Chapter 15 #3
He rubbed a hand over his face, and for the first time she saw it—the same war she’d been losing, fought from the other side of a desk.
“I picked up the phone to call him more times than I’ll admit under oath.
” His mouth twisted. “And then your article came out. I read it at two in the morning. Three times. It’s good, Britta. I’m so sorry.”
Britta’s tears spilled over. “I forgive you.”
He got up and pulled her into a hug. “I love you, daughter. More than you can ever know.” He put her away from him, met her eyes. “And just to be clear—do not ditch your detail. But you can have some privacy now and then with…well, he is sort of a hero, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Very much.”
He hugged her again, then let her go. “Why are you still standing here?”
“What?”
He walked back around and reached into his desk drawer. Pulled out a folded piece of paper. Handed it to her.
Britta unfolded it. An address. Iowa. Rural route number. Handwritten directions.
“What’s this?”
“West Young’s family farm. In case you wanted to find him.” His expression was neutral. Presidential. But his eyes smiled.
“Can I take the plane?” Britta asked.
“No. Get your own ride.” Then he winked. “But make sure you book two seats for your shadows.”
Britta turned. Chávez stood in the doorway. Nodded at her. Patterson gave her a smile. “We’re packed, ma’am.”
Britta had looked at her father. “Thank you.”
Isaac had nodded. “Go get him, Eva.”
She’d stared at him. Then, well, whatever.
Now, six hours later, she still couldn’t believe she’d done it. Flown to Des Moines. Rented a car (her shadows had rented their own vehicle).
But here she was…parking in front of his mom’s house.
What if he wasn’t here? She took a breath. Glanced in the rearview mirror. No makeup. She’d looked better.
But she felt amazing.
She climbed out of the rental car just as the front door opened.
A woman emerged. Late fifties. Kind face. Flour on her apron. Dark hair threaded with gray.
West’s mother. Had to be. Same eyes.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was warm. Curious.
Britta’s prepared speech evaporated. “I’m looking for West Young. Is this his family’s farm?”
The woman studied her, and then she frowned. “It is. I’m his mother, Linda.” She wiped her hands on the apron. “West isn’t here. I haven’t seen him for a few weeks.”
Oh. Britta went cold.
“Would you like to come inside, Miss White?”
Oh, so she recognized her.
“Sure.” Britta followed her into the house. Hardwood floors. Family photos covering walls. The smell of bread baking. Everything warm and lived-in and loved.
“Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?” Linda led her toward the kitchen.
“Actually—” Britta stopped. Looked out the back window to where the garden plot stretched. Bare soil. Rosebushes in containers waiting to be planted. “It’s exactly like West told me.”
Linda’s expression shifted. Surprised. Pleased. “He did?”
“He said it was your family’s place.”
“Yes. Three generations. I was just getting ready to dig up some potatoes for dinner.”
“Can I…help you?”
Linda turned. Studied Britta’s face. Her expensive slacks and silk blouse. Her styled hair and polished appearance. “Sure.”
Forty minutes later, Britta was covered in Iowa soil.
Her knees pressed into dirt. Her hands—gloveless because she wanted to feel the earth—were caked with mud. Her hair had fallen loose from its clip.
She’d changed into borrowed work jeans and an old sweatshirt. The sun was warm on her back.
Aside from when she’d been at a certain tiki bar in Key West, she’d never been happier.
Linda knelt beside her. Patient. Teaching. Showing Britta how to find the potatoes, as if digging for treasure. How to loosen them from the ground, root around for the right ones.
“We’ll set some aside—the ones with the most eyes—to grow new sprouts, and then replant them.”
They worked in comfortable silence. Birds sang. The smell of earth and new growth rose around her.
Britta had filled up a large bucket.
“You’re good at this.” Linda got up, surveyed her take. “I might put you to work harvesting the entire garden. I store them in the cellar during the winter.” She stretched. “Let’s wash up. I’ll make tea.”
Inside, Britta scrubbed her hands at the kitchen sink. The dirt came off her palms but stayed under her nails. Stained her cuticles. Evidence of work.
She liked it.
Her reflection in the window showed smudged cheeks. Tangled hair. Rumpled clothes.
She looked nothing like the First Daughter who’d stood in the Oval Office that morning.
She liked that too.
Linda handed her a towel. “You’re exactly what I hoped for.”
“What?”
“The woman who stole West’s heart.”
She stared at Linda.
“I read the article,” she said. “I preordered the book.”
Oh. Oh. Her face heated.
“You’re a talented writer.”
Britta’s voice caught. “I love him.”
“That’s clear, honey.” Linda poured tea. “I mean—”
“I like honey,” she said.
