by Cat Johnson
“Tomorrow. Seventeen hundred. I’ll send you all the details. Book a room. Stay overnight. Otherwise at that hour you’ll have to fight the traffic getting out of the Capital. Expense it when you get back.”
“Wow. Generous. Thanks, boss.” Grant smiled at command’s uncharacteristic willingness to open the coffers when it wasn’t completely necessary. His commander must have money left to use before the end of the budget year.
His commanding officer laughed. “Hell, this is the biggest operation since the take down of UBL. The rescue team made DEVGRU—not to mention POTUS—look damn good. You should bring the wife. Have a nice dinner in DC and enjoy the night.”
The wife.
Eventually, Grant was going to have to make a move regarding Bethany. His signature could go on the divorce papers, or he could try to salvage the marriage and put that signature on his separation papers from the Navy.
Was the marriage even fixable? Did he want to salvage it even if he could?
No matter what he decided, he’d have to inform command. Either decision was going to mean a change in his status. At the end of all this he’d be an active duty divorced bachelor or a married civilian.
The thought of becoming the latter caused a physical pain in his chest. But the former wasn’t going to be any easier on him.
There was one thing Grant was sure of. He wasn’t going to sign anything today. He needed time alone to think. But he certainly wasn’t in the mood to do that today. Luckily, he had a good excuse not to think.
He was going home to get out his dress uniform for this trip tomorrow—the trip he was definitely taking alone, without Bethany.
That was about all he could handle right now.
Chapter 8
Being safely home on US soil didn’t mean Jen felt safe.
Far from it. Nightmares still plagued her sleeping hours—what few of those there were.
When she did sleep, she woke to a temporary moment of panic until her conscious brain caught up with the reality that she was waking up in her parents' home and not in that hellish camp in Africa.
Good thing she’d sublet her old apartment before leaving. It was a valid excuse to stay with her parents for the remainder of the yearlong lease. She wasn’t sure she’d have been able to be alone.
So for now she slept in the white four-poster canopy bed still in the pink painted room she’d occupied as a child.
That her mother hadn’t redecorated had always baffled her. Now, she was grateful for it. Maybe mother really did know best.
The familiar surroundings and all her old things provided a source of much needed comfort.
But there was one thing Jen had now that she hadn’t had as a child—a boyfriend—and she still hadn't faced him.
She’d been back for a week but had yet to see or even call Brad.
The doctors and counselors that the military and the FBI had surrounded her with immediately after her rescue had stressed that she needed to take things slow. They said she’d have to build up to normalcy. That even being captive for such a short time required a gradual reintegration into society, and apparently “society” included friends and immediate family.
After first hearing all of that, Jen had two thoughts. One, two months certainly hadn’t felt like such a short time as they'd said, and two, there was no way seeing her family could possibly hurt her.
She’d been wrong. Just the first five-minute phone conversation they’d recommended she’d have with her mother and father had exhausted her.
The fifteen-minute face-to-face visit with her parents in the safety of her hospital room in Germany had nearly broken her.
It seemed all the tears she hadn’t shed during her captivity, the hysterics that had been buried by pure survival instinct, had all surfaced with a vengeance.
It was like a floodgate had opened on her emotions the moment that door swung wide and she saw her parents. After all the times in Africa she’d thought she'd never see them again, it was overwhelming to have them there.
That night she’d accepted the sleeping pills the doctor offered.
Post traumatic stress disorder. PTSD. The term was all over her chart and in her counseling sessions. She’d thought only soldiers who’d survived the heat of battle got that.
She’d been wrong.
So over the past week since she’d been back home she’d fallen into a routine and found that any deviations from it caused her anxiety.
Every morning she’d take a long—so, so long—hot shower, because after two months of being filthy she still felt like she needed to get clean.
That was followed by coffee. Scalding hot and very sweet.
Midmorning her breakfast consisted of everything she’d missed most. Eggs. Bacon—oh God, how she loved bacon. And fresh fruit. Oranges particularly, maybe because they seemed to quench both her hunger and her thirst.
That thirst from two months of dehydration never seemed to go away no matter how much water she drank. Jen was starting to think it was mental and she’d be thirsty the rest of her life.
Her mother guessed it was the heavy duty antibiotics she was still on giving her dry mouth.
Who knew? It could be both.
Jen’s stomach had shrunk from two months of barely eating enough to sustain her body, so her meals were small but frequent.
Even in the short time since returning she’d started to put back on some of the weight she’d lost. She felt less like a shadow and more like her old self every day . . . as long as she kept to the routine.
Which was why she still hadn’t contacted Brad. At least not directly.
Sometime during those first days of freedom while they’d all still been in Germany, she’d asked her family if anyone had let Brad know she was all right. Her sister said she’d message him on Facebook.
At that point Jen had been in such a daze she agreed that was a good plan. Now, that course of action seemed kind of harsh.
