Man in Black

Chapter 4

Black Knights Inc.

The steam that rose around Eliza was so heavy and thick she could barely see the shampoo bottle in the steel caddy hanging from the showerhead. The clouds of water pressed in on her like hot, wet hands, sticking their waterlogged fingers down her throat and filling her lungs with their stifling humidity.

She didn’t reach for the faucet to adjust the temperature, however.

She needed the heat. Needed it to seep into her bones because she couldn’t shake the cold that’d settled in her core. Needed it to scour Charlie’s blood from her skin, from her hair, from the inside of her nose because it was all she’d been able to smell since regaining consciousness. Needed it to steam away the memories…the guilt.

That last part was wishful thinking, of course.

There wasn’t enough water in all of Chicago to purge the horror she’d witnessed. Wasn’t enough on the whole planet to wash her clean of her regret and remorse.

She didn’t know where her tears ended and the water pouring over her head began as she dully watched the red whirlpool circle the drain. Figured it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things since both were getting the job done.

With the help of her bodywash and a good scrubbing with her loofah, it wasn’t long before the spiraling pool at her feet ran clean, all the evidence of the night’s tragedy on its way to the city’s sewer system.

Just that easy.

She laughed humorlessly.

Nothing about this was easy. Nothing was going to be the same. She wasn’t going to be the same.

Like water when it became ice, she’d retain the same molecular structure she’d had before, but she’d be irrevocably altered. Changed.

She could already feel herself growing harder. Colder.

Cold in places the blistering water and searing steam couldn’t touch.

Lathering her hair with shampoo, she winced when her fingers hit the lump on her temple. Pain rolled around the sides of her head and radiated into the back of her skull. And maybe she was a glutton for punishment because, after leaving the swelling behind, her hand automatically sought out the bruise on her cheek.

The instant her probing fingertips landed on the contusion, she cried out. Even the slightest pressure made her eye socket feel like it was ready to explode and send her eyeball blasting out of her head like a cannonball.

“Stop it,” she scolded herself. “You’re crying because your head hurts? Because your face hurts? Imagine what Charlie must’ve endured. What he must’ve…” Her voice broke. “What he must’ve suffered,” she finished, her brain conjuring up the image of his bullet-riddled body, the obliteration of his beautiful face.

The grief that slammed into her then was enough to drive her to her knees. She had no idea how long she stayed that way, a supplicant to the sorrow that blew through her as fierce and as cold as the Nor’easters that came down from Canada in the winter and turned the city into a block of ice. All she knew was that by the time her tears dried up, her fingertips were wrinkled like raisins.

Enough,she scolded herself. Although, it was her father’s voice she heard in her head when she continued. You’re being self-indulgent. Get it together. Pick yourself up.

Her first attempt at standing ended with her knees giving out on her, forcing her to pitch forward. For a few moments, she remained that way, letting her head hang between her shoulders, letting the harsh spray beat down on her hips and legs. Then she took a deep breath and tried again.

With the help of the edge of the tub, she managed to shove to her feet. But it felt like her muscles were made of mashed potatoes.

Closing her eyes, she mustered what energy she could to rinse the shampoo from her hair. Nope. It’s a mistake to shut my eyes,she thought when the image of Charlie’s smiling face as he’d slipped the ring on her finger projected itself onto the backs of her eyelids.

Would he have proposed had he known what was in her heart? And if he’d known what was in her heart, would he still have chosen to take the bullets meant for her?

She’d never know the answers. The only man who could give them to her was growing stiff in the city morgue. And it was all so senseless. So useless. So…awful.

The guilt rose inside her like a knife that sliced through bone and viscera. It tried to drive her to her knees again. But she gathered the last of her reserves and switched off the spray.

With one towel wrapped around her body and another curled around her head, she shuffled across the cool tile before stopping in front of the sink. The mirror was foggy. She swiped a hand over the glass and then immediately wished she hadn’t.

Her reflection showed the bruise on her cheek was a deep purple that faded to angry-looking red around the edges. The swelling at her temple was still the size of a golf ball. And the look in her eyes was one she’d never seen on herself.

She’d seen it on her guys a time or two. When they’d come home from a particularly harrowing mission.

