by Mia Sheridan
As I watched her, the words echoed in my own head: Live fiercely and without regret. I must admit, my heart beat with longing to feel such joyful freedom as she described. For I have experienced nothing of the sort. I have known only trappings and rules, and followed the paths others have laid before me, never questioning my own calling in the world.
“What is it you want from life?” Jehanne asked.
The question confused me, for I had never been asked of my own desires. Indeed, I had never dared to ponder such a thing. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “God does not tell me of his mission for me. Only my father does that and with great authority,” I added, not able to disguise the displeasure in my voice. “God does not speak to me at all,” I said, watching my hand make movements in the cool water of the stream.
But Jehanne only smiled. “God speaks to everyone in some way, if you know how to listen.” I vowed to think about that later, for I confess, I do not understand her meaning.
Our conversation turned to lighter matters, and we spoke of the men at camp who are the most insufferable heathens—particularly Captain Olivier Durand, who is the biggest horse’s backside of all—and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much, nor was my heart so grateful for levity. And though I’m almost afraid to say it, I think that in Jehanne I have not only a soldier to serve, not only God’s chosen to follow, but a sister to call a friend.
“She definitely lived a pampered life previous to that,” Ben said. “Maybe Charles the Seventh wanted to protect Jehanne’s virtue by having another girl in the tent? Perhaps their main priority was to have this girl report on Jehanne? That part’s not totally clear.”
I nodded. Ben’s forehead furrowed in thought for a moment. “Why do you think the girl posing as Philippe was directed to dress like a boy, even though the French army knew Joan of Arc was a girl?”
“Probably for her safety more than anything. Joan of Arc was assigned a bodyguard by Charles, but this young girl was not. A woman traveling with an army in the Middle Ages would have faced danger from both the soldiers surrounding her and from the enemy. Joan of Arc herself reported that the saints had told her to dress as a boy to protect herself from the possibility of rape as she carried out God’s mission.”
“Yes, I do remember reading that. There were several men assigned to Joan of Arc in various roles. It would have made the most sense that the male”—Ben raised his hands and made air quotes—“assigned to be closest to her was an unassuming, probably slight, teenage boy. At least as far as the appearance of propriety went.”
“Yes, exactly. I wish all the entries had been preserved so we didn’t have to piece so much together. What is clear is that this girl was directed to do this duty, but seems to have questions and doubts like anyone would.” I smiled. “She and Joan both had a mission, though this girl’s wasn’t exactly in the same league.”
“And hopefully things turn out better for her than they did for Joan.” Ben grimaced.
“I hope so, too.” I paused as I considered the scope of what we were translating. “Without these writings, history would never have known about this girl. It’s fascinating, Ben.”
“It really is.”
We worked for a little longer, and when I leaned back in my chair to stretch my back, Ben looked up. “It’s almost six and I’m starving. Dr. Moreau’s already left for the day, and he gave me the code for the safe. What do you say we pack it up for the day?”
I was hungry, too, and was fortunately at an opportune stopping point. “Okay, sounds good.” I handed Ben the plastic-covered writing I’d been working on, and after gathering his own work, he told me he’d be right back. While he was locking up the writings, I straightened up the conference room, bringing our coffee cups to the coffee station and scooting the chairs in.
Ben and I took the stairs together, entering the back hallway and walking into the lobby. We stopped, chatting and laughing about some of the things we’d needed clarified from the other, namely that I’d mistaken a type of gun for a comb. Ben took my hand, mimicking me brushing my hair and then shaking as the gun went off. I laughed, and he let go, his eyes seeming to linger on someone behind me. When I turned, I saw Callen walking toward us, a bemused look on his face.
“Hi,” I said, my heart leaping.
“Ah, hi.” He ran his hand through his hair, glancing at Ben.
“Oh, sorry, um, Ben, this is Callen Hayes, an old friend of mine. Callen, this is Ben Roche, my coworker.”