They’d been seeing each other steadily for more than two months before she’d left for Somalia. That wasn’t an incredibly long time but still, their relationship had seemed serious, at least in her mind.
He deserved more than an instant message from her sister.
She’d procrastinated long enough. Jen picked up the phone. Hitting his name in her contact list she waited for the call to connect.
“Hello?” Brad’s voice greeted her through her cell phone and she felt a sudden panic.
The doctors had said to take it slow. Maybe this was too soon.
Too late now. “Um, hey, it’s Jen.”
“Jen. Hi. Are you home?”
“Yes. My sister said she messaged you?”
“Yeah, she did. I’m glad you got out safely.” Brad’s sentiment sounded sincere enough but she couldn’t shake the feeling there was an unspoken but hanging at the end of the sentence.
Deciding she didn’t want to dredge up that old argument of theirs—the one where he’d said she was crazy to teach in Africa and she’d defended herself—she moved on. “So I’m supposed to take it kind of slowly, getting back into a regular routine, but I thought maybe we could get together and do something low key. Maybe get a pizza. Watch some TV at your place. Mine’s still sublet so—”
“Jen.” Brad interrupted her suggestion. “Um, I’m seeing someone.”
His words didn’t seem to make sense to her. But that was nothing unusual. Lately lots of things didn’t seem to make any sense to her.
“What?” she asked.
“When you left and you were supposed to be gone for a year . . . I mean you didn’t expect me to not see anyone else while you were gone, did you?”
“I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.”
Not that she’d had time to think about Brad dating other people. Her leaving had been kind of sudden, not to mention volatile since he really didn’t approve of her going.
They’d never discussed the situation before she’d left and definitely not after she arrived in Somalia. S
he and Adam had been taken just days after her arrival.
None of that made it hurt any less.
And where did this revelation leave his relationship with her? Was he suggesting they keep it casual and see other people as well as each other?
He’d said he was seeing someone, singular, as if he had a new girlfriend.
Her head was spinning.
“Jen, I’m really sorry but I think it’s for the best for both of us that we don’t see each other anymore. I truly am happy you’re home and safe, but I just can’t deal with the kind of life you live.”
“The kind of life I live?” she repeated.
“Maybe I’m just too much of a capitalist to date a do-gooder like you. The whole Africa thing . . . I guess I don’t want a girlfriend who happily takes off for a year to some godforsaken third-world country with no notice or concern for herself or for me.”
Concern for him? She’d been the one held hostage for two months and nearly starved and scared to death.
She’d promised to come home for a visit half way through. And she’d invited him to come see her. Heck, parts of the continent were vacation hot spots so why had he acted like she was crazy for asking him?
Africa was a big open place. Apparently it was the exact opposite of Brad’s mind, which was proving to be closed and very small.
Wow, she really did have the worst taste in men.
She drew in a breath. “You’re right. It is for the best. Good luck, Brad, in whatever you do.”
“You too, Jen.” He disconnected the call and left her holding the cell in her hand, shocked and a little shaken.
How could she have been so off base?
She lowered the cell, angry and confused. With herself for being so clueless. With him for being . . . him.
Her mother walked into the room, the house phone in her hand and a perplexed expression on her face.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” What else could possibly come at her today? Jen didn’t know how many more surprises she could take.
“I just got off the phone with someone from the President’s office. We’ve all been invited to afternoon tea at the White House.”
Good thing Jen was sitting down, because a statement that odd might have knocked her right off her feet.
When she could form words, Jen asked, “What did you say?”
“I said yes, of course. How could I say no?”
Jen drew in a bracing breath. So much for not straying from her daily routine. It looked as if the little world she’d created for herself and settled into was about to get good and shaken up.
Chapter 9
Grant decided to check into the hotel room and drop off his luggage first, before heading to the White House.
He was well aware his vehicle would be searched thoroughly, so he thought he might as well make it easier for them by not having his bag to deal with too. He’d also left his handgun home, locked in his gun safe.
Visiting the President of the United States, even for a man with Grant’s level of security clearance, was no easy matter. Probably why he didn’t willingly do it often.
He’d jump through hoops to do it today though. Something deep down inside him needed the reassurance of seeing that Jen was all right.
It made no sense. He knew she was back in the states. Had seen her upright and walking under her own power on the television. Noticed from that brief tight camera shot shown on screen how she’d had a healthy color in her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes that had been absent when he’d seen her last, exhausted and feverish.
Still a part of him wanted the closure of seeing it for himself. He rarely had the opportunity to see an op through past the end of the action. This invitation provided exactly that.
It also provided him another excuse to avoid dealing with the divorce. Though he had brought the papers with him.
The unread pages were shoved into the outside pocket of his pack. He hadn’t forced himself to go through them yet, but he also couldn’t bring himself to leave them home.
Yeah, he wasn’t too fucked up by this.
He’d left extra time to get through security, so he arrived to the reception early. As the staff member led him inside he saw he was the first one in the room.
