Chapter Four | Gage #2
I stopped. Swallowed the memory down where it lived most days.
"He didn't make it," Lacey said softly.
"No. He didn't." I focused on my burger, not seeing it.
"And I couldn't save him. Wasn't fast enough, strong enough, good enough.
Just—failed. I hear him joking about the barbecue he was gonna make when we got home.
See his face light up when he talked about his little sister's graduation.
All the things he didn't get to do because I didn't move fast enough. "
Her hand covered mine on the table. "It wasn't your fault."
"Logically, I know that." I turned my hand over, lacing our fingers together. "But knowing it doesn't make the guilt go away."
"No," she agreed quietly. "It doesn't."
We sat there for a moment, her hand warm in mine. She didn't try to fix it or tell me I was wrong to feel what I felt. Just held my hand and let the weight of it sit between us.
"That fear—of failing someone I care about—it's cost me before," I said finally. "Had a girlfriend few years back. She wanted marriage, kids, the whole thing."
Lacey waited, not pulling her hand away.
I traced a water ring on the table with my free hand.
"She was great. Smart, kind, deserved someone who could give her a future.
But I couldn't commit." The words tasted bitter.
"She pushed for it, and I kept pulling back.
Couldn't give her what she wanted when I was terrified I'd fail her.
Fail to protect her, fail to be enough." I looked at Lacey.
"She got frustrated. Left. Found someone who could give her what she deserved. "
"And you don't blame her."
"No. I don't." I squeezed her hand. "She made the right choice."
Lacey was quiet for a moment, and she worked through something I could see playing out behind her eyes.
"So what's changed?" she asked quietly, her eyes searching my face. "Has anything really changed?"
The question hit like a punch to the gut. Direct. Honest. Exactly what I should have expected from her.
I leaned forward, needing her to understand. "I don't want to be a lonely warrior anymore."
"What does that mean?"
"Means I've got my deputies, my fellow veterans, my family. But it's not the same as having a good woman by my side." I let her see the truth. "I need someone who understands. Someone strong enough to walk with me, not behind me."
Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "You think that's me?"
"I see someone who's built a life on her own terms. Someone who doesn't need anyone." I leaned forward. "I'm hoping you'll be brave enough to want someone anyway. To let me in without losing yourself in the process."
She was quiet for a long moment. I could see her working through it, deciding whether to believe me.
Her eyes went glassy. She set down her coffee cup carefully. "Gage—"
"You don't have to say anything." I picked up my burger, giving us both an out. "Just—think about it."
We ate in companionable silence after that, the heaviness lifting into something easier.
She told me about Mrs. Stubblefield's Chihuahua who'd gotten into her lipstick collection and shown up to his appointment looking like he'd been to a salon.
I told her about Dell accidentally pepper-spraying himself during training.
By the time we finished, I felt lighter than I had in years.
Lacey set down her napkin. "I should head out. Sundays are my catch-up day for everything I don't get done during the week."
"Same here. Paperwork doesn't write itself." I reached for my wallet, but she beat me to it.
"I said I was buying," she reminded me, handing Faye her card before I could argue.
Outside, the cold hit us like a wall. I walked her to her vehicle, hands shoved in my pockets.
"Let me cook you dinner tomorrow night," she said. "To thank you. For the security work, for everything."
"You don't have to do that. No obligation, remember?"
"I know." That steel underneath the sweetness. "But I want to."
"Lacey—"
"Please." She looked up at me. "Let me do this."
I studied her face, seeing how much it mattered. "How about a compromise? You let me pick up the groceries and provide the kitchen. You bring the expertise."
"At your place?"
"I'll be your helper. Clean the dishes, chop vegetables, whatever you need." I smiled. "I can't cook at all—live on takeout—so you have no idea how much I'll enjoy a proper home-cooked meal."
Her expression softened. "Okay. Deal." She pulled out her phone. "What do you like to eat?"
"Anything that doesn't come in a paper bag."
She laughed. "I'll text you a list."
She did, about an hour later. I stared at the ingredients—half of which I couldn't pronounce—and headed to the grocery store.
First real shopping trip in months.
Worth it.
***
Monday's appointment with Judge was torture in the best possible way.