“The thousand-yard stare,” Fisher had explained when she’d commented on the phenomenon. “The look of a man who’s seen too much.”

Her gaze skittered away from the mirror. Not because she couldn’t stand the sight of the swelling or the bruises. But because of that look.

As much as the cold that’d settled in her center, that look told her there was no coming back from this. There was the Eliza who’d existed before this night. And there’d be the Eliza who existed after.

As soon as she stuck her electric toothbrush into her mouth, she knew the endeavor was a no-go. The buzz was too much for her throbbing head. She had to switch off the device and do things the old-fashioned way.

Nothing but elbow grease.

Which was fine. There was something comforting in the repetitive motion. Something reassuring about completing such a mundane, everyday task.

She concentrated on scrubbing each tooth one by one until she’d gotten them all. And by the time she rinsed her toothbrush she felt almost…well…not normal. What even is normal now? But she no longer felt like she might shatter into a million pieces if someone breathed too hard in her direction.

The locket her mother had given her caught her eye. It was her most prized possession and lay curled in the crystal soap dish she used to hold it while she showered. Instead of gleaming bright and pure, however, the links of the chain were caked with blood. The delicate filigree etched into the face of the locket acted as tiny channels that’d collected the awful stuff.

It felt like an affront to see something so precious fouled by the terrible evidence of the night’s brutality. She set about scrubbing the necklace with a vigor she wouldn’t have thought possible given her mashed potato muscles.

Only once she was satisfied not a speck of blood remained did she carefully dry the necklace and then slowly open the locket. The instant she saw her mother’s face, she experienced a pang of familiar longing.

She pined for the support of the woman who’d nursed her through childhood illnesses. Yearned for the kind of guidance that could only come from someone who’d known her her whole life—knew her better, perhaps, than she even knew herself.

But that’s not true, is it? she thought joylessly.

Her mother hadn’t known her her whole life. In fact, her mother hadn’t even known her a quarter of it.

Athena Meadows had died two days after Eliza’s seventh birthday.

Thirty-one…

That’s how old her mother had been when her private jet suffered a catastrophic failure and crashed into the Atlantic Ocean off Cape Cod.

Thirty-one…

That’s how old Eliza would be in just five short months.

Her eyes roamed lovingly over the tiny photo held secure in the locket. She analyzed features she knew as well as her own.

Some of them were her own.

She had her mother’s tilted eyes and wide mouth. They shared the same black hair and slightly lopsided grin. But where her mother’s nose had been short and pert, Eliza’s was long and straight. Where her mother’s face had been round and smooth, Eliza had inherited her father’s square jaw and cut-glass cheekbones.

Eliza was pretty. That wasn’t a humble-brag. It was simply the truth. She had symmetric features and a thorough skincare routine. But Athena Meadows? Oh, Athena Meadows had been drop-dead gorgeous.

The snippet of the Wordsworth poem Fisher had quoted the first time she’d shown him her mother’s picture rang in her head.

“Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair.”

The man couldn’t boil a pot of water without it bubbling over or make himself toast without burning it to a crisp. But he could quote Plath and Whitman as easily as if he were reciting his own social security number.

She loved that about him. Loved most things about him if she was being honest.

Not that he was perfect by any means.

He had no sense of fashion. His wardrobe consisted of well-worn Levi’s and a revolving assortment of plain black T-shirts. He had the palate of a thirteen-year-old boy, his favorite foods being chicken fingers, Hot Pockets, and Uncrustables. And he had this weird habit of pronouncing Wednesday phonetically…wed-nes-day.

No, he wasn’t perfect. He was a human and therefore flawed.

But he’s perfect for me, she thought dejectedly. And knowing he’d never choose her was a singular sort of heartache she’d have happily gone her whole life without experiencing.

As if thinking of him conjured him up, a gentle rap on her bedroom door was followed by the sound of his deep, warm voice. “Ya doin’ okay in there, Liza?”

Liza…

He rarely used her nickname. A shame since it sounded so right in his mouth.

Gritting her teeth, she fitted the locket around her neck and then peeled the towel from her body before giving her hair a quick dry. Slipping on the fluffy lavender bathrobe she kept on a hook behind the door, she cinched the belt tight while padding across her bedroom.

With her hand on the doorknob, she took a deep breath.

