by Geri Krotow
She’d put too much faith into their lifelong friendship. He’d come to her rescue in Paraguay as only Jeb could, with nothing but total focus on saving her. But he hadn’t talked to her since, and she knew she’d pushed him too far. He’d been good with their sexy friendship—they both had. Why couldn’t she have accepted that and not sent that stupid text?
You’d hoped for more.
Yeah, she’d fantasized about them growing into more, why wouldn’t she? She was gone so often on life-or-death missions, it was only natural she’d dream about her future. Jeb was the obvious object of her desires, as he’d always been. She did not need to feel guilty about the I love you text.
But she still did.
They were childhood friends, period. Sexy times aside, Jeb had never signed up for more than that with her. And she had to respect that, move on. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she knew there’d never be another man with such a shared history. Most people moved on from adolescent relationships—she’d just been slower to, that’s all.
But she owed him a thank-you for saving her life, and an apology, a closure for both of them.
Back home from the Piggly Wiggly, she stared at her open refrigerator. Her favorite Greek yogurt was stacked in pretty rows, the banana flavor in front, with cherry vanilla in the back. She couldn’t stop the smile. A full refrigerator said, “I’m home for good.”
There hadn’t been any yogurt while was a captive of the Jardin cartel. Her stomach twisted and her shame and humiliation rushed back, reminding her why she’d quit her eight-year-long career with the CIA. She sucked as an operative. Good undercover case officers did not get themselves kidnapped. Nor, once they were kidnapped and their life was in danger, did they text their childhood friend to tell him that they loved him.
A good agent didn’t contact their childhood friend and ask him to bail her out, which she hadn’t done directly, but, Jeb being Jeb, he’d taken matters into his own hands and had not only contacted the FBI and the State Department, but had also withdrawn a cool fifteen million of her brother’s money to pay her ransom.
Jena winced at the memory of her CIA team leader finding out what she’d done. She’d seen her fate in her boss’s eyes. That she’d already decided to leave the CIA didn’t ease her hurt and humiliation; Paraguay was going to be her last mission without question now. Her opportunity to leave of her own volition had ended the second she hit send on the SOS text to Jeb.
That was over a month ago. She’d spent over a week in the Walter Reed National Military hospital in Washington, D.C., after the Jardin cartel released her; another two weeks of debriefing at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia; an additional week’s worth of medical follow-up for the facial injury she’d sustained; and another three days to cut all ties with her tiny crash pad in Washington, D.C., where she’d stayed whenever a CIA op had come up. Her cover as a Navy Reserve Officer had worked perfectly, and her family and work colleagues in NOLA were none the wiser.
At least she had her dream job in her beloved New Orleans to come home to. She’d earned her degree in social work at LSU. If the CIA recruiter hadn’t approached her on campus during her accelerated master’s program, she’d never have sought out working for a government agency that wasn’t local. She wanted to save the world, and for her, the world was NOLA. No matter how much of the globe she saw, New Orleans was her home. Jena lived and breathed Louisiana and her native city. It was what held her hopes high during the worst of missions, the darkest of nights, fighting for freedom in yet another godforsaken hellhole. Her hand drifted to her cheek, amazed that the stitches were gone, the cut’s scar fading visibly by the day. The military doctors that treated her had used all kinds of magic medicinal and vitamin ointments, minimizing the reminder of her brush with death.
Jeb held your hand through the worst of it.
Yeah, Jeb. He’d been there for her, but he’d never said a word about what she thought was the last text of her life. I love you. What the hell had she been thinking?
That her time on the planet was up, that’s what.
Her undercover work had opened her eyes and her worldview. In the end, it revealed to her that all she wanted from her life had always been here, ever since she was a kid.
Since Jeb had entered her life, when she was eight and he was ten.
Which brought her back to the third item on her want list.
Jeb. She had to find him, apologize. No matter how awkward or uncomfortable it would be for her, she owed him that much. He’d saved her life.
He’d basically ghosted her since she’d gotten back. Not that she blamed him; she’d made him a fugitive wanted by the FBI, if only for a brief time after Brandon had reported the missing funds. She’d used her contacts at the agency to help Jeb return and to ensure no charges were pressed against him. Brandon said he held no resentment over the whole deal. Sure, he said her life was all that mattered, that Jeb was still like a brother to him, that he understood the big picture of why Jeb took the money and ran to Paraguay after finding out she was being held for ransom. But his trust in Jeb had to have been shattered, and it was her fault.
Jeb. She sighed and tried to get her lady parts to chill out. She couldn’t think this way, not if she was going to keep any semblance of pride and self-respect. All she had to do was get through the apology, then they’d never see one another again, save for infrequent family gatherings.
She locked the door of her small rental home behind her, appreciating that the former carriage house was still located in the middle of a very secluded garden. The late August morning sun cast a bright spotlight on the flowerpots, spilling with lantana and verbena, that lined the winding gravel walk. Her phone’s ring broke the serenity and she grabbed it out of her bag, hoping against hope it was Jeb. That he’d finally come back around.
