by Angel Payne
Even a week after Tess and Dan’s wedding—which was beautiful and llama-free, thanks to a frantic last-minute venue change to the Scene Lounge, and Sam bowing out at the last minute due to a “buddy in the squad” needing a roster switch—she couldn’t find the right target lock on her life. She’d made all the right motions. Had done all the right things. Had kept herself insanely busy—converting the wedding into a retro-themed “Casablanca” vibe instead of the Michelangelo-meets-Liberace thing was a great excuse for that—and had also worked out like a maniac every day, along with a hell of a lot of shopping therapy.
But even with Lola kicking her toosh on the latter two, Sam found a way to sneak into every other thing she did, thought she had, breath she took. At the gym, she was certain she saw him in every golden-haired hunk with pecs of steel and the biceps of a god. In the mall, she saw a pair of track pants that instantly created a new fantasy for her: him in and out of them. While Lola was ogling handbags in the Coach store, she sneaked into Scottish Heritage and found a pin that would look perfect with the colors of his plaid. Lola had cockblocked her in the nick of time, threatening to drag her to mid-Strip for watered-down margaritas and an evening of getting hit on by every drunk frat boy in the city.
But she still hadn’t learned her damn lesson.
She blew Lola off by blaming it on the man’s pheromones still invading the desert air. Once he was gone, she’d get good and pissed about exactly how he’d been dealing with all this.
He got a slight bye for the frenetic days between their field trip to the desert and the wedding. She’d been so consumed with getting work done and holding Tess’s hand, nobody saw anything but the top of her head for days. Then after the wedding, she secretly thanked Captain Mackenna for his consideration of her exhaustion level by that point.
Two days after, she was sick of “consideration.”
Three days after, the frustration became fury.
Now, just two days before the Scottish squadron was set to board their transport back home, she sat with her elbows on her desk and her head in her hands, forming a teepee over her phone’s text screen. Sam’s face taunted her from it—along with a text asking whether he could bring her back something gooey from Zapatas.
She hadn’t answered.
Because it felt better to ignore him.
Because if she was really back in the hey-we’re-buddies-want-some-Zapatas box for him again, she probably didn’t want to know it.
Correction. She definitely didn’t want to know it.
So she resorted to what any woman who’d been threatened with drunk frat boys would.
She was ignoring him. But now realized, in hindsight, that it was actually her bait. Would he come in to rib her about the silly radio silence? That was what the old Sam would do. The pre-desert-confessions Sam. Did she really want that Sam back, sauntering in to give her some cheeky jokes, some smooth charm, and a few dorky fangirl thrills, after everything they’d confessed to each other and exposed to each other this last month?
Maybe she did.
Which was so damn pathetic. Transparent.
But no different than what she was about to do.
Okay, a little different.
Different to the tune of five thousand miles.
She gazed at his tiny avatar picture again. She had a few bigger ones in the photos folder, but this was her favorite, snapped as he’d come in after a kick-ass training hop one day. His hair was sweaty and tousled, his grin wide and bright.
How she loved him.
How she wanted to capture that smile on his face every day. To share yummy wine with him every night and her blow jobs every morning. To massage the aches from his shoulders and kiss away the demons from his deployments. To let him call her his sexy, sassy little mouse…and to feel his hand on her ass when she stopped believing it for herself.
She wanted their one night every night.
Because of that, she was going to ride the elevator to the roof again. Then jump off the building.
Figuratively, of course.
But just as terrifyingly.
If she wound up on the sidewalk as a symbolically smashed pancake, so be it. Better a pancake who’d tried than a ball of batter who’d stayed in the bowl, playing life safe.
The decision blazed through her, firing down her right arm. No second thoughts. Do it.
She lifted the pen waiting on the desk and then signed the document she’d completed this morning in perfect detail.
The second she finished, Lola appeared. Her friend walked over, scooped up the paper, and then let out a slow whistle when taking in her frantic autograph on all the right lines.
“Well, blow out my bonnie bagpipes,” the woman uttered. “You’re really gonna do this, then? A transfer to Lakenheath?”
“Aye.” Jen blushed furiously when the joke fell flat. It was better than her doing the same thing, she supposed. She recovered by snatching the sheet back at once, feeling strangely protective about it. Maybe if she played the rest of the charade cool, Lola would go along with her charade in front of the office. “Having the squad over here has made me think…about things. A lot.”
“Yeah.” Lola smirked. “A lot.” She tapped at the phone resting on the desk—still open to Sam’s text page.
Fine. So much for the subterfuge. But despite the heat flooding her cheeks, Jen kept her chin high. The rest of her justification wasn’t so feigned. “The base is five miles from Cambridge University,” she asserted. “They’ve got amazing public education courses.”
“Right. Sure.” This time, Yoli hopped onto Lola’s snarky bandwagon. “Cambridge. There’s a reason to upend your life.”