It was difficult hiding her feelings from Fisher when she was in full control of her faculties. It was going to be nearly impossible now that every nerve ending in her body felt raw and exposed.

The memory of the day they met crystallized in her mind.

She’d walked through the front gates of Black Knights Inc. filled with nervous jitters and with her father’s words ringing in her ear. “You’re the president’s eyes and ears with this crew. Don’t let her down. Don’t let me down.”

Of course, every thought had fallen straight out her head when she’d spied the man pacing in front of the garage doors.

His hair had looked light brown until he’d stood in direct sunlight. Then the rays had glinted off the lighter strands and turned him into a blond god. His long legs had been encased in denim that’d showcased the muscles in his thighs and the high, tight curve of his ass. And his mouth…

She’d been struck dumb by the remarkable beauty of his mouth and had since determined it was the mouth of Tom Hardy and Brad Pitt’s love child.So firm and full and perfect. With a cupid’s bow that looked like it’d been carved into his face by a master sculptor and a plump bottom pad that invited the nip of her teeth and the lick of her tongue.

He’d been humming softly to the baby in his arms. And the smile he’d flashed her when she’d stopped next to him had been so bright and blinding, she’d simply stood there and blinked.

He’d introduced himself and little Hazel, the daughter of Boss and Becky Knight, and his deep, Southern drawl had sounded like a song she knew was going to be her favorite from then on. Oh, and something magical had happened in her stomach.

There’d been a fluttering sensation, both delightful and sickening.

Butterflies,she’d realized with a start. She’d never truly experienced the sensation until that day.

She’d been experiencing it every day since.

Each time he smiled at her.

Each time he bickered with her.

Each time she had to pretend to be annoyed with him when the truth was she yearned for him like she’d never yearned for anything or anyone in her entire life.

“You’re not passed out on the floor with a brain bleed, are ya? Do I need to bust down the door?”

The sound of his voice, so close, had her jumping and quickly turning the knob to throw open the door. The hallway light blazed into her room, causing his tall shadow to fall over her.

There they are. Right on cue. Those damned butterflies.

“I’m okay,” she assured him. “Thanks for checking.”

His hazel eyes looked brown in the artificial light, but she knew they flashed pirate’s gold in the sun. And like a pirate, he’d stolen her heart.

His daring and bravery and uncompromising dedication to his teammates had been unlike anything she’d known before. And if that’d been all there was to him, she probably would’ve grown to admire and respect him just like she’d grown to admire and respect the rest of her guys.

What’d made her heart go pitter-pat, and what’d ultimately allowed him to abduct the damn organ completely, was his wit and whimsy. The way he could be equal parts strong and soft. How he never made her feel small or less-than, because even when he was teasing and tormenting her there was always an undercurrent of good-hearted admiration in his words.

In short, Fisher was generous and genuine, steadfast and true. The best example of a legitimately good person that she’d ever had the honor to meet.

Now, she watched his eyes as they tracked over her face, lingering on the swelling at her temple and then fixing on the bruise on her cheek.

“I know.” She gave him a baleful glance. “It looks awful. And believe me when I tell you, it feels worse than it looks.”

The string of curse words that tumbled out of his mouth were so scorching she wouldn’t have been surprised to turn around and find her curtains had spontaneously combusted. He finished the litany with, “Welp, there’s only one thing to do then.”

She lifted the eyebrow on the eye that didn’t feel like it had its own heartbeat.

“Get ya tucked in,” he finished. His Southern drawl somehow drew out the four syllables into about six or seven. “Like that wet-behind-the-ears doctor said, sleep is the best thing for ya.”

When he stepped over the threshold, she stumbled back. And when he cupped a hand around her elbow to steer her toward the bed, it was enough to send those silly butterflies into a frenzy.

Four years.

They’d been colleagues for four years. Working together. Living together. And certainly arguing together—their arguing was legendary at BKI. But in all that time, he’d never stepped foot inside her bedroom.

Sure, he’d leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb to talk to her on a handful of occasions. Sure, he liked to drive her wild by grabbing the top of her doorframe and leaning into her room to wish her a good night—the move always made the hem of his T-shirt ride up so she got a nipple-tightening glimpse of his love trail. And sure, he’d sat outside her closed door to keep her company the time she’d come down with the flu two days before they’d been scheduled to fly out on an important assignment.