“Okay then. Let’s sit on the porch, and you tell me about this book and how you came to meet my son.”
Right.
They sat on the back porch. Talking. Laughing. She told Linda about meeting West—kept out some of the scary parts, but Linda seemed to know them anyway. And Linda told her stories about West growing up.
Oh, Britta liked it here. Didn’t want to leave. But she couldn’t exactly stay when…
A truck pulled into the driveway. Blue. Dusty.
Linda patted her knee. “Well, well, look who showed up. Almost like he has a tracker on you.”
She looked at Linda, then at Patterson and Chávez standing by the house.
What? And then the door opened, and West got out.
And Britta’s heart just…stopped.
He filled the space between truck and porch like he’d stepped out of battle. Six feet plus of muscle and exhaustion and barely controlled emotion.
Rumpled gray T-shirt that looked slept in. Wrinkled jeans. No jacket. And stubble darkening his jaw—more than one day’s growth. Hair falling across his forehead, messy as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours.
The most beautiful man Britta had ever seen.
West’s gaze swept the porch. Found his mother first—Linda’s smile, her knowing expression. Then his eyes tracked left.
And landed on Britta.
He froze. Stared. His chest rose and fell—and then he took off, running.
Toward her.
Linda stood. Her hand touched Britta’s shoulder. Squeezed. “I’ll just go inside.”
She disappeared through the screen door.
Twenty feet of Iowa lawn between them and then he stopped, right at the steps, breathing hard.
Silence. Just West and Britta. (Okay, and her shadows, but they were trying hard to remain unseen.)
Neither moved.
West stared. His chest rising and falling. His hands loose at his sides. His expression—
Wonder. Disbelief. Love.
“You’re here.” His voice came out wrecked. “You came to me.”
Britta nodded. “I came to find you. Because my dad—”
“I just talked to your dad.”
She stilled.
“Okay, that was more like six hours ago, but…it’s still pretty fresh.” He walked toward her.
“Wait—you what? You were in DC?”
“Yeah. We had a little chat about my future.” He indicated the space between them. “Our future.”
“Our future?”
“If that’s what you want.” He finally stepped onto the lawn. Stopped two feet away. Close enough to touch. Not touching.
“I admit, it was a little easier than I thought. I told him I loved you. That I’d wait three years for you, and in the meantime, if he would still accept me, I’d like to join the Secret Service.”
“What?”
“I know.” A shrug that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I had the whole speech rehearsed on the red-eye. Kept waiting to feel trapped—the suit, the protocols, everything that ate my dad alive. Somewhere over Ohio I realized I didn’t.
Turns out when it’s for the right reason, the thing you swore you’d never do stops being a cage.
“Your dad didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he told me the offer was the only interview that mattered. That Frank Young’s son had shown up exactly the way Frank would have.”
“West.” Her eyes burned. “You were going to give it all up. The freedom. The life you built. For me.”
He held up his hand. “Apparently that wasn’t necessary because, as he put it, his daughter had told him she didn’t want to be a lawyer, that she’d taken up writing romance as a profession and was already on a plane to find the man she loves.” He put a hand to his chest. “I think he meant me.”
Then he smiled.
“He most definitely meant you.” She took a step toward him, but he lifted a hand to stop her.
“Except, I’m looking for the First Daughter. Not a farm girl.”
She glanced down at her rumpled clothes, then back at him. “This is me. Take it or leave it.”
West’s eyes darkened. His jaw flexed. A low sound rumbled in his chest—half growl, half surrender.
“Take it.”
He closed the last of the distance. His hands framed her face—rough palms against her cheeks, fingers sliding into her hair. He paused. Just for a heartbeat. Close enough that Britta felt his breath. Saw the green flecks in his hazel eyes. Felt the tremor in his hands.
Then he kissed her.
No hesitation. Just hunger and two months of separation and desperation finally unleashed.
His mouth moved over hers like he was drowning and she was oxygen. Like he’d been dying without this and now he was finally, impossibly, alive.
Britta gasped against his lips. Her dirty hands fisted in his shirt—wrinkled cotton bunching in her grip—and pulled him closer. Closer. Until there was no space left. Until his chest pressed against hers and she could feel his heart hammering.
She kissed him back with everything. Two months of longing.
West’s arms wrapped around her. Lifted her slightly. One hand tangled in her messy hair. The other splayed across her lower back, holding her as if she might disappear if he let go.
The kiss deepened. Slowed. Became less frantic and more thorough. Like West was memorizing her. Claiming her. Promising things words couldn’t say.
Britta tasted salt—tears, hers or his, impossible to tell.
And then it was just them. Just this moment that felt like coming home.