The initial disappointment that it was her brother turned to appreciation that at least he was still talking to her. “Hey, Brandon. What’s going on?”
“Hi, sis. How are you?”
“I’m good.” She still wasn’t used to Brandon checking in on her as much as he had since she’d been back. So had her older brother Henry. They’d been shaken up, understandably, but there was nothing like a little kidnapping to make one’s older brothers realize they still wanted you around. She giggled.
“What’s so funny, sis?”
She didn’t think Brandon would appreciate her dark humor. “Nothing. I’m walking to my car to run an errand.”
“I called to see if you’d like to join Poppy and I for brunch tomorrow, at eleven. We’re putting out a spread. Henry and Sonja are coming, too.”
She wanted to ask if he’d invited Jeb, but it would be too obvious. Even with Jeb going to South America, no one in her family knew about the most recent incarnation of their relationship. And didn’t need to, especially now that it was over.
“I’d love to. Did you invite Mom and Dad?”
“No, not this time. I thought it would be better to not do the Baton Rouge deal and make it just us for now. Things are still tense.”
“I understand.” It would take eons to ease the hurt their actions had caused over the years. “It’ll be nice to spend time with you and Henry, and your women.” She chuckled. “I’ll see you then.”
“Bye.”
Her brothers didn’t know the extent of her “issues” in Paraguay. They thought she’d been the victim of a random drug cartel crime. The front allowed her to keep her CIA work private for now, while explaining the fading but still visible scar on the right side of her face. Once her final resignation papers came through, she could tell them. They’d had enough to deal with on the family front while she’d been away this last time.
Since she’d returned she learned that Henry’s wedding had been called off, which made her very, very sad. No one deserved a happy ending more than Henry and Sonja. They’d put up with so m
uch abuse from Hudson and Gloria, whose racist ways had risen to the surface yet again.
Henry had always made it look like he was in sync with their father’s business plan, taking over the New Orleans law office Hudson Boudreaux founded thirty years ago. Their parents had moved to Baton Rouge after Katrina, much against their children’s wishes. Henry, Brandon, and Jena believed they should stay in their native city, that their father should devote his law practice to helping the disenfranchised victims of Katrina, the vast majority of whom were African-American. Unlike their children, however, all Hudson and Gloria thought about was themselves, and that meant getting out of the city, where another storm and flood were highly probable. Hudson started a new office in Baton Rouge, but agreed to keep the NOLA firm up and running, as long as Henry agreed to attend law school and work at the firm afterward, which Henry did, no questions asked. Henry had told Brandon and Jena he planned to take on more pro bono cases than their father ever had, and to do his part to make up for Hudson Boudreaux’s cruel handling of post-Katrina life.
But then Henry fell in love with Sonja, a lawyer Dad had hired. Sonja was good enough to work at the NOLA firm, in Hudson’s mind, but when the African-American beauty became his son’s fiancée all hell broke loose. Jena’s parents had acted like the asshole bigoted racists they were and proclaimed their dismay to Henry, who shut them down. Sonja was the woman for him, and he didn’t give a river rat’s ass what they thought.
Jena started her car and saw that her fuel tank was on empty. Impatience roared—she really needed to get this thank-you-apology to Jeb over with, like, yesterday. But then she reminded herself that gas only added another, what, three minutes to her journey? After what she’d faced in Asunción, it was child’s play. She let her mind drift again as she headed to the nearest gas station.
Brandon had never even pretended to want a law career, and in fact she’d wondered if he’d leave NOLA and completely sever ties with their parents. Instead, he’d found his niche in naval architecture and had managed to support himself and his employees while remaining estranged from their parents.
Jena had her own run-ins with her parents and their bigoted views. It was the impetus for her move on campus for college, and then her acceptance of the position with the CIA. She couldn’t control her parents’ twisted opinions, but she could get the hell away and contribute to national security—her way of setting her personal boundaries. Love for her parents was one thing, but she could never abide by any racist beliefs.
Jena was relieved when Brandon filled her in on the latest news. According to him, their parents had masterminded having one of Henry’s exes show up at the wedding, which on the surface looked like the reason for Sonja jilting Henry. But it turned out that she’d left for reasons the couple wasn’t sharing with the family. Thank God Sonja had more class and common sense in her pinkie than most folks had in a lifetime. Somehow, she and Henry had made up and were starting over. Sonja was pregnant and about to have the baby, and she and Henry were going back and forth about when to get married for real this time.
Brandon, the middle Boudreaux, had somehow reconciled with their parents during the course of the canceled wedding family implosion and had fallen for a famous former celebrity stylist from New York, Sonja’s best friend, Poppy.
Both of Jena’s siblings were finding a way to mend fences with her parents, on their own terms, from what she understood. If they could do it, so could she, but it’d be slow going. Hudson and Gloria were pieces of work.
Jena shoved down her self-pity over missing so much, not just this last six months, but every overseas mission that had cut her off from her NOLA life.