They both nodded at each other, and there was an awkward pause. Ben jumped in first. “Well, nice meeting you. Jessica, see you tomorrow.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow.” Ben turned and headed toward the elevator and Callen put his hands in his pockets, looking sort of unsure.
“I was hoping you’d be getting off work about now and you might want to have dinner,” he said, and my heart fluttered at the unusual vulnerability in his stance and expression. Then again, how did I really know if it was unusual? It was strange. In some ways I felt like I knew him based on the recent interviews I’d watched and magazine articles I’d read. But I realized that wasn’t true, or if it was, then the whole world knew him, too.
“Dinner sounds perfect.”
He smiled. “Great. Do you mind if my friend Nick joins us? I dragged him along on this vacation with me, and he’s holed himself up in his room working. I need to make sure he eats once in a while. I made reservations in the dining room.”
I ran a hand self-consciously over my hair. I wanted to freshen up, but I was also hungry, and sitting down with a glass of wine sounded heavenly. I decided to put on my best smile and hope I only looked slightly wilted. “Sounds good. I’d love to meet your friend.” We walked toward the dining room. “So, what’d you do today?”
“Not a lot, actually. I went back into town and walked around, looked through a few shops.”
I glanced at him, and he had a frown on his face. “Not as much fun without me, huh?”
He chuckled. “No. Not even close.”
We turned into the château restaurant, already filled with guests, the delicious smells of rich French cooking wafting in the air and the soft sounds of classical music overlaid by the chatter and laughter of the people dining. A man sitting by the window waved. “There’s Nick,” Callen said, taking my arm and leading me toward him.
Nick stood when we arrived, smiling and holding out his hand to me. “Jessica, nice to meet you. I’m Nick, Callen’s only upstanding friend.” He had light brown hair and bright green eyes that seemed to sparkle from behind his glasses. He was almost as tall as Callen, but much less solid, bordering on skinny. He was cute, and his smile was warm and sincere.
I grinned, glancing at Callen, who had one brow raised. “It’s true. I can’t deny it,” he said, motioning me to a seat and taking the one next to mine.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Nick.”
“Callen told me you’re here on business and you two knew each other briefly as kids and even more briefly as…” He raised his eyebrows.
I narrowed my eyes, not providing the description he was clearly asking for. Two people who kissed in a bar? Strangers who groped each other on a rooftop patio? No, I wanted to hear his version. Clearly Callen had told him something.
“…cocktail waitress and patron,” he finally finished.
I laughed, and Nick did, too. I liked him. “Nice save. Accurate enough.” Grinning, I glanced at Callen, thinking of what Frankie had said. “Yes, fate seems intent on throwing us back together again and again.”
“What’s meant to be will always find a way,” Nick offered.
“Deep. Isn’t that a country song?” Callen asked sarcastically, picking up the menu.
Nick laughed. “Probably.” He eyed Callen’s menu and picked up his own as I took a sip of the water in front of me.
“The, ah, special looks good,” Nick said. “If you’re in the mood for beef in a burgundy sauce.”
“Sounds perfect,” Ca
llen said, setting his menu down. A moment later, the waiter came up to our table and took our wine order.
“So, Jessica, what kind of work are you doing here?”
I explained a little bit about the writings that had been discovered and the connection to Joan of Arc, and then told him about my role as part of the team studying them.
“Wow, being fluent enough in French to translate such important documents is really impressive, not to mention you must be a master at it to do the work you do.”
I smiled, acknowledging the compliment. “I don’t know that I’m a master, but I’ve always been good with languages. I went to a French school growing up, so I’ve been studying it for a long time.”
“Jessie used to translate her French books to me when we were kids.” Callen smiled. I thought back to that, the way he’d listened so raptly, the way he’d seemed mesmerized by the stories. I’d loved watching his enjoyment and delighted in the closeness we’d shared huddled together in that boxcar—our own secret world. The memory caused tenderness to flicker in my chest.