Quarantining herself had been the only sane thing to do. When she got sick, it was an inconvenience. When they got sick in the middle of a mission? It could mean the difference between life and death.

But now he was here. In her sanctuary. The place where she’d held her breath and listened for the slightest sound he made. The smallest cough or the quietest snore.

Had she mentioned his bedroom was right next door?

For four years, she’d roomed next to the man who’d won her over a little at a time and then all at once. For four years she’d slept with her head only a few feet from his because their beds backed up against the same wall. And for four years she’d sat in the velvet armchair pushed into the corner anytime she heard him playing his harmonica.

She could always guess his mood from whichever song drifted in through the thick, brick wall. If he was sad, he went for the blues, Billie Holiday or Eric Clapton. If he was happy, it was Taylor Swift. Every time. And when she heard him break into “The New Romantics”or “Lover,” she couldn’t help smiling to herself.

There was something endearing about a big, bad, fighting man being a Swiftie.

“You’re in my room.” The words tumbled out of her mouth without her permission.

“Is that okay?” There was hesitation in his face. He hastily dropped his hand from her elbow, and his touch left behind a warm spot that she wanted to cover with her fingers and hold onto forever. “Looked like ya were ’bout to fall down. I reckoned the closer we were to your bed, the better.”

Bed.

He was in her room and he’d said bed.

Worse, his eyes drifted over to the bed in question, and she wondered if he could sense the fantasies she’d had about him while lying right there.Were there psychic vibrations left over from all the times she’d quietly pleasured herself while thinking of him as he lay in his own bed only a few feet away?

To distract him—and herself—from the way the air around them seemed to thicken, she glanced at the drink in his hand. “Hot chocolate? In July?”

He passed her the mug. She realized her fingers were blocks of ice when the warmth seeping through the clay made her frozen bones ache.

“Shock chills ya to the bone,” he said. “It’s a kind of cold no one can understand unless they’ve experienced it themselves.”

He knows about the ice in my core.

Well, of course he did. He was Fisher Wakefield. A big, bad fighting man with a heart of gold and enough empathy to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

That was another thing she loved about him. His work all these years hadn’t hardened him. He wasn’t quiet or stoic like Graham or Hewitt. He was still softhearted. Sensitive.

When a lump formed in her throat, she forced herself to swallow it down. She couldn’t let him know how vulnerable she was. If she did, he’d take her in his arms. And once she was there, she’d never want to leave.

Self-preservation had her falling back on their tried-and-true method of communication.

“Did you make this or…” She curled her top lip and eyed the hot chocolate with suspicion.

His frown was severe. When he crossed his arms, the sleeves of his plain black T-shirt stretched tight around his biceps. “No. That’s Britt’s handywork. And stop lookin’ so relieved. I can make hot chocolate.”

She’d brought the mug halfway to her lips, but that had her lowering it again. “Um, correct me if I’m wrong. But didn’t you dump half a bottle of vanilla extract into the pan the last time you tried to make my recipe?”

“Your recipe didn’t say how much vanilla extract to add. It just said vanilla extract.” He made air quotes. “So I measured with my heart.”

She rolled in her lips to keep from laughing—the stuff had been undrinkable. In the next instant, however, her conscience reminded her of the man who’d wanted to be her husband had died saving her life. Which meant she had no business laughing.

Once again guilt slammed into her. It was more than her mashed potato muscles could take. They threatened to give up on her entirely.

“Whoa.” Fisher cupped both her elbows when she wobbled. He carefully lowered her to the side of bed and then took the steaming cup of hot chocolate from her to set it on her nightstand.

When he sat down beside her, the mattress depressed under his weight. She slid toward him until they were shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.

They’d never been the touchy-feely sort of coworkers. Or maybe it was more accurate to say she’d never been particularly touchy-feely with him. The truth was, touching him a little only made her want to touch him more.

There’d been a brief period, however, after he’d shared a painful truth about a mission in South America, when they’d expanded the boundaries of their relationship and shifted from being simply coworkers and sparring partners to being…well…friends.

During that time, he’d taken to throwing an arm around her shoulders or nudging her chin with his knuckle. But it’d all come to a stop as quickly as it’d started.

