Chapter 2
Adam
How had I ended up in this situation?
How had I become the only person Jo Malcom had shared her secret with?
And then, how had I ended up sitting at her tiny table in her postage stamp of an apartment brainstorming plot points for her upcoming romance novel?
How had I put myself in a situation that made me want to do anything this woman asked of me when I knew what I needed to do was stay far, far away from her?
It started out innocently enough. Really, it had all been innocent and coincidental.
First, I happened upon her typing furiously on her laptop at the store. She’d been wildly flustered and clearly hadn’t wanted to talk about what she’d been working on, like she’d been caught doing something bad. I’d even worried she might go into a panic attack in front of me—the way she blanched and her eyes grew wide were a telltale start to the beginning of something bad.
It had struck me as odd. She didn’t seem the type to be doing anything actually sketchy. But, fine. I was still getting to know her at that point. We might’ve loosely been called friends if you were one of those people who claimed anyone you’d known for a while as a friend. Kenny was like this—he knew someone for five minutes and they were friends. But he had an ease with people, much like Bruce, that I didn’t.
Granted, I had a little more social fluency than Tristan and certainly more than Beast or Dorian.
Point was, I never would’ve expected to become her confidante. In fact, from the moment we’d met, I’d hoped Ethan would become a lot more of that. They’d be so good together. He was a hard worker and had always dreamed of having a family of his own, just like Jo. Well, in truth, I didn’t know her exact dreams, but she’d said that first time we met she was a romantic and wanted marriage—perfect for Ethan.
They were both wide-eyed romantics, looking for the shine in life. I’d lost that a long time ago, watching our single mom deal with our deadbeat dad while keeping a roof over our heads. She’d gotten her second chance with our stepdad, but at that point, I’d already graduated and moved out to join the Army. I hadn’t seen her blissful domestic life with our stepdad, who’d been a good guy. E had, so for him, the shine was still there, intact.
Anyway, the way I found out what Jo was really up to—her secret—had happened at the post office about six months ago. I’d been sorting through a stack of junk mail that had unfortunately followed me in the move from North Carolina, when I ran into someone.
Directly into her.
She had practically bounced off me, and everything she’d been holding had fluttered to the ground.
“I’m so sorry,” I’d said, dropping to a knee to help her gather her things.
But this hadn’t been the Jo Malcom I was used to—friendly and wide-eyed and alluring like something cellular in me recognized a reciprocal match in her. This was someone frantic, an echo of the borderline panic I’d seen at the store when she’d been typing, only ramped up way higher. Warning had rung in my head instantly. She’d been grappling for the letters like her life depended on recovering them that instant, like she’d face dire consequences if she didn’t collect them and exit the building in a matter of seconds.
“It’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention,” she’d said as she stood, eyeing the two letters I’d held.
And it was likely because she’d been staring a hole through my hand that I had glanced at the envelope and the name there registered. Josie Wade. Huh.
Maybe she introduced herself as Jo Malcom but she was, in fact, Wade? That hadn’t tracked because I would have remembered that detail. Despite my best efforts, I remembered everything about the woman, from the days she’d worn glasses instead of contacts to the color of her dress six Friday nights ago… all irrelevant pieces of information that meant nothing.
Had to mean nothing.
Her small gasp had drawn my gaze to her, and then she’d snatched the mail from my hand.
My mouth had dropped open because it was so odd and sudden, and my curiosity had instantly piqued.
“Sorry. I just—that’s private.” Her cheeks had darkened in the most intense blush I’d ever seen, and she’d shoved the letters into her bag.
If I’d been a smart man, I wouldn’t have pried. But some idiot remaining brain cell prompted me to say, “Josie Wade?”
The look she’d given me made my stomach drop—anxiety and maybe even fear. Was she in trouble? Witness protection? What was this?
Instincts alight with the need to protect her from whatever was happening, I had grasped her wrist. “Listen, I’m sorry. I won’t put you in danger. Your secret’s safe with me,” I’d rushed to reassure her.
You’re safe with me.
Her lips had parted and her long, dark lashes fluttered, and then she’d grabbed my arm and stomped out of the post office, pulling me behind her.
Not what I’d been expecting, though the urgency had ticked up my heart rate.
“Jo?” I’d asked, because what else could I have done? I’d spent most of my life around men, and I hadn’t been particularly fluent with women beyond fellow soldiers and patients. I’d had a few female friends, but they all tended to be on the terse side like Eddie and Jess, and never were they women I’d felt this incessant curiosity about.
