The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3)

by Kristen Casey

  Dr. Ross froze in the act of flipping Tate’s chart closed, his eyebrows climbing sky-high. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m no expert, but I think I’m as good as I’m going to get now. I don’t feel like things are improving anymore. I’m…I’ve plateaued.” Tate held his breath and watched to see what the other man would do.

  “Interesting,” Ross murmured, blinking fast. “This is quite a switch for you. What makes you think you’ve leveled out at a competency lower than desirable?”

  Tate tried to think of the best way to explain himself. “I mean…I’m functional, for the most part, in civilian life, but going back to my unit is another story. I won’t be able to make adjustments to my days if I don’t get enough rest, or if I feel dizzy or whatever. And frankly, Doc, I’m liable to get myself killed if I drop with another seizure when the bombs start going off.”

  Dr. Ross took a deep breath, picked up his pen, then put it down again. “Well, as they told you in New York, we believe the seizure you had was an anomaly, brought on by the strenuous burst of activity you experienced.”

  “Except…those are kind of the norm in my job,” Tate pointed out.

  “Right. Of course.” The doctor pushed up his glasses and looked down at Tate’s file again. “So…let’s talk about your symptoms. Have you seen any improvement in the motion sickness?”

  Tate’s crazy idea was beginning to gather steam, forming into an engine that wanted to barrel down the tracks of his suddenly-tantalizing future.

  He told the man, “No, if anything it’s gotten worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Yeah. Hell, sometimes even a quick drive to the store gets me green around the gills.” If the store was clear across town, that was, and an over-caffeinated cabbie was doing the driving. Anyone would get sick from that.

  “Wow. Okay,” Dr. Ross said. “What about the migraines? How often are you getting those now?”

  Rarely, unless Tate had just collared a demented stalker. Still, he figured it was sensible to round up, so he estimated, “Around seven…no, ten. Ten a month, give or take.”

  “That many?” Ross was incredulous, and no wonder. At their last meeting, Tate had reported fewer than four a month, but then he’d definitely been rounding down.

  “Yep.” Just thinking about the ribbing Red and Luca were likely to dish out about this was almost giving Tate a headache now, for crying out loud.

  “And the nightmares? How many of those?”

  “I’d say most nights,” Tate bluffed. He neglected to mention that his bad dreams were now of the Is Lyla Safe variety, rather than the My Convoy’s Getting Blown to Smithereens type…but really—that disconnect was on Dr. Ross. He didn’t ask.

  Tate’s heart beat faster as he met the eyes of the man who, all these months, had been as focused on getting him back into fighting form as Tate had been. Dr. Ross clearly smelled a rat now, but couldn’t seem to figure out where it was.

  “What about the dizziness and nausea?”

  “Definitely. Both of those.” Especially if Tate actually went through with his plan to confront Lyla about that freaking book of hers—but honestly, stronger men than him had been stymied by conversations like that.

  The doctor sat back with a snort, looking Tate up and down. “So, you’ve given up, then? Is that it?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Tate huffed. There was no need to be insulting.

  “But you’re done.”

  He swallowed. It sounded so final when he put it that way. “Yeah. I am, Doc. I really need this to be over, once and for all.”

  More raised brows. “And by this you mean…”

  “The Med Board mess, not my life,” Tate smiled.

  Dr. Ross smiled slightly, too. “By any chance, does this change of heart have to do with the woman you nearly killed yourself trying to protect?”

  Tate pasted an innocent expression on his mug, but it went over about as well as a lead balloon. Rather than retreat, though, he just leaned into it. “Why, Doctor—whatever do you mean?”

  The man chuckled, but pointed out, “Tate, be sure of what you’re doing here. There’s no going back from this. As long as the Med Board is still in process, you have a chance of returning to active duty. But once it ends, that’s it. It’s all over—and you’re out for good. Do you understand that?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “And you are telling me that you are fine with that.”

  “Believe it or not, yes. I really am.”