Had he regretted telling her what had happened on that fateful mission? Had he decided he preferred her feigned animosity to her friendship? Had she said or done something to make him change his mind about the amended nature of their association?

It was a mystery she’d never solved.

But as she felt his body heat seeping into her, warming parts of her the hot shower hadn’t been able to touch, she admitted she’d missed being close to him.

When she leaned her head on his shoulder, he stiffened and she feared he’d pull away. But to her relief, his heavy arm came around her shoulders and his fingertips left five perfect indents in the soft material of her robe when he squeezed her tight to his side.

She hadn’t realized how much she needed a hug until it happened. And despite thinking she’d cried out all the tears she had, more spilled over and ran down her cheeks.

“Sorry,” she whispered, using her sleeve to mop up the mess.

“Nothin’ to be sorry ’bout.” He squeezed her shoulder again. “Given all you’ve been through tonight, all you’ve lost, I’m gobsmacked you’re not a puddle on the ground.”

“Gobsmacked.” She sniffed pitifully. “Does everyone from Louisiana talk like you?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “The Cajuns mix in all this funny-soundin’ French. Folks from New Orleans have this weird accent that’s all citified, like they were raised somewhere up around Boston. And don’t get me started on the Creoles.” He hooked a thumb toward his chest. “But folks from my neck of the woods sound like our neighbors to the north and east, like people from Arkansas or Mississippi. Country to our cores.”

“I’ve always liked it,” she admitted quietly, squinting at the light given off by her bedside lamp. Even its low glow felt too bright for her concussed brain. “It’s very charming.”

“Good lord.” He grabbed his chest like his heart might try to escape the confines of his rib cage. “Was that a compliment?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t act like it’s the first time.”

He gave her the side-eye. “Name one nice thing you’ve ever said about me.”

You’re thoughtful. You’re quick-witted. You’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“You play a mean harmonica.” She mentally patted herself on the back for coming up with that answer so quickly.

Her sense of accomplishment was short-lived when he rolled his eyes. “Pfft. That’s not much of a compliment since I’m the only harmonica player you’ve ever known.”

“You never forget to put your dishes in the dishwasher. Unlike Sam. I swear that man thinks a dish fairy lives in the cupboards and it’s her sole job to wash his dirty dinner plates.”

“Big whoop. So I clean up after myself. What a mean feat for an adult.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Where’s my gold medal?”

“Okay.” She scowled at him. “You have excellent taste in poetry and an amazing ability to find the perfect line or stanza for just about every situation.”

“Wish I could say I started learnin’ poetry ’cause I love it. But once I joined the Special Forces, I was surrounded by guys who had fancy degrees. Seein’ as how I managed to graduate high school on a wing and a prayer, I figured if I didn’t want to get handed all the grunt work, I had to trick my teammates into thinkin’ I had more than two brain cells to rub together. No one thinks you’re dumb when you’re quotin’ Whitman.”

She blinked at him. “Lack of education doesn’t mean lack of IQ, Fish. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

His eyebrows arched up his forehead. “Comin’ from a woman with a whole bunch of fancy degrees, that’s sayin’ something. Thanks, doll face. That felt like a compliment.” He slid her a sly grin. “I’m assumin’ the knock to your noggin’ is to blame for this sudden change in personality.”

She chuckled and then immediately remembered that nothing should be funny.

A sob caught in her throat and she blinked up at the ceiling, trying to stop the tears before they could start. Or…restart.

It was a useless endeavor. They spilled over and landed on the lapels of her robe.

“Wish like hell there was a way I could take this pain from ya.” His voice was low and rumbling.

Later, she would blame shock and exhaustion for what happened. But in that moment, all she could think was that she needed him.

Needed his strength.

Needed his comfort.

Needed to feel something other than horror and guilt.

Throwing her arms around his neck, she pulled him close. So close she could feel the heavy beat of his heart against her breast. So close she nearly crawled into his lap.

She wanted to crawl into his skin. Maybe if she was sharing his skin, she’d be warm again. Be strong again. Be able to go five minutes without dissolving into a blubbering mess.

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then both arms came around her and nothing had ever felt so right.