Jen maintained her stance. Cambridge was going to be a pretty good part of the pancake consolation package, if everything came to that. If. She wasn’t committed yet. As long as the transfer request was in her hands, she still had the chance to shred it and forget it. Once she walked the sheet across the office and dropped it onto the right stack, wheels would officially be in motion. She’d already talked to the hiring officer at Lakenheath. They badly needed someone like her in the personnel office, so her request would be fast-tracked for processing.
Every step she took across the tiled floor was like a rifle shot in her ears.
Think of other things. Focus on the logistics first. They’re safer. Stop at the PX for moving boxes. Call the utilities companies to set dates for shut-offs.
Practice what you’re going to tell Sam…
Okay, so logistics wouldn’t work.
She had no choice but to grit it out, step by agonizing step.
The hugest change of her life.
For a man who’d never even said the damn words to her.
You never said them either, girl. When it was time for the big three, you wussed out on him too. Maybe that’s why he’s stayed away.
She was halfway across the office, the transfer request still clutched in her shaking fingers, when the thunder of footsteps in the hallway had all the girls turning around.
Not just any footsteps. These paces carried the cadence of leadership. The boldness of fearlessness. The unmistakable overture of testosterone. A great deal of it.
And they were all, after all, only human…
Though the anticipation quickly mellowed into resignation when everyone realized the ruckus was only Skip Tremaine’s normal pre-arrival fanfare.
“Ladies!” Tremaine opened both arms like a circus conductor—an image making everyone giggle, since he was still in flight gear. “Eyes up. Attention, please. I have an announcement.”
Again, everyone laughed, though shuffled over out of respect for the guy. Cat Five got excited about a lot of things. Murmurs rippled through the group. Some speculated he’d announce the commissary had agreed to reinstate Taco Tuesdays. Many more banked on the guy revealing his newest tattoo.
When everyone was gathered, Tremaine rocked back on his heels. “I’m pretty fucking excited to tell you all that I’ve talked one
of the world’s finest jet jockeys into hanging up his combat wings and joining us here at the training center. He’s an outstanding pilot and an exemplary human being, with the patience to put up with my special brand of bullshit. I’d ask you all to make sure he feels right at home, but you’ve already handled that task with your usual class and style. Well, you big braw boy, stop skulking in the hall!”
Tremaine’s last few words were drowned by the hoots, shouts, and applause that broke out before he was done.
Braw Boy.
Sam’s call sign.
What. The. Hell?
Jen barely treaded water in the storm surge of the celebration. She stood, frozen as ice, jostled as everyone rushed and crowded the grinning guy who’d entered behind Tremaine. Well…she assumed he was grinning. From here, all she could see were the gold halo of his hair and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, as well as the gusto with which he hugged every last person in that throng who greeted him.
Which, damn it, made her love him even more.
He always had something for everyone: a warm smile, a listening ear, a compassionate hug. There was a reason Tremaine had pursued him. People were inspired to be their best for him and with him.
But what if he didn’t have anything left for her?
She didn’t—couldn’t—dare to have hope about the reason for his bold decision. No matter how much of the “new” Jenny he’d brought to life during their fantasy night, enough of the old girl existed to make her hang back, still rooted to her spot, clutching the paper she’d been a few steps from filing.
A few steps.
Ten feet away from landing herself across the world from him again.
“Jenny?”
She blinked and looked up, just in time to watch him part the crowd, approaching the counter at which he’d camped so many times just to shoot the shit with her. This time, he didn’t stop at the shelf. Parked one hand on the ledge and vaulted right over.
He landed directly in front of her.
As the room fell to silence, Sam cupped the sides of her neck. “Jenny?”
She lifted her head. He was dressed in flight gear too—and damn, it looked even better from up close. “Yeah?” she finally whispered.
His lips twitched, unveiling an expression she’d never seen on his face before. Was he…nervous? “Say somethin’. You look like a bomb just dropped.”
“Hasn’t it?”
More of the nervousness. It entered his eyes now, turning them into shadows. His hold slackened. “Then you’re not pure jings about this?”
She blinked again. Lifted a hand to his broad chest, directly over his heart. “Oh, God. Sam.” She wasn’t handling this right at all. If her dreams really were coming true—if he’d given up the green beauty of his land and the familiarity of his home to come live in the desert, with her—then a simple, albeit epic, word like “jings” wasn’t enough to contain the joy she felt…or even a fraction of her heart’s exultation.
“Well, that’s fine, then.” He stepped away. Yanked his hands back, fingers stiff, as if he were suddenly sure he’d break her. “I guess I…jumped to conclusions I shouldn’t have after our time together. Now I’m in a world of sorry about it too.” In a guttural growl, he added, “To both you and me.”
“Sam!” But her plea didn’t stop him from whirling from her—forcing her to race around, plant herself before him, and shove the sheet in her hand right into his. “Tell me who was the one assuming things, Captain Mackenna?”
His stare was still dark with fury. As he read the first line of the request, it changed to confusion. Then as his lips moved over the text, exploded with astonishment. “Lakenheath?” His head snapped up. “You were going to—”
“Ten more seconds, and it would’ve been submitted.” She closed the gap between them. Uncaring of who watched or even took a damn video—and she wouldn’t put it past Lola, because this was much better YouTube fodder than her cats singing old Rod Stewart tunes—she lifted a hand to his perfect, rugged face. “And you would’ve been worth it, Sam Mackenna. All five thousand miles.”
