“Okay, good,” Piper smiled.
Lyla took a sip of her weak, tepid Earl Grey. “Next week, though…”
Her friend laughed. “You can’t keep a good woman down. We’ll just have to hope that Tate comes to his senses fast.”
Lyla wanted to believe her, she really did—but odds were, Tate wasn’t ever coming back.
MERE HOURS AFTER her outing with Piper, Lyla’s parents called—ostensibly to check on her welfare, but really wanting to discuss the current candidate in the Future Son-in-Law rodeo.
It didn’t take them long to get to the point, either. With both parents on the line, they only required half as much time to bring the conversation around to the topic of the day.
Her dad led with, “I still feel awful about what happened, kiddo. If you had only told us what was going on, right from the beginning…”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“We know. But hiding it from us made us unwittingly endanger you—how is that any better? And now, I’m always going to worry that you’re secretly in trouble and not telling us.”
“You can relax,” Lyla sighed. “It’s not like that.”
“Well, at least you have Captain Monroe there with you,” her mother interjected. “That’s a consolation, at least.”
Lyla winced. She should’ve been prepared for that. “Actually…Tate’s not here anymore. He went home to Ohio to stay with his family.”
Her mother huffed, “But he’ll be back, right?”
“No, Mom. After that, he’s probably going back to his unit, if the Army lets him. They might not.”
“Not that I wish him ill, but that would be good, wouldn’t it? If Tate gets discharged, then he could stay in New York with you.”
Lyla groaned. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“I would,” her father stated firmly. “That boy shook my hand and promised to take care of you. A man doesn’t do that with a woman’s father unless he means it.”
“Dad, come on,” Lyla complained. “Guys say that kind of thing all the time.”
“No, they don’t. Not like that.”
“Well, nothing’s going to get solved right now.” Or ever, but they’d have to realize that in their own time, just like Lyla had. Someday, there’d be other men for them to focus on, other prospects to dream about.
“As long as you’re fine,” her father said dubiously.
“I am, I promise. But how are you guys doing? Everything okay on the home front?”
Her mom chirped, “Oh, we’re fine, too. We’re always fine. Don’t worry about us.”
Lyla bit her lip, uncertain if she should broach a touchy subject, but she was really curious. “Have you…talked to the Joneses lately?”
“No, they’ve been laying low,” her mother said. “I think they’re probably mortified by what happened.”
“I’ll bet they are. They should be, anyway.” And then some.
How could those people not have known what was going on under their own roof?
“Brett had been stable for so long,” Lyla’s mom told her. “I think Bill and Midge probably let down their guard and stopped believing he would ever backslide. They want him to be well so badly, I think they let their longing blind them.”
Lyla was angry, but she also felt a little sorry for the couple. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you guys were close.”
“And maybe we will be again someday. But you should never doubt that you come first for us. Always,” her father said.
“Thanks, guys.”
LAST BUT NOT least came Detective Scarletti, stopping by that evening to share news about Lyla’s case, and his thoughts about certain bodyguards.
He began by telling Lyla that the Joneses had admitted to periodically letting their son use the car on his own, even though he would sometimes “get lost” for hours on end.
Because Bill hadn’t been able to drive while he healed from his foot surgery, and Midge didn’t drive on highways, Brett had skipped his last doctor’s appointment and blood work—and no one had realized that he’d stopped taking his medication.
The detective explained that the preponderance of evidence against Brett—including the scrapbook Lyla and Tate had told him about—had convinced the family to admit guilt and take the plea deal they’d been offered.
Lyla wouldn’t have to testify, thankfully. She hadn’t been looking forward to sitting in a courtroom, facing off with her parents’ best friends while she damned their only child.
Scarletti explained that because Brett’s gunshot wound was healing up, he’d soon be transferred from Mount Sinai to a high-security psychiatric facility upstate.
He wasn’t expecting her to have any more trouble, but as the detective nursed the cup of coffee she’d given him, he said, “Maybe keep that bodyguard of yours around for a while, just in case.”
“Too late,” Lyla told him. “Captain Monroe has already gone back to Ohio.”
For some reason, it wasn’t getting any easier to tell people that, even though it felt like she’d had to do it over and over today.
The cop eyed her speculatively. “Is he going back to his unit soon?”
