She made a soft humming noise that didn’t seem to signal immediate distress, so he stayed where he was. Inside her. The connection still vibrated between them, and he was reluctant to stretch it, much less sever it. Connections weren’t supposed to happen. Pleasure, yes. Fun, absolutely. But connections weren’t in the playbook, especially a connection to Jack’s not-really-a-dumpy-ballbreaker sister. The conversation opened doors he didn’t want to open, memories of days in the woods, hours spent trying to figure out what he needed to do to earn his father’s approval. The waves of adrenaline and testosterone were crested with emotion, as dangerous as unfamiliar terrain. He swiped at his face with his shoulders, kept his gaze fixed on the wrinkled sheet under Rose’s bare shoulder, trying to get himself under control.
He was softening enough to make the condom situation perilous. He pinched the end and pulled out, for a brief moment regretting the need for one at all. But that was sheer craziness. No condoms meant blood tests and commitments, and commitments were a canyon-leap past connections that wouldn’t stretch halfway around the world. He forced his limbs to start functioning and went into the bathroom, where he dealt with practicalities, and ran a wet washcloth for Rose.
“Thanks,” she said when he came out.
He pulled on his shorts and cargo pants while she cleaned up and dressed. She picked up his copy of The Iliad, the copy he’d carried from the time he finished BUD/S. The copy prior to that had fallen apart during his first enlistment, and was now in a box in a storage unit he kept in Virginia Beach. “You’re sure you don’t mind if I borrow this?”
“Take it,” he said.
“You don’t need it to fall asleep?”
He grinned at her. “No. I can fall asleep anywhere, any time.”
“Thank you,” she said. “See you in the morning.”
He almost asked her to stay. Almost. But if her grandmother woke up and found Rose’s bed empty, she’d worry. Or not. Grannie seemed pretty savvy, even if everyone was pretending to be blind as bats.
The door closed behind her, leaving Keenan in a room scented ever so faintly with the unique smell of Rose’s heated skin, and the disconcerting knowledge that the soft snick of the latch catching hadn’t severed the connection at all.
*
The next morning dawned gray and blustery, gusts of dry wind battering at the big windows in the hotel’s dining room. By now the Bucket List Babes knew what to do, having left their big suitcases outside their doors for the hotel staff to collect and load into the Land Rover. Ignoring the eggs and sausage the kitchen made for tourists, Keenan loaded up a plate with Turkish breakfast food and sat down beside Marian.
“Morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” everyone chorused.
Grannie had her iPad open on the table, tapping and swiping through a botany website and Rumi’s poems while Florence and Marian peered over her should from either side.
Keenan looked at his watch, then around the room. “Where’s Rose?”
“She slept in,” Grannie said. “When I left she was getting dressed.”
“She needs the sleep,” Marian said. “I don’t think she slept at all on the flight over. She bought WiFi on the plane. When I fell asleep she was on her laptop and when I woke up, she was still on her laptop!”
“She’s the youngest member of the management team at Field Energy,” Grannie said staunchly. “She has a lot of responsibility.”
“She’s always had a lot of responsibility,” Florence said. “Running herself into the ground won’t help her handle it.”
“And she’s always been able to handle it,” Grannie said. “Look, there she is.”
Everyone looked up as Rose walked into the dining room. For five seconds Keenan let himself appreciate the way she moved. She wore her staple leggings and boots, with a creamy shirt decorated with flowers at the neckline, and another swingy cardigan, this one in a shade of brown that set off her hair.
She saw them looking at her, lifted a hand, and gave a little wave. “Morning,” she said as she set her shoulder bag on an empty chair. “Can I get anyone anything from the buffet?”
The Babes had switched to Rumi, and shook their heads.
“I’ll get coffee,” Keenan said.
She lifted a brow at his full plate, remembering his sharply delineated muscles. “Must be nice”
“I went for a run this morning,” he replied.
“I can’t even,” she said.
He got coffee for her while she ladled out a bowl of the traditional lentil soup, spritzed it with lemon, then added a side of dates and pastries. “Thanks,” she said when she sat down and saw the coffee waiting for her.
“So. Konya.”
“The home of Rumi and the birthplace of Sufism,” Keenan said. “We should get to the museum when it opens. The later it gets, the more packed it will be.”
“Do we have a guide joining us?”
“Not here,” Keenan said. “According to my research the museum is well organized. I can handle the architecture.”
“How much time do we have?”
“It’s seven hours to Ephesus,” Keenan said. “I’d like to be on the road by early afternoon.”
Rose delicately sipped her soup, then looked at her grandmother. “I don’t want to rush her. Rumi is her favorite poet. This particular stop means the most to her.”
“Understood,” he said.
“Have you seen the museum?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve been based out of Istanbul for a few months, but I haven’t done much sightseeing.”
“I’m glad you could come,” she said. “It seems a shame to live so close to so much history and not visit it.”