She was back now, for good. The niggling fear that she’d get a last-minute recall from CIA headquarters was down to a manageable hum. The odds of being asked to come back were slim, especially in light of her unprofessional behavior in Paraguay. Besides, no one wanted an agent who didn’t want to be there. Of course she’d always answer the call to serve her country. But it was time for her to start serving her community full time, as a social worker. Social work was her first love, what she’d always looked forward to sustaining her life after the CIA.
That and Jeb. Their friendship was a nonstarter. She’d blown it and broken the code when she let her feelings come in during her ordeal in Asunción. His lack of acknowledgment of her admission hurt more than the slice to her cheek had. But as soon as she saw his ashen face and knew without a doubt he did not reciprocate, she’d shoved her disappointment down and convinced him it had been the result of being under duress, nothing more, and the way he’d readily accepted her explanation spoke volumes.
She stopped at a gas station, filled her tank. The mundane task soothed and grounded her—a reminder that she was truly home. The only big bad monsters to chase were of the social work kind—placing foster children, helping abused women, finding rehab placement for the fifth or sixth time for the addict who had finally hit their absolute bottom. She’d figure out the where and how after she finished her back-home list.
And apologized to Jeb.
* * * *
Jeb heard the familiar steps outside his apartment door a second before the doorbell rang. Fuck. He’d not counted on Jena showing up here, not when he’d made it so clear he was done with them, done with her. They didn’t have anything to be done with, in fact, besides their no-strings sex agreement, goddamnit.
He wanted to blame Jena, blame her emotions for making this harder than it had to be.
Maybe it’s you.
When he didn’t respond to the bell, soft taps on his door sounded through the small apartment.
“Jeb, please open up. I promise I won’t bite. I just want to talk to you.” Her voice cut through him, and his dick didn’t understand that they were through, that it was wasting its time getting hard.
He could stay quiet, pretend he wasn’t here. How hard would it be? He’d ignored her texts, her calls, her pleading voicemails. Jeb needed space when he was troubled, always had. What he’d been through since Jena’s text that her life was ending at the hands of a South American drug lord was the dark night of his soul. Hell on planet Earth.
Pounding, more solid this time, on the door. “Jeb.”
Hell, she had that tone that meant she’d never leave. Would, in fact, camp out until he relented. And she’d no doubt seen his car in the street.
Damn it.
He pulled the door open and stared at her. Big mistake, as his cock still hadn’t gotten the message that there’d be no more Jena and Jeb sexy times. And it wasn’t only his erection that throbbed for her—his heart fucking ached. Shit.
She blinked her trademark Boudreaux blues at him, one side of her lush mouth lifted in a smile. The other remained flat, and he wondered if it was because of the cut. The scar wasn’t as noticeable as he’d thought it’d be, but it was there, the pale pink reminder of the torture she’d endured. He’d never be able to look at her without remembering that night.
“Thank you for opening up. I know you don’t want to see me, but I had to bring this by.” She held her hands up and presented him with a freezer bag.
He stared at it, then looked back into her eyes. “I don’t need any food.”
Jena rolled her eyes and sighed. “Can I come in, Jeb? It’ll only be for a minute, I promise.”
He stood in place, unable to make his feet move. Seeing her was like it’d always been, but much, much worse. Lethal. Because as he looked at her he saw what he thought he had wanted a month ago: her total agreement that they were through, that they both needed to move on. Anger surged as he remembered the sleepless nights after Paraguay, sorting through his fucked up emotions.
Man up.
He cleared his throat, took a step back, and waved her inside. She stepped into the apartment and he smelled her shampoo, her flowery perfume, her.
“It’s so freaking dark in here! Why don’t y
ou ever put lights on?” She moved to the switch and he found his voice.
“Wait.” His plea scraped against his dry throat. It’d be easier if he couldn’t see her eyes again. Or the pout of her lower lip. Or her Boudreaux nose—prominent on her older brothers but on her, decidedly feminine. Or the way her large breasts emphasized her small waist, how her hips flared under her dress. A perfect ruse to her sex, her sweet, wet hot pussy.
“Here.” He moved to the window and flipped up the blinds.
Jena stood before him, all five-feet-seven inches of her. She was exactly seven inches shorter than him, and infinitely softer. Curvier. He looked pointedly outside at the green treetops, buying time. Because after one look at her it took all his resolve to keep his boundaries.
Only Jena had the ability to turn him on like an expert seductress—which, with him, she was—while also eliciting his most protective instincts. The woman was a fucking goddess.
And his best friend’s younger sister, a sister who’d almost been murdered at the hands of evil men. Never had he felt more helpless than the three hours he’d waited in the US Embassy in Asunción to find out if they’d accepted the ransom and let Jena go.
Damn his erection, which wasn’t going to make this easier. He wasn’t about to explain to her that it was his first hard-on since he’d accepted they couldn’t be together anymore. He’d googled it—he was in some kind of grieving process, according to his symptoms. Sex had been a regular part of his day, from his every thought to his being with Jena. But that was before Asunción, before he’d learned what a pathetic partner he made for her, even as a silent, secret fuck buddy.
Apparently he was moving on, moving out of his grief, judging from the hard-on that wouldn’t quit. Relief would be impossible, with Jena right here in front of him. He had to get her out of here. Fast.