Since he didn’t know when or if he’d ever be there again, he took a stroll around the space. He thought he recognized it from a news report about some dignitary, he couldn’t remember which, who’d been entertained by one President or another here.
He’d just moved to more closely inspect the mural that covered the wall when the door opened. He turned in time to see Jen walk in and to see her gaze find him across the room.
Led by the same staffer who’d ushered in Grant, Jen walked farther into the center of the room, followed by the slightly older man and woman he’d seen on the television.
“The President will be right with you.”
“Thank you.” Jen smiled at the woman and then turned to him.
The question was clear in her eyes. She didn’t recognize him and was wondering who he was.
No surprise there. Last she’d seen his face it had been in the dark, hidden behind NVGs and black face paint.
“Hi, Jen.” Grant smiled. “It’s good to see you again. You look good.”
Her eyes widened. “It’s you. You’re the one. You saved me.”
Not used to being identified after the ops they performed, Grant opened his mouth to give some sort of denial. To say that he was only representing the entire nameless faceless rescue team. That they’d all been there, all saved her, but Jen wasn’t about to be deterred.
She spun to her parents. “He’s the one. Mom, Dad, he’s the one who carried me out of there. Literally threw me over his shoulder and carried me when I wasn’t sure if I could walk. And then when I was cold he went back into the middle of the camp for a blanket. He could have been killed just to get me a blanket.”
Grant shook his head. “No. It really wasn't that dangerous. And getting Jen warm was necessary. There was a danger of shock.”
One look at her relentless enthusiasm had him giving up on trying to rein in her gratitude.
Instead, Grant moved forward, his arm extended toward her father. “I’m Grant Milton, sir.”
Her parents were as enthusiastic as she was. They fell upon him. Her father grabbed his hand and pumped it a good dozen times while thanking him profusely.
Once her father released his hand, her mother threw her arms around him, crying through her own thanks.
For a man who had been well trained in controlling his emotions, Grant was failing miserably at it now as he felt overwhelmed and unsure how to handle it all.
And then there was Jen.
There was one moment when their gazes met and he saw her feelings clearly in her eyes. He felt as if he could almost read her thoughts. He was Superman in her eyes. To her, he’d done the impossible and delivered her from danger. She was grateful but unsure of how to express it and completely overwhelmed by the reunion, as was he.
That split second of complete connection, of mutual understanding, had him feeling like he’d received a punch to the chest.
That response was only superseded when she took her turn to thank him and wrapped her arms around him in a teary eyed hug. That had him remembering too vividly the feel of her shaking beneath him as he shielded her body from harm with his own that night.
Dazed, he finally was freed of the Anderson family’s collective thanks when the President entered the room with yet another staffer. Behind him, the ever present Secret Service hovered by the door.
Amid the introductions, trays of hot tea, fancy sweets and tiny sandwiches were laid out and they were invited to partake of the refreshments.
The Commander in Chief told Grant to eat, so he ate, whether his stomach was in turmoil or not and even though he didn’t know what the hell it was he’d just taken off the tray and put on his plate.
None of that mattered as he said, “Thank you, sir. This looks g
ood.”
The President smiled. “The ladies like it. I’m more of a deep dish Chicago pizza kind of man myself.”
Grant forced a polite smile. “Yes, sir.”
“You look a little unsteady, sailor.”
Grant tipped his head. “Just a bit out of my comfort zone here, sir.”
The stately man, in his trademark navy blue suit adorned with a small flag lapel pin, grinned. “I can imagine that you’re more used to working in the shadows than being in the spotlight.”
“That’s exactly it, sir.” Grant let out a short laugh at how close the President had come to an accurate guess.
That in a nutshell had to account for why this face-to-face with Jen was affecting Grant so strangely. He simply wasn’t used to this . . . this . . . exposure, for lack of a better word.
He and his team took out targets and left. They saved victims.
They didn’t socialize with them over tea and crumpets—or whatever this cookie-like thing on his plate was.
Still feeling out of place holding a little plate while making small talk with the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, Grant swept the room and caught Jen’s gaze on him.
As she stood between her parents, who chatted with a staffer, Jen’s lips tipped up in a smile directed at him.
Pressing his lips together, he nodded in her direction.
The President followed his gaze. “That was an amazing thing you and the team did. Getting her out and without any casualties.”
“Without casualties on our side.” With a sideways glance, Grant reminded the President there were plenty of bodies belonging to the other side. His gaze moved back to Jen. “And once we got the order to move in I never had any doubt we’d get her out.”
It was what the team trained for. What they did and did well. Grant just wished the order had come sooner. It would have saved Jen possibly weeks of hardship.
“Mr. President, you have a call in five minutes.”
The President tipped his head to acknowledge the staffer before he turned back to Grant. “They run a tight ship around here.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure.” Grant’s obligation was almost over and he felt the relief wash over him.