“Tighter,” she whispered, her tears making her throat sound full. “Hold me tighter, Fish. Hold me as tight as you can so I don’t break apart.”

“I got ya.” His lips moved close to her ear. She could feel his warm breath blowing the damp strands of her hair. “And I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. But you’re goin’ to get through this.”

“It’s not fair. Why am I the one who’s alive? What did I do to deserve to be here when the others aren’t? When Charlie isn’t?”

“Survivor’s guilt is a thing. That’s why we have a name for it. But a mind full of guilt is a mind full of spiders. I wouldn’t wish their bite on anyone. So ya got to let ’em go. There’s no shame in bein’ alive. There’s never any shame in bein’ alive.”

“But Charlie…” Her voice broke on the name. “He was such a good man. He should be the one here now and?—”

“Nope.” He squeezed her tighter. But not to keep her from breaking apart. He did it to stop her from talking. “I won’t hear another word like that. You’re the kindest, bravest, smartest woman I know. Charlie was lucky to have ya. And that ring on your finger says he knew it as well as I do.”

She screwed tight her eyes, heedless of how it made her bruised cheek hurt. “If you’d known Charlie, you’d know he deserved?—”

She couldn’t say the rest out loud. So she only thought it.

He deserved so much more than me.

“It’s not about who deserves what. There’s no rhyme or reason for who fate chooses to take or spare.”

“He’s dead.” Even though she’d repeated the phrase dozens of times in her own head, it was the first time she’d said the words out loud. “Charlie’s dead.”

“I’m sorry as I can be for your loss.” He ran his hands up and down her back. Up and down in a hypnotic rhythm that turned her bones gelatinous.

Jell-O bones to match my mashed potato muscles,she thought a little deliriously.

His aftershave had worn off since he’d applied it that morning. But she could still detect subtle hints of it. It was masculine and earthy, with smoky notes like a fine Scotch.

Up and down. Up and down. His palms were wide enough to span her waist. His calluses occasionally snag on the terry cloth of her robe and her mind automatically conjured up fantasies of what it would be like to feel those big, worn hands running over her bare skin.

Had he heard the way she suddenly gasped?

Did he feel her heart pick up tempo?

Could he tell she was turning to liquid in his arms?

She used the excuse of having to tighten her belt as a reason to push out of his embrace. She spent longer than necessary getting the job done. Not because her hands were shaking—although they were—but because she needed the extra seconds to school her features. To wipe the hunger from her expression.

If she had thought she felt bad about laughing at a time like this, that was nothing compared to how truly awful she felt for experiencing desire.

She knew she must look a fright, because when she finally worked up the nerve to look at him, Fisher winced. “I should’ve brought up a steak for that bruise.” His finger moved over her injured cheek. His touch was so light she felt no pain.

“Are you saying you want to put your meat on my face, Fish?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

One slashing eyebrow arched over his forehead, and she was suddenly glad for the bruise. It helped hide the blush that crept into her cheeks.

“How much pain medicine did they give ya at the hospital?”

“None.” She grimaced. “I’m raw doggingthis concussion.”

“So then it’s just your scrambled gray matter that’s got ya throwin’ sexual innuendos my way?”

“It was a joke. That’s what we do. We joke.”

“That’s what we used to do,” he corrected with a raised finger. “Recently we’ve been bickerin’ more than jestin’.”

“And whose fault it that?” She was too tired to question how unwise it was to travel down this particular lane of conversation. “One minute I thought we were becoming besties. You’d chuck me under the chin or throw your arm around me. The next minute you were all irascible and irritating. And you treated me like I was a plague carrier, always staying five feet back.”

He tilted his head and regarded her with a look she couldn’t name. “And ya got no idea why that is?” His voice had dropped an octave, so she felt the rumble of it low in her belly.

“No.” She shook her head, trying not to let him see how that bedroom voice of his affected her. She was glad for the long sleeves on the robe that hid the goose bumps peppering her arms. “Please. Enlighten me.”

“So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay,” he quoted. And then, as he always did, he credited the poet. “Robert Frost.”

She frowned. “Meaning what? Everything is fleeting? Including our camaraderie?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He turned to retrieve the mug of hot chocolate. “Drink up. Doctor Britt’s orders.”

