was exactly what she was doing.

  “Reagan Elizabeth Jones, from the second you sat down in the backseat of my car, I was smitten. Then I fucking drugged you—I kidnapped you, baby, and you still managed to not only forgive me, but love me in spite of it. If either of us should be worried about the other changing their mind, it’s me. I’m just waiting for you to come to your senses, and praying like hell you never do.”

  The redhead looked away with a small smile, pressing her lips together to disguise it. He’d seen her sister do the same thing.

  “Not a chance. You’re far too good-looking, not to mention talented in bed,” she teased, her eyes shining with mischief when she looked up at him.

  “Are you saying you only love me for my cock? What if it quits working someday?”

  Her eyes grew wide and she let out a dramatic gasp, acting as if the thought horrified her as much as it secretly did him.

  “Then you better stock up on the little blue pills, big guy,” Reagan sternly warned, subtly squeezing his middle to emphasize her veiled threat.

  He pushed her hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead.

  “Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about that. I’ll be chasing you around the nursing home when we’re old and grey.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mason

  Reagan had left for her first day of work for the fall semester—her students would be starting on Thursday, and Mason was getting ready for his second physical therapy appointment. Reflecting on spending all day yesterday with her in bed, he concluded, Naked Sundays are the shit.

  They’d done two naked days within the span of a week, and he would recommend them to everyone. It wasn’t just about the copious amounts of sex—which was fucking awesome—it was about unplugging from everything else and focusing on each other. Talking, sharing, laughing, and, in their case, getting to know one another better. But he could see it, in the future, being a good way to reconnect and catch up on their lives.

  He fired off a text to her: I decree Sundays to be Naked Sundays from now until eternity.

  Her response was immediate: I love it! But what brought this on? Aren’t you supposed to be at PT?

  Mason: Just thinking about yesterday. And, yeah, my Uber should be here soon.

  Reagan: Have a productive session!

  Mason: How’s your first day back? Any idea when you’ll be home?

  Reagan: So far, so good. They might add another section of my 104 class, so many have signed up for it. I sho
uld be home around 4.

  Mason: That’s great, sweetheart! Congratulations! I’ll have dinner started when you get home—Italian okay?

  Reagan: Have I mentioned how much I love having you there?

  Mason: I love being here, baby. See you tonight.

  He was proud of her for having so many students want to be in her classes, but the selfish part of him didn’t want her being away at work more. He would have preferred less. Not that he’d ever tell her that; he was almost ashamed to admit it even to himself. But what could he say? When it came to Reagan Jones, he was selfish as fuck.

  That probably wasn’t going to change. Ever. He’d waited too long to find her to want to share her. Except maybe with their kids.

  ****

  Reagan

  They’d settled into a perfect routine. Well, as far as she was concerned, it was perfect. School was in full swing; she worked until one p.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and four p.m. on Mondays and Wednesdays, plus her class at the community center on Friday afternoons. Mason would have dinner started when she arrived home after five, or he would quietly start cooking it when she was home and working. He always shooed her away when she offered to help, so she would usually just sit and lust after him while he moved about the kitchen. There was something so sexy about watching him concentrate on preparing a beautiful meal for her—which he delivered every time.

  She loved snuggling into bed next to his hard body each night, and how he just seemed to know if she needed to be held, made love to, or fucked.

  Oh, and he put the toilet seat down.

  Hello, dream life.

  She knew it wasn’t going to last, though. He had graduated to a cane, and was doing physical therapy three times a week. She was also sure he was bored out of his mind—and she couldn’t blame him. It was only a matter of time before everything changed.

  What she wasn’t prepared for was how quickly it did, or the manner in which it happened.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Mason

  It would have been easy to let his guard down; living with Reagan was perfect, and Fargo was comfortable and felt nonthreatening. He’d taken steps to improve the security at her cozy ranch house, and when Reagan was home, he was able to completely relax—a byproduct of her calming effect on him. But he was still vigilant, especially when he left the house, and was always aware of his surroundings.

  When he walked into physical therapy on a Wednesday afternoon and an unknown therapist greeted him in the workout room, he was immediately on edge.

  “Where’s Jimmy?”

  “He’s out sick today,” the burly man replied nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly. Mason had never seen him in the three weeks he’d been coming here. Something was definitely not right.

  “You know what,” he told the man, not even putting on the pretense he was going to stay as he started edging toward the door. “I think I might be coming down with whatever he has because I’m not feeling very good either. I’m going to go home and rest.” He was out the door without another word.

  The thing about Fargo was there wasn’t a cab on every corner he could just hop into. When he had first realized that weeks ago, he’d thought it was charming, but at the moment, it was annoying and inconvenient as fuck.

  Mason ducked into the coffee shop next door to the PT office in the strip mall and made his way to the back door, startling some of the workers as he limped through the employees-only area. He poked his head out the steel door and found the alley empty, so he proceeded outside. Looking around at the dumpsters, he thought about ditching his phone, but hesitated. It had never been out of his possession when he was in public, so he felt confident it wasn’t compromised. Still, Uber was not a safe option.

