Chapter Twenty-Three
Breaker
I have stormed sand-choked opium dens in the Helmand Province and traded fists with bikers who’d murder their own grandmothers for a half-ounce of crank, but not once in my life have I felt as exposed as I do standing in the foyer of Les Lumières, the most pretentious restaurant in a fifty-mile radius of Ironwood Falls.
The place is all glass and dark wood and lighting that makes everyone and everything look expensive, even the napkins.
It smells like everything I can’t pronounce and a few things I’m afraid to try.
My reflection in the brass-framed mirror makes me look like a bouncer who snuck in on a dare.
The hostess smiles, glancing past me to Sparrow.
I get it: she lights up the room like a stained-glass window at sunrise.
Her hair’s hanging in these lush curls, and she’s in this dress that does things to my pulse I’d rather not have to explain to the hostess, or the string quartet playing in the next room.
Sparrow’s eyes are moving a mile a minute, soaking up everything from the starched tablecloths to the way the servers sweep by like they’re on rails.
She clings to my arm, and for the first time in ages, I feel a deep sense of peace — as if I’m just a lucky man out on a date with a beautiful woman.
She looks at me as if I just handed her the entire world.
“That dress,” I murmur, offering my arm. “You’re killing me, Sparrow.”
She blushes, soft pink blooming across her cheeks. “This is… wow, Breaker. I’ve never been anywhere like this.”
“Alessia recommended it,” I admit. “Figured she knows fancy better than I ever will.”
She laughs, delighted. “Good call.”
We reach our table, which is tucked into a cove by these floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the falls outside the city.
I catch Sparrow’s breath — audible, like she’s just been handed a puppy — when she sees the river lit up by white fairy lights outside.
I pull out her chair and she stammers a little “thank you,” which makes my chest ache in a way that is deep, intense, and perfect.
When the server comes for our drink orders, Sparrow orders a glass of red wine.
I consider doing the same, but then I remember who the hell I am. “I’ll have a beer.”
“What kind, sir? We have a local IPA, an imperial stout from Dunkhauser brewery in Portland, and a crisp lager from the La Malpolon brewery in Lavérune, France.”
“Whichever one you recommend. Just bring it to me cold and in a glass.”
The server nods with only the slightest pause.
Sparrow covers her smile with her hand. “Really?”
“What?” I shrug. “Wine feels too… fragile. Beer’s honest.”
“Honest. I like that,” she says, and her grin could light up half the town.
We talk while we wait for food. Easy, gentle conversation. The kind I never knew I could have with anyone. The kind that makes me forget about the ghosts on my shoulders.
Then Sparrow tilts her head, looking at me as if she’s memorizing my face. It’s not the first time tonight, or even the tenth, and each time it happens I feel my insides get rearranged like a bomb’s been set off with surgical precision. I can’t decide if it’s exhilarating or terrifying.
“So… how did you get the nickname ‘Breaker’?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
She leans in, chin resting on her hand. “Tell me.”
“It was in the Marines,” I say. “I worked demolitions. Bomb disposal, breaching, the whole deal.” I take a sip of my beer. “There was this training exercise where you had to defuse a device under a time limit. Record was…” I whistle low. “Damn near impossible.”
She watches me, eyes soft, beaming.
“I beat it,” I say. “By eight seconds.” A chuckle escapes me. “One guy yelled out, ‘Record breaker,’ and it stuck. Became just Breaker after a while. Most Marines can’t handle a four-syllable nickname.”
“You were proud of it,” she whispers.
I nod. “Yeah. Felt good… All of it did. Well, most of it. It felt like I was doing something that mattered. It gave me a sense of purpose. I was keeping these people that I loved safe, protecting them from dangers that they couldn’t see. Making sure they went home.”
Except not all of them did. My throat tightens, my voice cracks on that last word.
Her expression shifts instantly — worry, tenderness, understanding, all flood the beauty of her face.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers.
I shake my head quickly. “Nothing. That’s just… a story for another time.”
She doesn’t push. She just reaches across the table, touches my hand, and nods like she understands everything without me saying a word. After a pause, she draws a steady breath. “Do you really think you can find him?”
“We will,” I say without hesitation. “The whole club’s on it. You’re family now. And we take care of our own.”
Her eyes soften. “I’m looking forward to not running anymore.
” She swallows. “I’ve been running and afraid for so long.
I want to feel safe, and I want a home.” Her lashes lower, and she gazes at me through them in a way that makes my heart swell and makes me want to reach across the table and pull her into my arms. “And I feel lucky that maybe… maybe I’ll get to have that with you. ”
She smiles, sweet and shy and full of hope, and I swear my heart grows too big for my damn chest.
“I’d like that,” I say. “A home. Somewhere, something to share with you.”
“I’d like that, too.”
We talk about lighter things after that; she laughs when I tell her about Ironwood Falls’ weird quirks — the statue hidden in an alley park behind city hall that looks like it’s flipping everyone off, the gas station cashier who calls everyone “Jim” regardless of gender, the mayor’s dog who is responsible for giving birth to at least a quarter of the stray dogs in the county.
“Wait,” she giggles as I regale her with another story. “Tell me about the guy from the diner again.”
I grin. “There’s this old guy who sits in the same corner booth at the Starlight Diner. Comes in every day I do. And every damn time, he winks at me and says I look just like his wife. Who was apparently a 6'2" jarhead with a beard.”
Sparrow bursts out laughing. “Well… you are a very beautiful man.”
I blink at her. “I… what?”
She winks. “You heard me.”
I choke on my beer. She snorts with laughter as I wipe my mouth and mutter, “Unbelievable.”
We finish dinner — mine’s steak; hers is chicken with a sauce that I can’t spell — completely wrapped up in each other, enveloped in the warm, glowing connection that feels like it’s changing something inside me forever.
Outside, the night is cool and crisp. Sparrow loops her arm through mine, and I swear I’d knock out a goddamn mountain just to keep that smile on her face.
“You wanna grab a drink?” I ask. “There’s a bar down the road that’s more my speed. Pool tables, shitty jukebox, the works.”
She grins. It is slow, wicked, and soft. “That’s a nice idea.”
I raise a brow. “Nice?”
“Mm-hmm.” She steps closer, hands sliding up my chest. “But I have an even better one.”
My mouth goes dry. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
She meets my eyes — steady, certain, full of heat.
Take me home,” she whispers. Her fingers curl in my shirt. “Right now.”