“You know that thing I said about you having the perfect line or stanza for just about every situation? I take it back. That last quote was irritatingly unsatisfying.”

“Drink, Eliza.” He nudged the mug in her hand toward her mouth.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re changing the subject?”

“Probably same reason you’re avoidin’ takin’ a drink of that there hot chocolate. Because we’re both stubborn as mules and neither one of us likes being backed into a corner or told what to do.”

To prove him wrong, she haughtily took a large sip.

The hot chocolate wasn’t hot anymore. At least not temperature-wise. Taste-wise? Oh, taste-wise it was straight fire as Hannah Blue, the purple-haired girlfriend of their resident sharpshooter, would say.

Eliza gulped down half the mug’s contents before sighing and wiping the back of her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t realized how dehydrated she was. Crying was thirsty work.

“Britt added a dash of cinnamon.” The sweet, rich liquid had soothed her throat. She no longer felt like her larynx had been scoured with a bottle brush.

“Did he?” Fisher stole the mug and took a tentative sip.

Her gaze was automatically drawn to the spot where his lips wrapped around the rim. She wanted to place her mouth there the next time she had a drink. It was probably the closest she’d ever come to kissing him.

“Tastes the same to me,” he said with a shrug.

“Says the man who thinks margarine and butter are interchangeable.”

He took another sip and a drop of liquid clung to the line delineating his plump bottom lip. She couldn’t stop her eyes from tracking down to that drop. And it took all her self-restraint not to lean forward and lick it off.

When his tongue darted out to do the job for her, she stopped herself from groaning by dropping her eyes to her duvet cover and picking at a piece of lint.

“Fisher, I?—”

What? What had she started to say?

That he was the reason she’d felt only sadness when Charlie had gotten down on one knee? That he was the first thing she thought of when she woke up in the morning and the last thing she thought of after laying her head on the pillow at night?

That she loved him?

Talk about the cherry on top of this craptastic sundae, she thought with no small measure of misery. I’ve already witnessed a massacre and the brutal murder of the man who wanted to marry me. Why not add in a little rejection too?

Fisher would reject her.

She knew it as surely as she knew her father would have his assistant send her yet another silk Ferragamo scarf for Christmas.

When it came to sexual congress, Fisher had made it abundantly clear he’d be more than happy to be her huckleberry. How many times had he offered her “some horizontal refreshment” or jokingly assured her he’d like to “add his banana to her fruit salad.”

But when it came to love?

Oh, when it came to love, he’d sooner cut off his own balls.

He intended to Hugh Heffner his way through the decades. “I’m goin’ to die old and robed while happily bouncin’ some bird on my lap,” he liked to say.

“Hey.” He bumped a knuckle under her chin. “What is it?”

She hated it when he looked at her like that. She worried he’d be able to see inside her most secret self. See the truth of her. The truth she’d managed to keep from him for four long years.

“I just wanted to ask you how you do it.” She clung to the first excuse that came to mind.

“Do what?”

“Keep going after witnessing such—” She couldn’t find the right word.

Horror? Tragedy? Atrocity? None of them came close to describing the scope of the slaughter.

She didn’t need to finish. He knew what she was asking.

“Ya want the depressin’ answer? Or the flippant one?”

“I’ll take the flippant one,” she decided quickly. “I can’t manage any more bad news tonight.”

“When life’s chewed ya up and shit ya out, ya just got to persevere. Like a piece of corn.”

She blinked. Then she blinked again and shook her head. “I miss the time before I ever heard that sparkling bit of wisdom. You couldn’t have come up with a pithy poem about just hanging on instead?”

His wide grin drew her gaze to his mouth—that wonderful, kissable mouth. And it wasn’t just her gaze that was mutinying. It was her lungs too. When he tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear, she sucked in a soft breath.

“Eliza?” His low, rich voice reached out to her as surely as his hand did. He used his thumb and forefinger to grip her chin and force her eyes to his face. “Do ya want to talk about it? Would it help?”

No. Talking about it wouldn’t help. Thinking about it wouldn’t help. What would help was forgetting about it. What would help was if he made love to her so passionately and so thoroughly that there was no room for thoughts in her head because her entire focus would be on her body.

“I—” The ring of her cell phone made her jump guiltily.

Saved by the bell.