Dr. Bev examined the healing shoulder, made notes about continued improvement, and stepped out to check on another patient. The second the door closed, Lacey was in my arms.
"We shouldn't—" she breathed against my mouth.
"I know." I backed her against the exam table, kissing her until we were both breathing hard.
Judge sighed from the floor. Dramatic. Judgmental.
"Your dog is shaming us," Lacey gasped.
"My dog can deal with it." I kissed her again, slower this time. "Tonight?"
"Tonight," she confirmed.
When Dr. Bev returned, we were appropriately spaced, both studying Judge's chart like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
The knowing look on the vet's face said she wasn't fooled.
***
Lacey showed up at my place just after six.
Judge was at the door before I was, tail wagging.
"Hey, buddy." She crouched down to greet him, scratching behind his ears. "Miss me already?"
He leaned into her like she'd been gone for weeks instead of hours.
"Ready to put me to work?" I asked, stepping aside to let her in.
"Let's see what you found first." She headed straight for the kitchen, Judge trailing behind her, where I'd left everything spread across the counter. She picked up the package of capers, eyebrows raised. "You actually found these. I'm impressed."
My house was small—nothing fancy, nothing impressive. But watching Lacey move through the space with that confident ease, I wished I had more to offer her.
"Okay," she said, laying out ingredients on the counter. "I'm making chicken piccata with roasted vegetables."
"Yes, ma'am." I washed my hands at the sink. "What do I do?"
She handed me a cutting board and vegetables. "Would you chop these, please? Not too small—about like this?" She demonstrated with her hands.
I started cutting, and she moved beside me to season the chicken. Our shoulders brushed, and the domestic intimacy of it—standing in my kitchen, cooking together like we'd done this a hundred times—settled something in me I hadn't known was restless.
"You're good at this," I said as she worked.
"I love cooking." She glanced at me, vulnerability flickering in her expression.
"But past guys—including my dad—seemed to expect it of me.
Like it was something I should do because I'm female, not because I chose to.
" She paused, focusing on the chicken. "It took the joy out of it.
I stopped making the things I loved because no one even noticed the time or care I put in. "
"I notice."
She looked up, and something shifted in her eyes. She touched my face, leaned up to kiss my cheek. "It's nice to have someone to cook for again. Someone who understands what it means to me."
I was beginning to understand her better. The gentle way she handled animals, the patient guidance she gave her students, the love and care she poured into this meal—she was a nurturer at heart, a caretaker.
Those were gifts, and she deserved someone who saw them. Who saw all of her.
We worked together, falling into an easy rhythm. She directed, and I followed. When she needed something, I handed it to her. When the pan needed stirring, I took over while she prepped the next step.
Judge stationed himself by the stove, hoping for scraps. He'd positioned himself between us like he belonged there. Like he'd already decided Lacey was part of his pack.
"Your dog is shameless," Lacey said, laughing as he gave her his best pitiful look.
"He knows a soft touch when he sees one."
"I'm not a soft touch."
"You're petting him right now."
She was. "Fine. I'm a soft touch for dogs."
"Just dogs?"
She looked at me, and heat flared between us. "We'll see."
Dinner was incredible. The chicken was tender, the lemon-caper sauce bright and rich—better than any restaurant I'd been to in Fort Worth.
I'd started a fire in the small fireplace that afternoon. Now it crackled in the background, casting warm light across the room. Outside, the January darkness pressed against the windows, but in here it was warm.
We took our time with the meal. I'd opened a beer for myself, poured her a glass of white wine I'd picked up at the store.
We ate at my small table, Judge begging between us, and talked about everything and nothing—her week at the clinic, a call I'd handled about loose cattle, the way the stars looked different out here than they had overseas.
"This place is small," I said eventually, looking around. "Two bedrooms, though the second barely fits a desk. Yard's too small for Judge to really run."
"It's yours, though," she said. "That matters."
"Could get something bigger." I watched her face. "Haven't had a reason to."
After dinner, we cleaned up together. She washed, I dried. When the last dish was put away, she turned to me. Her eyes were dark, and I could see her pulse beating in her throat.
She reached up, fingers curling into the front of my shirt, and kissed me.
I pulled her closer. "Lacey—"
"Take me to bed," she whispered against my mouth.