“You okay?” Torres asked under his breath. “You look like you’re about to puke up your breakfast.”
No, I wasn’t okay. I was about as far away from okay as New York was from Afghanistan. I couldn’t even form words. Ten years had passed since we’d met on a very different tarmac, and the sight of her still left me speechless.
She offered her right hand to Webb to shake and shifted the strap of a familiar army-green cargo backpack higher on her shoulder with her left. She still had that thing? Sunlight caught those fingers and reflected back brighter than a signal mirror.
What. The. Hell. My heart stuttered back to life, pounding in denial so hard the thing hurt.
The only woman I’d ever loved was here—in a damned war zone—and she was wearing another man’s ring. She was going to be another man’s wife. I didn’t even know the bastard and I already hated him, already knew he wasn’t good enough for her. Not that I was either. That had always been the problem between us.
She turned toward me, her smile faltering as her mouth slackened. Her fingers trembled as she shoved her sunglasses up to the top of her head, revealing a set of wide brown eyes that looked as stunned as I felt.
A vise tightened around my chest.
In my peripherals, Webb worked his way down the line, introducing the politicians to their security details, and coming our way like a nuclear countdown as we stared at each other. A dozen feet, maybe less, separated us, and the distance was somehow simultaneously too far and way too close.
She walked forward and flinched, then captured her hair in a fist as the wind gusted, blasting every surface with sand and dirt, including the white blouse she’d rolled up her forearms. What the hell was she doing here? She didn’t belong here. She belonged in a cushy corner office where nothing could touch her . . . especially me.
“Ms. Astor, meet—” Webb started.
“Nathaniel Phelan,” she finished, scanning my face like she might never see it again, like she was cataloging every change, every scar I’d acquired in the last three years.
“Izzy.” It was all I could manage with that billion-carat rock flashing at me from her hand like a warning beacon. Who the hell had she said yes to?
“You two know each other?” Webb’s eyebrows rose as he glanced between us.
“Yes,” I said.
“Not anymore,” she answered simultaneously.
Shit.
“Okay?” Webb shuffled his gaze again, noting the awkward moment for what it was. “Is this going to be a problem?”
Yes. A giant problem. A million unspoken words blasted the air between us, as thick and relentless as the sand coming across the flight line.
“Look, I can reassign—” Webb started.
“No,” I snapped. There was zero chance in hell I was risking her safety with anyone else. She was stuck with me, whether or not she liked it.
Webb blinked, the only sign of surprise he’d ever give, and glanced at Izzy. “Ms. Astor?”
“It will be fine. Please don’t trouble yourself,” she responded with an easy, polished, fake-ass smile that sent chills down my spine.
“Okay then,” Webb said slowly, then pivoted toward me and mouthed good luck before moving on.
Izzy and I stared at each other as every emotion I’d fought to bury over the last three years clawed its way to the surface, ripping open scabs that had never quite healed to scars. Go figure we’d meet again like this. We’d always had a habit of colliding at the worst times and in the most inconvenient places. It was almost fitting that it was a battlefield this go-round.
“I thought you were in New York,” I finally managed to say, my voice coming out like it had been scraped over the pavement a dozen times. Where no one is actively trying to blow you up.
“Yeah?” She arched a brow and hefted the slipping pack up to her shoulder. “Funny, because I thought you were dead. Guess we were both wrong.”
CHAPTER TWO
IZZY
Saint Louis
November 2011
“Fifteen A. Fifteen A,” I muttered, scanning the seat numbers as I muddled my way down the crowded aisle of the commuter plane, my carry-on slipping through my clammy hands with every step. Spotting my row, I sighed in relief that the overhead compartment was still empty, then cursed as I realized A was a window seat.
My stomach twisted into a knot. Had I really booked myself by the window? Where I could see every potential disaster coming our way?
Hold up. There was already a guy sitting in the window seat, his head down, only the Saint Louis Blues emblem visible on his hat. Maybe I’d read my ticket wrong.
I made it to my row, stood on my tiptoes, and shoved my carry-on up as far as my arms would extend, aiming for the overhead bin. It made contact with the edge, but the only prayer I had of getting it all the way in was to climb on the seat . . . or grow another six inches.
My hands slipped, and the bright-purple suitcase plummeted toward my face. Before I had time to gasp, a massive hand caught my unruly luggage, stopping it a few inches from my nose.
Holy crap.
“That was close,” a deep voice noted from behind my carry-on. “How about I help you with that?”
“Yes, please,” I answered, scrambling to adjust my hold.
I saw the Blues hat first as the guy somehow managed to twist his body, rise fully to his feet, step into the aisle, and balance my suitcase all in one smooth motion. Impressive.
“Here we go.” He slid the carry-on into the overhead with ease.
“Thanks. I was pretty sure it was going to take me out there for a second.” I smiled, turning my head slightly to look up—and up—at him.
Whuh. He was . . . hot. Like, pull-the-fire-alarm, jaw-dropping levels of hotness. A fine layer of dark scruff covered a square jawline. Even the cut and the purplish bruise that split the right half of his lower lip didn’t detract from his face, because his eyes . . . wow. Just . . . wow. Those crystalline baby blues stole every word out of my head.
And now I was staring, and not the cute, flirty glances Serena would have given him while shamelessly asking for his number and inevitably getting it. No, this was open-mouthed awkward staring that I couldn’t seem to stop.
Close your mouth.
Nope, still staring. Staring. Staring.
“Me too,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
I blinked. “Me too,” what? “I’m sorry?”
His brow knit in confusion. “Me too,” he repeated. “I thought that thing was going to smash you in the face.”
“Right.” I tucked my hair behind my ears, only to remember that I’d pulled it up into a messy bun and therefore had no hair to tuck, which just continued my awkward streak. Awesome. And now my face was on fire, which meant I’d probably turned ten shades of red.