  “All right, then. I’ll support you.” The doctor sat back in his chair with a long sigh. “But tomorrow should be very interesting.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Tate said.

  AS IT HAPPENED, the Army turned out to be just as sick of Captain Monroe, as he was of them. Tate endured two days of semi-polite tests and interviews, then had to wait another thirty-six hours before he had his answer.

  Honorable medical discharge with full benefits. His parents didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and frankly, neither did Tate.

  Still, with phase one in the bag, it was time to set the next part of his plan in motion, so Tate texted Red and asked his friend to call him when he had a chance.

  Fifteen minutes later, he did just that. “Hey man, glad I caught you,” Red said. Like Tate had anything better to do at the moment than sit around waiting.

  He rolled his eyes. “And, to the surprise of no one, here I am.”

  “Listen, I need to give you a heads up. Luca’s going to be calling you—”

  “Already heard from him, bro.”

  “Huh. He works fast. So, do you think you can make it?”

  “To your bachelor party?” Tate laughed, “Of course, I can. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  Red muttered, “Oh, thank fuck.” And then added, “I thought we’d go to a pool hall, but Luca seems to be heading in the opposite direction. He’s talking fancy wine bars and shit.”

  “Seriously?” Their friend had neglected to mention that part during Tate’s call with him.

  “Yes. Tate, you need to rein him in. He’s getting all creative, which means he’s probably enlisting Daisy’s help.”

  “Not for nothing, but I thought you liked wine.”

  “I do,” Red said, “in certain circumstances. This is not one of them. You need to get back here and bring some fucking balance to this shitshow. I don’t want to sip chardonnay for my bachelor party. I want to beat both your asses in a three-hour drunken game of billiards.”

  Tate laughed. “All right, brother, slow your roll. Order will be restored forthwith. I’m good to go here, so I can come back there as soon as I get a ticket or a rental.”

  “I’ll send you the ticket in an hour,” Red barked immediately.

  “The hell you will.” Tate might be at loose ends for the foreseeable future, but he wasn’t a charity case.

  Red, fortunately, knew a losing argument when he heard one. He sighed, “Fine, but at least let me arrange a hotel for you.”

  “No need, big shot. Daisy’s already badgered me into staying with them.”

  “Jesus, I hope you’re prepared to gain ten pounds. That woman is becoming a formidable cook.”

  “Looking forward to it, actually.”

  Red let out another, bigger sigh. “Okay, good. This is good. I feel better already.”

  “Do you?” Tate asked. “Because you sound even tenser than usual. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet, big man.”

  “Not even close. I just want this wedding to be perfect for Piper, but my mother’s been driving us nuts with a ton of last-minute crap. She’s a basket case.”

  “Red, if I know you, you’ve had every last possible contingency taken care of for weeks.”

  His buddy grunted in agreement.

  “So, don’t sweat it,” Tate told him. “Piper only wants you.”

  “God only knows why. Anyway, enough about me. You said you’re good to go there. Does that mean you’ve gotten word on your sta
tus already?”

  “Let’s just say…my schedule’s loosened up a bit,” Tate said. “I can make your stag party and your rehearsal and your wedding. Hell, if you want to throw a baby shower in a couple of years, I can make that, too.”

  There was a beat of silence over the phone line that stretched on and on, and Tate bit back his grin as he pictured Red’s expression.

  “They didn’t approve you again?” his friend finally asked.

  “No, they did not.”

  “When’s your next—”

  “No next, dude. I’m done.”

  More silence. Tate waited him out.

  “Tell me they didn’t fuck you over,” Red growled at last. “Did they at least throw you a bone and give you the benefits?”

  “Shockingly, they did,” Tate assured him. “But now your boy’s unemployed, so maybe don’t fill that mailroom position before checking with me first.”

  “Whatever you want,” Red said quickly. “Seriously. Luca and I are both here to help.”

  “I appreciate that, but I hope not to need it.”