The waiter showed up with our wine, pulling me back to the present, and then he took our dinner order, me the white fish, Nick a chicken dish, and Callen the beef special. “Excuse me,” Nick said, glancing at his phone when a text message came through, making a soft ding. He began typing something in reply, and I took a grateful sip of my wine, sighing as I set it down on the table. This was nice, and I didn’t need to overthink it. What would I have done if Callen wasn’t here? I’d be eating alone, probably in my room, and that would have been okay, but this was better. People had vacation affairs all the time and then went back to their normal lives. Not that I was going to have an affair with Callen, per se, or rather, we might kiss, but it wasn’t going to go further than that…probably…I meant definitely…
“Are you all right?” Callen asked softly, bumping my shoulder with his. I realized I was staring off into the distance, excited nervousness skipping through my body, my mind running away with itself. I crossed my legs, a surprising burst of pleasure making me very aware of what even thinking about getting physical with Callen did to me.
I took a long sip of wine, taking a moment to pull myself back to the present, and smiled. “Yes. Just thinking about today. It was intense.”
“Good intense?”
“Yeah. There’s just so much to do, and we’re all trying to get the work done before the project wraps up.”
He nodded. “The guy with you downstairs, is he a translator, too?” He took a sip of wine and appeared only mildly interested, but his jaw ticked once, and I wondered if he might be a little…jealous? Surely I was imagining things. Of course I was. What in the world did Callen Hayes have to be jealous about when it came to any other man on earth?
“Ben? Yes. He’s the other assistant working under the head translator, Dr. Moreau. His specialty is medieval French weaponry.”
“Sounds smart.” His voice was clipped, and Nick looked up from his phone, placing it back on the table.
“He is…yes. He’s very smart. I’m lucky to be working with him. The whole team is very impressive.”
“Including you,” Callen said, smiling at me.
I laughed softly. “Well, I hope I can keep up.”
“I have no doubt.”
Our food came, and we talked about Nick’s company and how he and Callen had met. I was only vaguely surprised that Callen had been a troubled teen. Even when I knew him, I could see the darkness within. The hopelessness. Interesting how both Nick and Callen downplayed that aspect in the telling of their story. Filling in some of the gaps of Callen’s life had me enthralled, and I listened to it all intently, learning of their initial meeting and of the few hand-to-mouth years before either had achieved any success. Callen was tenacious, a fighter, driven. And I’m sure that contributed to his incredible success.
Callen talked and even laughed, but something seemed to be weighing him down, sort of an underlying moodiness that I’d seen in him years ago as well. That sense I’d always felt when I knew something was wrong but he wasn’t sharing it with me. Now I wanted to ask what brought that troubled look to his face sometimes, or what cast that vulnerable expression in his eyes, the one I was sure he thought no one noticed. And maybe no one did. Well, no one except me. And I thought perhaps Nick as well.
In the light of the dining room, I also noticed that Callen had dark smudges under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept well.
Once our meal was over and the table cleared, Nick glanced at his phone again. “Shoot. I have to go. A client in the States is having a website meltdown.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Callen said.
“Nope. Will you have the waiter put my dinner on my room tab?”
Callen waved his hand. “Yeah. I got it.”
We said our goodbyes and Nick left, so focused on his phone he almost collided with a server carrying a tray of food. I winced at the narrow miss and then smiled over at Callen. “I should get going, too. I’m exhausted and I have another early day.”
Callen moved a piece of hair away from my face, that troubled look back on his face. “Do you have to?”
I stifled a yawn. “Yeah. I do. We could do dinner tomorrow night?”
“That seems so far away.”
“I know. I’m sorry. This job is just…”
“Intense,” he supplied, smiling a tiny smile.
I breathed out a short laugh. “Yeah.”
A frown flickered across his face, and then he smiled again. “I really am proud of you, Jessie…of all you’ve become. You’re exactly who I thought you’d be.”
I smiled. “Thank you. And you, I’m so proud of you, too. Your success is so well earned.”
