Chapter 6
LEVI
Istill couldn't believe she was here.
Amelia Emerson. In Charleston. In my hotel.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
She settled into the chair across from me, spine straight, shoulders back, every inch of her radiating controlled hostility. The morning light caught in her hair, turning the dark strands almost bronze at the edges. No makeup. Sleep-deprived eyes. Cotton shorts riding up her thighs.
Fuck.
My brain tried to stay present—tried to focus on the conversation we were supposed to be having, the fifteen minutes she'd bargained for, the questions she'd promised to ask.
But my body had other ideas.
Because I remembered.
God, I remembered.
The tent had been stifling that night. Canvas walls holding in the heat like an oven, the air thick enough to choke on. I'd told myself I was checking on her because it was my job. Babysitting the journalist. Making sure she didn't wander into something that would get her killed.
Bullshit.
I'd gone because I couldn't stay away anymore.
She'd been sitting on the edge of her cot, field notebook open in her lap, pen moving across the page in quick, angry strokes. Her shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, damp with sweat, clinging to her in ways that made my mouth go dry.
"You shouldn't be here," she'd said without looking up.
"Neither should you."
That had made her look. Her eyes—sharp, assessing, the same eyes that were staring at me now across a breakfast table—had locked onto mine.
"I'm doing my job," she'd said.
"So am I."
"Your job is to keep me out."
"My job is to keep you safe."
She'd set the pen down, slow and deliberate. "Those aren't the same thing."
"Close enough."
We'd stared at each other, the space between us crackling with something I'd been trying to ignore for weeks.
The way she moved through the compound like she belonged there.
The way she didn't flinch when mortars hit too close.
The way she'd looked at me when I'd brought her ice for her water—like I'd done something decent instead of just basic.
"You should go," she'd said, but her voice had softened.
I should have.
I didn't.
I'd crossed the tent in three strides and kissed her.
She'd made this sound—half surprise, half relief—and then her hands were in my hair, her mouth opening under mine, her body arching into me like she'd been waiting for this just as long as I had.
We'd barely made it to the cot.
Her shirt had come off first, buttons scattering. Then mine. My hands on her waist, her hips, sliding down to cup her ass and pull her against me. She'd gasped into my mouth, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Levi—"
"Tell me to stop."
She hadn't.
I remembered the taste of her—salt and something sweet, like she'd stolen one of the candy bars from the mess.
I remembered the way she'd bitten my shoulder to keep quiet when I'd slid inside her, the way her thighs had locked around my hips, the way she'd whispered my name like a curse and a prayer.
Best sex of my life.
Still was.
"Can I start you off with drinks?"
The waitress' voice yanked me back to the present. I blinked, trying to clear my head. Amelia was staring at me. We ordered, then the waitress nodded and disappeared.
I shifted in my seat, willing my body to calm the hell down. My hands still remembered the weight of her ass, the way she'd fit perfectly in my palms. My mouth remembered the curve of her neck, the sound she'd made when I'd—
Stop.
"So," I started, aiming for casual. "How've you—"
She held up a hand. "I'm actually going to hit the buffet before I get nauseous. Jet lag."
She stood and walked away, hips swaying, shorts hugging her in ways that should be illegal.
I followed.
Not consciously. My body just … moved.
She was at the waffle station when she turned back, catching me mid-stare.
"Stop staring," she said.
"I'm not."
Her eyes narrowed. "Levi."
"Fine. I'm staring. Sue me."
She turned back to the waffle iron, shaking her head. But I caught the faintest hint of a smile before she hid it.
Amelia Emerson. Here. In Charleston.
What were the fucking odds?
I grabbed a plate and started loading it—eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, a biscuit. My mind was still half in the past, replaying moments I'd spent two years trying to forget.
We'd met in a desert shithole. Forward operating base, middle of nowhere, temperatures that made hell look like a vacation spot. She'd stepped off the helicopter with a duffel bag, a press vest, and a look on her face that said she'd seen worse.
I'd been tasked with babysitting her.
At first, I'd resented it. Journalists were a pain in the ass—always asking questions, always getting in the way, always writing things that made operations harder.
But Amelia?
She was different.
She didn't complain. Not about the heat. Not about the dust. Not about the sleep accommodations that were barely a step up from sleeping on rocks. The only thing she complained about was access.
And she'd been right.
The Pentagon had promised her access to certain operations, interviews with key personnel, the kind of embedded reporting that was supposed to show the public what we were actually doing out there.
Then they'd pulled the rug out.
Classified. Too sensitive. Operational security.
Bullshit.