  “Do you know what you want to do?”

  “Not yet. Let’s get you hitched first, then I’ll come up with something.” Something that included Lyla, front and center, if all went well.

  Red considered that for a bit, then groaned, “Christ. I feel like you getting booted out is my fault, Tate. If I hadn’t dragged you into the mess with Lyla, you probably would’ve been good to go.”

  “First of all, I suspect getting discharged was inevitable, I just didn’t want to face it. Secondly, no one drags me anywhere.”

  “Typical.”

  “Last, but not least, don’t you dare apologize for hooking me up with Lyla.”

  “Shouldn’t I?” Red wondered.

  “Come on, dude—don’t be an ass.”

  “Oh, now I’m the ass? After the fucking disappearing act you pulled on her?”

  “I did not enjoy it, I just did what I thought was necessary. But now things have evolved, so to speak, so…”

  “Oh, really.”

  “I could use a hand if I’m going to…you know.”

  “I am not going to help you get back with that poor woman, just so you can jerk her around some more,” Red fired back.

  Tate argued, “I’m not going to do that.”

  “She deserves better than what you did, you bonehead.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Lyla cared about you. A lot. You get that, right?”

  “Shut the fuck up, would you please?” He was so done. Red could try to block his efforts, but Tate would only find a way around him.

  “Then convince me you know what you’re doing this time,” his buddy said.

  “I don’t need to convince you of jack shit,” Tate bristled. “Lyla is the one I have to convince. So if you don’t want to help me win back the woman I love, then at least stay the hell out of my way.”

  Red chuckled. “Well, look who’s finally joined the party. Took you long enough, Tater Tot, but I suppose you always were the slow one. I take it you read the book I sent you?”

  “Bite me.”

  “No thanks. What else do you have in mind?”

  Tate grabbed his list and outlined his plan.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  AS LYLA DARTED around her bedroom, trying to get ready for Red and Piper’s rehearsal dinner, she realized she was losing it, big time.

  However, sometime earlier that day it had suddenly occurred to her that Tate would, in all likelihood, be there tonight—not to mention at the wedding tomorrow.

  The wedding would be big enough that she might be able to avoid him. The rehearsal dinner, however, promised to be intimate and awkward as all get out. What was more, Lyla could not risk screwing up or Tate was bound to realize what she’d been going through these last few weeks.

  She could not let that happen.

  Consequently, she needed to be sharp and completely on her game, just as if she was going to a book signing or a conference meet-and-greet with her fans.

  The only problem was, she didn’t seem to own a single shred of clothing that communicated the perfect I-don’t-care ethos she was hoping for.

  The retro burgundy party dress she was currently sporting, for example, might as well be screaming trying-too-hard—even if Lyla had gotten it for a song in a consignment shop last winter.

  Out in the main room, the buzzer sounded next to her front door, jarring her from her thoughts. She spun around to check her clock, but her ride wasn’t due to arrive for almost two more hours. Unless she’d gotten the time wrong.

  Oh, crud—had she gotten the time wrong?

  On the bed, her cell phone rang with a call from the doorman.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Lawson? It’s Joe, downstairs. I have Captain Monroe here. He said you’re not answering your buzzer. Should I send him up?”

  Lyla sank down on the corner of the mattress. “I’m sorry—did you say Captain Monroe?”

  “Sure did. He says he has something for you.” Her heart seemed to be doing some very unhealthy things inside her chest.

  “The Captain Monroe?”

  Joe paused. “Are there others?”

  Lyla shook her head. There were none that mattered as much as hers did. It took a few tries to clear the frog from her throat, but eventually, she was able to croak out, “Uh, no. Go ahead and send him up.”

  Holy crap, Tate was here. Why in the world was Tate here?

  She raced around the room, grabbing cast-off outfits from the floor and the bed and tossing them into her closet. She wasn’t a particularly neat person, but why did her usual clutter suddenly seem to be proclaiming loud and clear what an emotional mess she’d been lately?