His gray eyes smoldered once again—but this time, in all the right ways. He didn’t veer that beautiful stare as he tore her transfer request in half, tossed both pieces over his shoulders, and then reached out for her…
And crashed their mouths together.
Jen was conscious of more woots and claps, but she barely heard the din past the rockets blazing across her senses, the happiness exploding in her heart. Sam wrapped his arms around her with the same jubilance, his grip as dominant as his kiss, his groan matching the need in her sigh. His tongue rammed between her lips before dancing with hers, leaving her with no mistake about who got to lead. No way was she about to argue. No way did she want to.
A part of her almost didn’t believe this was happening. Their love story was the long shot, not the sure thing. The hot, graceful Scot and the mouthy, gawky American. The warrior who’d lost himself in the violence and the book nerd who insisted he’d been there all along.
Two people who never should have met.
Two paths that never should have crossed.
A bridge that never should have happened.
A love that wouldn’t accept that bullshit.
Especially when souls were meant to be together. When spirits were meant to love. When hearts were meant to be transformed.
As soon as Sam let her breathe again, Jen used the opportunity to speak the truth from such a heart: the one threatening to thud its way right out of her chest. “I love you, Sam Mackenna.”
His dimples became craters from his answering smile. “As I love you, my beautiful hen.”
A delighted laugh bubbled up. The endearment was a Scottish thing, used pretty casually in his country, though he’d never said it over here. With his utterance now, he conveyed a message that made her eyes sting all over again.
He was home.
She was going to make sure he felt that way, each and every day. He was her gift, and she’d never stop being grateful for it—which meant no more looking in the mirror and seeing everything she wasn’t.
She was more because of him.
She’d be more because of him.
As she framed his face with her hands and looked deeply into his eyes, she also saw the more she’d given back to him. The new peace in his eyes. The new trust in his smile. All the leaves in his stream, flowing so beautifully and boldly in every full, happy breath he took. He dazzled her now more than ever—and knowing she was the reason just made this moment even more of a miracle.
Even the sarcastic snort on the air, courtesy of Lola, didn’t fade her shine. “Hen?” the woman guffawed. “What the hell happened to ‘mouse’?”
Jen precluded her reply with a laugh drenched in pure, permeating, exalting, exhilarating joy. “She got conquered. And loved every damn second of it.”
Continue the Honor Bound Series with Book Ten
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Excerpt from Ruled: Honor Bound Book Ten
Chapter One
“Hot. Really hot. And hard.”
“No way. Slow and sexy.”
“Girl, please. Look at his posture.”
“Looking.”
“And that says ‘slow’ to you…how? That man likes being large and in charge.”
“Can’t we just wish he prefers both? A lot of both?”
“Maybe he’ll let one of us explore the issue further.”
“After we’re done with the dog-and-pony show tonight.”
“You mean after Tracy’s done with it?”
That was it. The banter between her two closest friends finally made Tracy Rhodes choke on her “soothing” cup of tea. She set the cup down on the dressing table, swiveled in the high makeup chair, and unloaded two rounds of exasperation at Gemini Vann, aka her Chief Counsel, and Veronica Gallo, her Media Secretary. At the moment, however, t
hey were distracting thorns, numbers one and two. “Not helping with the ‘relax’ segment of the schedule, girls.”
Relax. If that were possible. Down the hall, an army of Las Vegas Convention Center staffers readied a hall that would soon seat thousands. In a little over an hour, all those seats would be filled—with people waiting to hear what she had to say. About a subject she knew all of three damn things about. Okay, two and a half. She needed all the help she could get.
That officially nixed relaxation.
Calm. Maybe calm was achievable—though that depended on getting five minutes of deep breathing. Time sure as hell laughed at that one. Sound check was in ten minutes, followed by half a dozen this-can’t-wait phone calls and then a meeting with local schoolchildren. And space? Fifteen people in a twelve-by-twelve dressing room might be someone’s idea of space, but she wasn’t that someone.
There were a lot of “someones” she never thought life would turn her into by now.
Widow.
Single mom.
Entrepreneur.
Vice president of the United States.
Annnnd there went the possibility of calm.
Before her nerves could start their usual run with that, Gemini came to the rescue, holding out a bottled water. With eyes half a shade lighter than hers and the same somewhere-between-blond-and-brunette hair, many mistook Gem as her sister. Neither of them refuted the claims. Why bother when it might as well have been truth?
“Better to ask forgiveness, right?” The woman’s blue-silver gaze sparkled. “So…errrmm…sorry, boss?”
Tracy took a second to think of a good zinger as comeback. It was all the opening needed for the strawberry blonde poised at the other end of the mirror. Veronica, actually looking like a Veronica instead of the shortened version of Ronnie she preferred, pointedly cleared her throat. “You mean sorry, Madam Vice President, right?”