Not that it mattered. Curiosity was normal when meeting new people. It meant nothing. Could mean nothing.
She had stopped at a small white sedan and released me by the passenger door. “Get in.”
I’d followed her orders, more than willing to obey and see how I could help or at least make some sense of… whatever this was. She’d shut the driver’s-side door once she’d nestled down into her seat, and I had folded myself up as well as I could considering my large frame hadn’t fit all that well in the two-door sedan.
“Listen. I am going to tell you something no one else knows.” Her voice had shook, and her hands had, too, until she’d clasped them and shoved them between her legs like she needed to anchor herself.
“I’m listening.” This couldn’t be good.
“No. I need you to promise me you won’t tell anyone. Anyone, okay?”
Her brown eyes had held starbursts of gold I’d never noticed because I’d never been this close to her. And close we’d been, not more than twelve inches apart in the tiny front of her compact car.
Instead of waxing eloquent about her beautiful eyes or the pleasing laundry and light floral scent of her, I’d admitted, “I’m not sure I can promise that.”
Her brows had shot down, so I’d rushed to explain. “If you’re in danger, I can help. Saint can help, for sure. And?—”
Her hand on my wrist had stopped me, a stream of buzzing attention flowing from her touch.
“I’m not in danger. It’s not that kind of secret.”
Relief had washed through me, and I’d exhaled. “Okay, then yes. I can promise you I will not tell anyone whatever you need to say.”
She’d nodded and swallowed hard.
“Okay. So.” She had grabbed a water bottle from the center console and gulped down a drink, then straightened her shoulders. “I’m a writer.”
“I figured you might be, based on the writing I’ve noticed.”
She’d dipped her chin. “Yeah. I’m a romance author.”
My mouth had kicked up on one side. “Makes sense.”
With one last exhale, she’d added, “My pseudonym, which no one on earth besides you and my accountant knows, is Josie Wade.”
And then it had clicked. Josie Wade. The name hadn’t been familiar because of her mail. It’d been familiar because I’d seen it in All Booked Up. I’d heard Tristan talking about reading her because his friend loved her and… “Wow. That’s… she’s kind of a big deal, right?”
She had chuckled, seemingly relieved. “No. Not really. I’m small potatoes. But I do have a loyal following. And some of them live here. And, again, no one knows.”
Her gaze, so full of trust in me, had sliced me open. It shouldn’t have felt like something big, not at all consequential, but I had seen the importance of the moment for her written all over—her wide eyes and the tense set of her shoulders. I had felt the gravity of this moment for her, and because of that, it had weighed heavily on me.
“No one will ever find out because of me. If there’s anything I can ever do… just let me know.”
And it was probably that moment that had set us on this path. Because not long after, she’d started asking me small questions about work and how we did things in the EMU when we were active duty. We’d gotten more comfortable with each other and had swapped phone numbers, and suddenly, we’d been thrown together even more when Winnie had married and moved in with Tristan. A few more months and we’d been dancing together at their real wedding, and then the very next night, well, here I sat.
Now nestled into one end of the love seat in her apartment above the bookstore, she sank onto the neighboring cushion and set her laptop on her knees. We’d planned this a few weeks ago—our first concentrated private session for her to generate ideas and help her with the details of a main character I had a lot of personal insight into.
“I have so many more questions,” she said, biting her lip like she could barely contain herself.
I chuckled to cover the sliver of discomfort—the twinge of unease at being this close to her. Or rather, at how much I enjoyed and wanted to prolong being this close to her. We’d started at her table, and then once she’d ordered lunch—something she’d insisted on—we’d moved here.
I wasn’t romance material. Fine, I knew most women could draw the line between real men and fictional ones, and an author especially would be well aware of the differences. I wouldn’t call myself an antagonist or even an anti-hero. I was just… a man who’d been burned enough by life and relationships to have lost the shine—the sparkle a woman looking for a hero would look for in a man’s eyes.
Jo might be looking for this. Even if she wasn’t, she deserved this. Whatever it was that made up the opposite of jaded, burnt, weary…
But I smiled genuinely, because even with all the rest of this mess, Jo was my friend. I wanted to be here. So I spoke honestly. “I hope I have answers.”
And my mind added quietly, I hope you know what you’re doing.