  For good measure, Lyla kicked some random shoes under her bed, then went to stand near her front door. In a matter of minutes, she was going to be face to face with the man she loved with all her soul—the same man who’d broken her heart into a million jagged pieces.

  There was absolutely no way to prepare for that, but she took a few deep breaths anyway.

  At least she could count on Tate not knowing about the new book, since it would be months before it was released and he didn’t read fiction, anyway. And, after this weekend, he would no doubt be getting on some military transport or other and heading back to his real job of protecting the country.

  Lyla only had to fake her way through the next few minutes, and she’d be in the clear.

  If Tate didn’t care about her—as his actions had rather definitively declared—then she couldn’t have him thinking that she cared, either. She had to project the perfect illusion of a confident woman, one who could walk away from him just as easily as he’d left her. This was only happening a bit sooner than she’d anticipated, that was all.

  No hard feelings, right? Lyla laughed. She was so doomed.

  MOMENTS LATER, LYLA heard Tate march up to her door, and the sharp rap of his knuckles on the other side made her jump like a damn cricket.

  She took a couple more deep breaths and crept to the peephole, finding Tate impeccably turned out in a familiar suit and brandishing something on his cell phone that looked an awful lot like the title page of her new book.

  Lyla narrowed her eyes, wondering which rotten, interfering Judas had given it to him. She’d bet a million dollars it was Red.

  She swung open the door with what she hoped was an air of indifference—or, at minimum, not a greedy devouring of the man with her eyes.

  “Tate? What are you doing here?” There. Super casual.

  He puffed out his chest, standing at attention. “Hey, Lyla. I’m putting myself back on the job.”

  She stepped aside to let him in, then scoffed, “Why? Brett is on lockdown in a high-security psychiatric facility right now. And I doubt I’ll be in danger at Red and Piper’s wedding. Half of Manhattan is going to be there.”

  Tate was undeterred, though. At her words, he merely planted his feet and announced, �
��Before you know it, the Joneses will be trying to arrange a transfer to a local joint, and if they’re successful, home visits are the next step. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you unprotected with that on the horizon.”

  “Tate, honestly. Listen to yourself,” Lyla said. “You’re being paranoid for no reason. Besides, you’ll be on your way back to your unit by then, anyway, and I’m fine. This is completely unnecessary.”

  “It’s very necessary. And for the record, I’m not going back to my team.”

  “Wh—what?” She took a step back. That was news.

  “You heard me. I’m not going back. I’m out. For good.”

  Lyla held still. No one had mentioned that to her, but of course, she’d made a herculean effort not to ask. “But…but your evaluation...”

  Tate shrugged, like he hadn’t been gung-ho to get back to fighting only weeks before. “Honorable medical discharge. I’m still going to wear my dress uniform tomorrow, though. I didn’t have a tux for this shindig, so monkey suit, it is.”

  “It’s…” Lyla faltered in the face of his sheer serenity about such an earth-shattering development. This beautiful man would undoubtedly look twice as delicious in his uniform, too—but she couldn’t forget that he was still so far out of her reach.

  For example, neither of them had even mentioned yet that this was the first time she’d laid eyes on him since the EMTs had carted him off after his seizure in that alley. That was a problem.

  But Tate looked good. So, so good.

  Lyla swallowed, and managed to say evenly, “I’m sure you’ll look very nice in the uniform. And I’m sorry you didn’t pass your evaluation. I know how much it meant to you.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Tate replied cheerfully. “I flunked it on purpose.”

  What on earth? “But why would you do that?”

  “For a lot of reasons. It was time, for one thing, and there was you to consider. There was this.” He gestured between them.

  Lyla was obviously hearing things, so it was probably time to make a break for it here.

  “Tate, as nice as it is to see you looking well again, I don’t have time for whatever this is. I have to finish getting ready for Red and Piper’s rehearsal dinner.”