I'd seen her fight for it—polite at first, then increasingly frustrated, then outright angry. She'd argued with officers, cited agreements, pushed back with a tenacity that would've gotten most people thrown off the base.
I'd respected that.
So I'd read up on her. Every article she'd ever written. Pieces from Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq. War zones most people only saw on TV.
She was fair. Always. But she was honest, too. She didn't sugarcoat. She didn't sensationalize. She told the truth, even when it was ugly.
That's what had gotten me in the end.
Thinking I'd found a kindred soul.
A hot kindred soul.
I stared at the buffet, plate overflowing, trying not to think about ripping off that sexy fucking T-shirt and slipping inside her right there in front of everyone.
When I got back to the table, Amelia was already seated, coffee in hand, her own plate—fruit, yogurt, a single piece of toast—looking almost comically small next to mine.
She glanced at my plate and her mouth twitched. "Did you save room for dessert?"
I looked down.
Shit.
I looked like a caveman. Two biscuits, three kinds of meat, eggs piled high enough to qualify as a small mountain.
"Fuck it," I muttered and dug in.
She sipped her coffee, watching me over the rim of her mug.
I made it through half the plate in silence, grateful for the distraction of food. Grateful I didn't have to talk. Didn't have to explain. Didn't have to pretend I wasn't hyperaware of every shift in her posture, every time she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Finally, she set her mug down. "What are you doing in Charleston?"
I swallowed a mouthful of eggs. "It's complicated."
"Enlighten me."
I took a sip of coffee, buying time. "Might have a job interview."
Her eyebrows went up. "A job interview."
"Yeah."
"I thought you loved the Army," she said, and there was something in her tone—not accusation, exactly. More like confusion. "I thought you were in it for life."
I laughed, sharp and humorless. "Yeah, well. The last two years or so since you've seen me, I've come to see the Army for what it is. Another bureaucratic morass of wasted talent."
She frowned. "That doesn't sound like you."
Something in my chest tightened.
Disappointment. In myself. For disappointing her.
I shrugged, trying to make light of it. "Maybe I'm just tired."
She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I feel the same."
First thing we'd agreed on.
We went back to eating in silence.
I thought about the first time I'd seen her.
She'd been on the tarmac, helicopter blades still spinning behind her, hair whipping in the wind, a pencil stuck behind one ear. Her eyes had taken in everything—the compound, the soldiers, the fortifications—like she was cataloging it all for later.
I'd avoided her at first. Then my boss had tasked me with babysitting her, and avoidance wasn't an option anymore.
At first, we'd resented each other. She thought I was there to obstruct her. I thought she was there to make my life harder. But then, over weeks, things shifted.
She showed how tough she was—never complaining, never backing down, asking hard questions that deserved hard answers. And I did little things, like bringing her actual ice for her water, making sure she had a seat at briefings, running interference when officers tried to shut her out.
We came to respect each other.
She'd told me about growing up in Canada.
Small town, cold winters, parents who'd supported her even when she'd chosen a career that kept her half a world away.
She'd shown me pictures once—her mom and dad standing in front of a house covered in snow, smiling like they didn't have a care in the world.
I'd thought they were the prototype of what a happy family looked like.
Much unlike mine.
I pushed the thought away, taking my last bite and washing it down with coffee. When I looked up, she was staring at me.
"What?" I asked.
She shrugged. Whether it was the meal or just mellowing out, the hard edges had softened. "I've always wondered where you've been. What you've been up to."
"Same," I said.
Silence.
We both sipped our coffee, avoiding each other's gaze.
Then I thought, fuck it.
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
"Can we pretend?" I asked.
She blinked. "Pretend?"
"Pretend what?"
I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "We're both jet-lagged. In a new city. And maybe …"
I felt stupid saying it. But my body was screaming at me to just ask.
"I want to pretend none of it ever happened," I said. "At least, for right now."
Her expression didn't change.
"And I want to take you to bed," I continued. "One last time."
She raised an eyebrow, that snarky edge creeping back into her voice. "For old time's sake?"
"No," I said. "For now time's sake."
The hostility melted.
Just for a second—just long enough for me to see the old Amelia. The one who'd been tough on the outside but mine on the inside.
She stood up from the table, grabbing her empty mug.
"Breakfast is on you," she said.
She started walking away. Then she paused, glanced back over her shoulder.
"I'm in room 481."
Fuck.
Every muscle in my body screamed at me to follow her. To run after her. To not waste another second.
But the waitress was already heading my way with the bill, and I forced myself to stay seated, to wait, to not look like a man who was about to lose his goddamn mind.
I signed the receipt, left cash on the table, and stood.
Room 481.
I was already moving.