  Fortunately, the charm of Fargo also meant people were trusting, and the second car he tried was unlocked. Less than sixty seconds later, he’d hotwired it and was on his way back to Reagan’s little house he’d grown to love.

  Mason parked the car two streets over and made his way through the neighborhood and to the back of the house by cutting through people’s lawns, the sound of fallen leaves rustling under his feet. His leg was hurting like a bitch but he pushed through, finally reaching the back door. Once inside, he quickly grabbed his duffle, which was already packed. Having a go-bag prepared and ready to go—much like an expectant mother would—had been instilled in him from the second day of undercover training. He’d also bought two burner phones a few weeks ago, just in case the occasion arose. He slid one under Reagan’s pillow like he’d told her he would if something were to happen, and moved quickly down the hall to the kitchen where his pain meds were, popping one and swallowing it without turning on the faucet. He pocketed the prescription bottle before stealthily maneuvering to the entryway. He planted a camera so it was pointed at the door, then snuck back down the hall and placed another pointing at the door leading to the garage.

  He’d at least be able to keep an eye on things and make sure she was okay.

  Grabbing his laptop, he took a long look around her bedroom and sighed. His time with her had been the stuff dreams were made of, and he was pissed off that it was ending so soon—and not on his terms.

  Definitely not on his terms.

  He gave a determined sigh, and the Terminator’s voice rang in his head.

  I’ll be back.

  ****

  Reagan

  She knew something was wrong the minute she walked in the house and didn’t smell dinner cooking.

  “Mason?” she yelled, setting her bag down on a chair in the kitchen, then walked through the rest of the house, calling, “Babe?” She peeked her head in the bedroom, repeating, “Babe?”

  No Mason.

  Maybe his physical therapy appointment got changed. She was walking back to her bag in the kitchen to see if there was a text when she heard knocking at the front door. Did he forget his key?

  Reagan tentatively walked to the front, trying to keep her footsteps light. She jumped when the knocking resumed as she neared the door.

  She called out, “Who is it?” in her most authoritative voice. Mason had discussed the importance of not appearing timid, right after he’d finished scolding her about not asking who was at the door before opening it.

  “Fargo Police, ma’am. We’d like to talk to you.”

  Uff da. Fer fuck’s sake. She knew half the officers on the force, and they were going to ma’am her?

  She quickly unlocked the door and opened it, immediately recognizing the two men standing on her doorstep, Brian Kurtz and Ric Casper. She had gone to school with both of them.

  “Brian, Ric,” she said, putting her hand on the door casing and nodding to them. Then she squinted her eyes and scowled indignantly, “Did you seriously ma’am me?”

  They seemed flustered at her question, exchanging looks as if unsure how to respond.

  “You both graduated a year ahead of me.” Reagan pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s just rude.”

  “Hey, uh, Reagan, right? We didn’t know it was you. Sorry,” Ric said sheepishly.

  She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with his explanation.

  “Honest, we had no idea. Can we come inside and talk to you?”

  She reluctantly stepped aside and let them in, shutting the door behind them but making no effort to leave the entryway and invite them in further.

  “What’s going on?” she asked suspiciously.

  “We’d like to talk to you about your roommate,” Brian started.

  She cocked her head as if confused.

  “Roommate? I don’t have a roommate. You mean my mom? She doesn’t live here.”

  They shook their head in unison. “No, Mason Davis, the man who’s staying here,” Brian clarified.

  “Mason? Davis? Who?” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I have no idea who that is. I live alone, gentlemen.” She held up her left hand, and wiggled her ring finger. “Nobody’s living with me unless they put a ring on it.”
/>
  Reagan had purposefully been trying to make them feel uncomfortable and thrown off their game since she opened the door. It seemed to be working.

  “There’s not a man staying here? About six feet, blond hair, limping?” Ric asked.

  She looked at them like they were crazy.

  “Limping? No, no man here—limping or otherwise.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Reagan scoffed. “Pretty sure I’d know if there was a man living here.”

  Ric took a step toward the hall leading to the kitchen. “Mind if we look around?”

  “Um, yeah. I do.”

  “It’s for your safety, Reagan. There’s a man who listed this as his address with his physical therapist.”

  “Well, like I said, I think I’d know if I were living with someone. It sounds like he either gave a phony address or he made a mistake when he gave it. But that hardly seems like an offense to call the police about. Did he skip out on the bill or something?”

  “No, he’s been paying in cash for his appointments. The manager just noticed he had bullet wounds when he was at his last appointment and is worried maybe he’s a fugitive on the run or something,” Brian responded.

  Oh geez, only in Fargo.

  She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. “I think maybe the manager has seen too many true crime TV shows.”

  Ric smiled appreciatively at her observation. Too appreciatively, as he eyed her up and down.

  “You’re probably right. So what are you up to these days? Didn’t you join the Marines?”

  “No, that was my sister, Kennedy. God rest her soul.”

  Brian rocked on the balls of his feet and when he coughed politely into his hand, she noticed the gold band on his left hand.

  “I, uh, read about her accident. I’m really sorry for your loss. I had no idea she was working for the CIA.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. It’s been a hard year without her.” That was true.

  “I can only imagine.”