What Matters More

by Liora Blake

  She managed a nervous smile and thrust her arms forward, with the pan perched in her hands like an offering—one she suddenly wasn’t sure would be welcome.

  “We made enchiladas for dinner,” she blurted out. “And we saved some for you. Tara said you can send her a thank-you note tomorrow. I kept them warm, and I have salad and some beer, too. Are you hungry?”

  JT’s gaze zeroed in on the pan in her hands and he simply stared at it, not saying a word, even when Anya cleared her throat to ease the uncomfortable silence. She felt a blush creeping across her cheeks, and a panicked thought hit her. One that if she hadn’t lost her mind earlier, she would have been able to see coming before she found herself with these damn oven mitts on her hands.

  Maybe this was a mistake.

  She could see how this must look, this show of domesticity on her part that he certainly hadn’t asked for or even insinuated that he wanted. But here she was, making him dinner and keeping it warm until he arrived home, like she was some proper Kennedy-era housewife—which, on so many levels, she definitely wasn’t. Even the outfit she’d changed into, a lavender floral mini dress, made it look like all she was missing was a cute little vintage apron to complete the look.

  Oh, God.

  Of course this was a mistake.

  Anya considered setting the pan on the ground and walking away without saying another word. But then JT locked his eyes with hers. A hungry, heated look was on his face, and because she was regretting this whole thing now, she wasn’t sure whether that look was for her or the enchiladas. Either way, she needed him to say something soon because she was about to drop this hot pan and swoon, although not necessarily in that order.

  “I’m starving,” JT rumbled. Then he made his way toward the door into the house, opened it, and invited Anya in with just the tip of his chin. She scooted past him in the doorway and swore that when she did, he actually grunted quietly as she passed. Even then, she still wasn’t sure what he wanted to eat first.

  JT dropped his fork atop the empty plate in his hands and set both on the raised stone hearth that surrounded the large fire pit in his parents’ backyard, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. Anya bit the inside of her cheek to stave off the happy housewife grin she felt creeping across her face and looked around the yard for some suitable distraction, anything to keep her from fluttering her eyelashes at JT like a ridiculous lunatic.

  The Maxwells’ yard offered plenty for her to look at, from the dramatic fire pit to elaborate native plantings and rockscapes. While they didn’t have a pool like the Greenes did, they did have a full outdoor kitchen, complete with a wine cooler, two prep sinks, long concrete counters, an icemaker, and a huge gas grill. Adjacent to the lavish outdoor kitchen, a redwood pergola sheltered an enormous round dining table. Intricate carvings embellished the table’s wooden top, and a matching design was etched into the backs of the chairs that surrounded it. JT proudly explained that his father had taken up woodworking after his retirement from the Air Force and the elaborate carvings were his work. Anya had let out a surprised snort, because of course. Of course JT’s gruff and commanding father would be able to turn a humble piece of teakwood into something worthy of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table.

  JT slumped down into the couch and patted his still-rock-hard abs, giving up another contented sound.

  “That dinner was fucking awesome. I’ll definitely send that thank-you note to Tara. Although I might do that just because she scares me a little. I’ve encountered cartel-level drug traffickers who don’t have the same kind of don’t-fuck-with-me swagger that she does.”

  He swiped his beer off the end table next to him and drained it in one gulp. Anya did the same with her beer, then tucked her legs up underneath her and scooted a few inches closer to JT on the couch. She fiddled with the soft ruffles that lined the hem of her dress, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way his mention of drug cartels had made her a little twitchy. He might have said it to make a joke about Tara’s brash nature, but Anya had only retained the part about the cartel.

  The freaking cartel.

  Anya took a deep breath and did everything she could to sound casual.

  “I’m guessing there’s never a boring day in your job, huh? Tracking down fugitives and drug traffickers must be pretty dangerous.”

  JT made a noncommittal sound, then stretched his legs out and clasped his hands behind his head, relaxing into the stance. Anya stared at her kneecaps, refusing to overanalyze his body language—at least not any more than she already had. And while she knew that she would probably regret asking him to tell her more, she did it anyway.

  “Do you ever wish you had a less dangerous job?”

  He lifted a shoulder lazily. “I don’t really think about it, I guess. It’s definitely not a low-stakes job, but I don’t go into work every day worrying about whether I’m going to come home at night. Doing a tour with the Marines in Afghanistan cured me of that pretty quick. At some point, you just decide that this is what you want to do and you accept the risks that come with it, because you can’t sit around worrying about what if all the time. If you do, you need to find another job.”

  Anya gripped the hem of her dress in her fists, so tightly that her fingers started to ache. Here he was, talking about the prospect of not coming home at night with so much indifference that she wanted to scream. She loosened her grip on the fabric and breathed deeply through her nose, working hard to steady her voice.

  “So you don’t want to do anything else for a living? This is it for you?”

  Another shrug from him. Then he yawned. For a split second, Anya considered yanking on his earlobe or maybe twisting his nipple, anything to make him sit up straight and act as if he actually gave a shit, instead of all this shrugging and yawning.