He shook his head, a grimace skating over his features, as if what I’d said had embarrassed him somehow. It confused me. Surely he couldn’t doubt his own talent? “Thanks, Jessie.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking off into the distance behind me for a moment and then smiling when he looked back. But it didn’t meet his eyes. The waiter appeared with the bill, and Callen signed for it, looking back at me. “I’ll walk you to the elevator.”
“Okay. Aren’t you going up? You look tired, too.”
“Yeah, I never sleep great in new places. I’m going to take advantage of the piano in the ballroom. I’m supposed to be here writing a composition that’s overdue.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. Well, then, I won’t feel bad conking out on you.”
We both stood, walking to the front of the dining room. He took my hand, and we made our way to the elevator and stopped in front of it. The lobby was mostly deserted, but I could hear the voices of the diners down the hall, drifting to where we stood. “Will you text me tom—”
Callen pulled me into a small alcove, cutting off my words as I laughed, but then that died as well when his mouth crashed down on mine, his tongue pressing between my lips as I let out a breathy moan. He responded with a groan, almost pained, and pressed himself against me. My arms came around him, threading into his hair as arousal shot through my veins, fast and hot. Immediate. I’d never felt this kind of sudden sexual excitement and I wanted more. Oh God, I wanted to wrap my legs around his hips, to press into him and feel his skin on mine. I wanted—
Almost as quickly as he’d begun the kiss, he ended it, stepping back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his lips parted and wet from our kiss, and his expression…distressed, or maybe desperate. “Good night, Jessie.”
“Good night,” I murmured, watching him walk away and feeling confused, foggy. Standing against the wall where his body had pressed against mine only moments before, I wasn’t sure what to do. I thought about the way he’d looked as we’d stood at the church ruins the day before and he’d been humming softly to himself: peaceful, happy. And I pictured the way he’d looked only moments before: upset, troubled. Like my broken prince. I suddenly wasn’t very sleepy. I had a feeling Callen needed me. Perhaps his need wasn’t simply physical, but he
didn’t know how to ask for more than that. So he hadn’t asked for anything at all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Callen
I was an idiot. What the fuck was wrong with me?
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
I leaned forward and rested my forehead on the top of the piano where I was sitting in the empty ballroom. Opening my eyes and tilting my head, I brought one finger up and played the melody of “Heart and Soul,” laughing, a choked sound that turned into a groan.
I wanted a drink so badly. But a drink would turn into two and two would turn into six and I’d end up in bed with some random woman whose name I’d never remember two days from now even if my life depended on it. And fuck, the real problem was that none of that sounded so bad now that I was thinking about it. I was so goddamned tired. Without the numbing effects of alcohol and the release of sex, I’d barely slept the last few nights. The oblivion called to me, and I wanted to answer that call, was desperate to shut down the words ringing through my skull.
Useless. Half-witted. Disappointing.
My finger tapped out a natural minor scale, the saddest and most depressing of all the scales. It fit my mood. Hell, it fit my damn life at the moment. Except for Jessie. But she was only temporary, and far too busy to indulge me just because I wanted to spend every waking second with her. But I’d learned long ago that as much as I hated the contrived schmoozing with friends night after night, I hated the silence of my own company more. Too much time in my head. Too much time alone.
Because I was lonely.
I’d spent the day in a state of impatient anticipation. The hours had seemed to tick by as I waited for Jessie to be done with work. I’d even—pitifully—stationed myself in a sitting area with a view to the lobby so I’d see her as soon as she came upstairs.
I’d heard Jessie’s and her coworker’s voices as they approached, animated and full of excitement. For a moment I’d remained where I was as they stopped and discussed things so far over my head, I wouldn’t be able to reach them with a ten-foot ladder. Jessie had broken into French a time or two, and the coworker had transferred easily into the same language, their words volleying back and forth, not only on a topic I would never fully understand, but in a language I’d never grasp with any proficiency.