  “I can’t really see myself doing anything else,” JT said. “We’re a military family, so when I was younger I thought I’d do the same thing. But after my first tour with the Marines, I realized that staying enlisted wasn’t what I wanted to do, at least not for a career, so I didn’t re-up. I went back to school, got my degree, and then joined the Marshals Service right after. So far, it’s been a good fit. I’m actually up for a pretty big promotion right now, and if I get it, it’s something I could do until I’m ready to retire.”

  Anya battled with being happy for him that he was up for a promotion, and wondering what came with it. Did it involve more scenarios where he needed to wear a bulletproof vest? Or would being promoted mean he would spend most of his time behind a desk? And if he did end up behind a desk, did the Marshal Service provide treadmill desks? Or at least standing desks? Because she was sure she’d heard about some study that claimed sitting for too long at work was worse than smoking or eating fast food every day. If so, he needed to be sure he didn’t forget to stand up at least a few times each hour and maybe take a quick walk so . . . oh, good grief.

  This was insane. She needed to stop acting like some overwrought sweetheart sending her soldier beau off to war at the train station, torn up inside about whether she would ever see him again. Or in Anya’s case, worry about what kind of desk would be available to him.

  What she needed to do was simply talk to him. Talk to him like the rational, sensible human being she was sure still existed inside her. Somewhere.

  “What kind of promotion?”

  There. She congratulated herself silently. That was a totally normal follow-up question, sans any wailing or hysterics or bizarre ramblings about treadmill desks. Kudos to her.

  “I’d be the field supervisor for our team. At first, I wasn’t sure I even wanted the job, but then I realized how much latitude I’d have over where we focus our efforts. There’s this case that I’ve been working for over a year now, a drug runner with local gang ties who escaped from prison and then basically disappeared. A case like that isn’t considered a top priority, so I can only work on it in between other things. If I’m running the team, though, I could run it up the list. Other than that, t
he job just means more responsibility, especially on the bigger cases.”

  He air-quoted the last two words with a limp flick of his fingers, another gesture that kind of made her want to jab him in the ribs with her fingers.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll take point on anything that’s high-profile. Attempted murder cases, aggravated assault, felony menacing, sex trafficking, that sort of thing. The kind of guys who make you strap your tac vest on a little tighter.” He cut a glance at Anya, a little smirk on his face. “Oh, and those cartel guys, too. The ones Tara puts to shame.”

  Then he winked.

  He freaking winked. As if what he was saying was nothing but a joke. A joke that involved tracking down bad guys who you hoped didn’t shoot you.

  Hardy-har-har.

  Anya felt the color wash from her face. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and began counting backwards from ten.

  Ten, nine, eight . . .

  She paused, taking a calming breath.

  Seven, six, five . . .

  “Anya?” JT murmured, placing his warm hand on her cheek. “Hey, talk to me.”

  Four, three, two . . .

  Another deep breath.

  One.

  She opened her eyes. Worry etched JT’s features, but that didn’t stop her from pinning him with a glare.

  “You have to stop talking about the cartel, and your tac vest, and chasing down bad guys like it’s no big deal, okay? I can’t deal with it. I just . . . can’t.”

  JT reared his head back a little and the worry in his expression morphed into confusion. Anya let her head sag forward and pressed her palms to her closed eyes, taking a moment to sort out what it was she wanted to say—and how to keep from saying the things she didn’t.

  With a sigh, she dropped her hands.

  “When you came in the studio today, you were standing there all geared up with this bulletproof vest on, and all of a sudden I realized that your job is dangerous. Before that I never really thought about what you do at work every day, and I certainly never considered that some fugitive could hurt you.” She refreshed her glare. “And you act like it’s no big deal. Like it’s something to joke about. Meanwhile, I spent the whole afternoon with a stomachache, all because I couldn’t stop worrying about you.”

  “Anya,” he started, “I wasn’t joking about that. I was just—”

  Anya calmly lifted one hand to pause him. His tone was tempered and cautious. Clearly, he was trying to pacify her, but she didn’t want that. JT quieted, then cocked his head and studied her as she spoke.

  “I know I’m not entitled to worrying about you or to fussing over you, JT. We aren’t in a relationship and I have no say over how you make a living. I get that, I really do. But this part of me”—Anya tapped her fingers over her heart—“doesn’t understand all that. This afternoon, all logic went out the window and the only thing that mattered was seeing you again—safe and sound, and in one piece. I know that sounds nuts, but I can’t help it.”

  JT said nothing for a moment, and Anya’s heart thumped heavily in her chest as each second passed, refusing to say another word because she’d already said too much.

  “I don’t like upsetting you. I hate that I did that,” JT said absently.

  He gathered a long breath and blew it out slowly before reaching out to draw her near. He tugged her body closer until she had no choice but to crawl up and straddle his lap, wrapping herself against him as JT buried his face into her hair.

  “Just because I make a few jokes doesn’t mean I don’t take my job seriously. I do.” He raised his head again, scanning her face. “And I know that every single person I work with is someone I can trust with my life, because we train for this every day. That way, when it gets stupid in the field, we don’t fuck up. But I forgot about what it’s like for the people who aren’t out there with us, who don’t know how good we are. Other than my parents, it’s been a while since I had someone in my life that gave a shit about whether I come home or not.”

  Anya leaned back so she could see his face.

  “What about your ex-wife? I’m sure waiting for you to get home at night gave her a few gray hairs.”

  “If it did, the gray hairs didn’t last long. Nic and her hairstylist were practically best friends.” JT rolled his eyes a little before running a hand over his face and sighing. “My job was an issue, but not because it was dangerous. That wasn’t the problem. Being a Marshal pays pretty well, just not enough to give her the life she wanted.”

  Anya’s forehead creased as she tried to read between the lines. She hadn’t given his ex-wife much thought, because everyone had a past and JT’s wasn’t really any of her business. Since Anya and JT were only temporary, there wasn’t much reason for her to dwell on anyone he had shared his life with. But now she found that her curiosity was piqued.

  “Is that part of why you split up? Money stuff?”

  She half expected him to tell her to back off, or at the very least, to fidget a little before answering her—but he didn’t. Only the way he averted his gaze suggested that talking about his marriage was difficult for him.

  “I’d say money was the reason. Not just part of it.” He dug his teeth into his bottom lip, worrying it for a long beat. “Looking back, I can see all the ways that not communicating about money fucked up our marriage, but at the time I was just trying to make her happy. If she wanted a bigger house, a new car, or a new purse, whatever, I figured out a way to get it for her, even if I had to buy it with money I didn’t have yet. I think I thought I could buy her happiness. Which is a fucking joke, but it took me a few years and a hell of a lot of debt to figure that out. Now I’m just trying to clean up my mistakes.”

  He shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly, but there was shame in his voice, and hearing it left a bitter taste in Anya’s mouth.

  “I’ve never been married, but are these really just your mistakes? You guys bought stuff while you were together and it seems like that changes things. Is she at least helping you clean up the debt?”

  JT shook his head. “She doesn’t really have any income. Nicole never wanted a career, which was never an issue between us, but she did want a certain kind of life. My mistake was that I tried to give it to her even when I knew I couldn’t afford it. I should have thought all of that through before we got married and been upfront with her from the beginning, so she could decide if what I could give her was enough.”

  Anya studied his face and the way his brow furrowed, as if he was still wondering what he could have done differently. She couldn’t understand why that was. Not when his marriage sounded like it wasn’t much of a partnership to begin with and his divorce was even less so.

  Then it hit her.

  Maybe deep down, JT still wanted to fix his relationship with Nicole. Maybe he wanted another shot at making her happy. Maybe—despite the debt and the divorce and everything else—JT’s heart hadn’t moved on.

  Ouch.

  That notion made her wince a little, as if an arrow had been flung in her direction and somehow managed to land squarely on a raw, tender part of her heart she hadn’t known was there. The place inside her where JT was more than a rebound or a distraction—but where he was hers.

  Anya peered up at JT, careful to keep her expression neutral.

  “Do you still love her?”

  At first, JT balked, sending Anya a quizzical look.

  “I’ll always feel something for her, I guess,” he finally admitted. “But I wouldn’t say I still love her. Not really. Truth is, I’m still trying to figure out how to deal with all of the shit feelings that came with getting divorced. But I’m not pining away for her or anything. I just regret not being the husband I should have been.”

  Anya certainly wasn’t a licensed therapist or anything, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t hear the uncertainty in his voice. At the very least, JT did not sound like a man who was entirely ready to move on. And he definitely didn’t sound like a man who was pr
epared to give love another shot.

  JT released a long exhale, skimming his hand down Anya’s thigh.

  “Things are getting a little serious here and we’re supposed to be having fun tonight. Let’s get back to what we do best, okay?”

  The hurt in her heart grew bigger. Oh, man. She was in so much trouble.

  Because her stupid, stupid heart had gone and done the unthinkable.

  Fallen for someone whose heart was already spoken for.

  18

  JT

  JT woke up with a start in his darkened bedroom. Nothing explained why he had woken up, like a sudden noise that might have roused him out of a deep sleep. He felt across the sheets, searching out the warm, lush body he’d fallen asleep next to.

  Ah. That was the problem.

  Anya wasn’t next to him. There was a damn good chance that his body possessed some weird sixth sense about her absence, which would explain why he was awake—and also made him worry a little about his overall sanity.

  JT scooted out from under the covers and leaned back on his forearms to scan the room as best he could in the dark. No light shone from under the bathroom door and all of the hallway lights were still off. He craned his head, trying to listen for any noise in the hallway, but all he could hear was his wristwatch ticking away on the nightstand.

  Throwing off the bedcovers, he flipped on the bedside lamp. There was no point in lying there any longer. Until he knew where she had disappeared to, he wouldn’t be able to do anything but stare at the ceiling and imagine a bunch of melodramatic reasons to explain her absence. Anya might think that she had the market cornered on being a worrywart, but JT did his fair share of agonizing about her, too.