“Maybe. Last I heard, Tate was still trying to get cleared by his doctors, but I suspect this latest incident isn’t going to help his chances.”
“Well…I wouldn’t worry about it,” Scarletti said, scratching at the five o’clock shadow coming in on his jaw. “I’m pretty sure a pretty girl wins out over getting shot at every day of the week.”
Lyla rolled her eyes. “That’s nice of you to say, but I don’t think it applies in this instance.”
The officer set down his mug and grinned at her, for perhaps the first time in their entire acquaintance. “Ms. Lawson, did you, by any chance, happen to see the way that guy looked at you?”
She lied and didn’t even care that he’d see right through her. “No, Detective, I did not.”
“Might wanna get that eyeglass prescription updated, then. That fella is in deep.”
Lyla blew out a beleaguered breath, wondering which other unlikely suspects might try to ply her with relationship advice before this all was over. Maybe her super could get in on the act—or even Mrs. Meecham down the hall.
“Detective, did you have anything else you needed to tell me?” she asked, picking up his mug and walking it to the sink. “It’s been a really long day.”
Scarletti smirked at her as he stood up and brushed at his pants, amused by Lyla’s resignation. “No, we’re good. You might hear from the district attorney’s office in a few days about the restraining order, but otherwise, I think you’re all set.”
Lyla smiled back. The truth was, he wasn’t such a bad guy—he’d just been stuck with a really crappy case. “Thanks again. I really appreciate everything you did for me.”
“No sweat. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions, or you ever hear from that punk again, okay?”
“Okay.”
As he stepped to her front door, Scarletti had a very uncharacteristic twinkle in his wry brown eyes. “And, when you’re putting together the guestlist for your wedding in a few months, be sure to put me on it.”
With that, he walked out, strolling down the hall whistling tunelessly.
IF LYLA WAS going to have to talk about Tate with everyone she knew, she thought sometime later, it was going to take a hell of a lot longer than seven days to get over him. It could take a month, or maybe even a whole year.
Perhaps even the rest of her sorry, empty life.
Tate had clearly had the right idea about this whole debacle. It was obvious that the less said about him and Lyla’s brief relationship, the better.
It appeared to be the only way to move on with her dignity intact. What Lyla was doing now was only keeping the wound fresh.
Maybe she ought to follow his lead in other ways, as well. Just like Tate, Lyla could not only go dark but get out of town. The idea intrigued her enough that she cracked open her lapt
op and started clicking, investigating trips and cruises she’d probably never get to go on.
In reality, Lyla had to stay here in New York for a while, at least. The untested Red Devil imprint was launching her new series now, and by the time their big marketing push had passed, Lyla doubted she would miss New York’s favorite bodyguard as much anymore.
With a heavy heart, Lyla switched over from images of tropical islands to her final edits on the unplanned book she’d managed to whip out over the last several weeks. Trident’s team was ecstatic that she was delivering her next title way ahead of schedule, but Lyla was conflicted.
While she’d been writing it, she’d loved every word. But now that it was close to passing out of her hands, she couldn’t help feeling a little sad, too. Tate would never know that it had turned into a love letter to him because he’d never read it and she wouldn’t tell him.
In the harsh light of his departure, it only seemed pathetic, these days—the daydreams of a foolish, lovestruck introvert. But life kept moving on, and so would Lyla.
She squared her shoulders, sent the file to her editor, and snapped her laptop shut. Someday, the way she felt right now would be a distant memory. Tate would be a distant memory.
That was, by far, the most depressing thought of all.
THIRTY-SEVEN
ONCE TATE RECEIVED the all-clear from his doctors to get out of Dodge, the first thing he did was arrange to go home.
His long-suffering parents had been tying themselves into knots ever since they’d returned from their cruise to discover their oldest son was in the hospital again. Since Tate had refused to let them come see him in New York, he figured he’d better show his face in Ohio to prove he really meant what he’d said—he was fine.
Thankfully, Luca and Daisy had already retrieved his stuff from Lyla’s apartment, so all he needed to do was get a ride to the garage where he’d stashed Tom’s truck and then he could be on his way.
Just to underscore how capable he was, Tate made that ride an Uber. His first one. How about that, world?
However, as he rolled along the roads between Manhattan and Cleveland, Tate’s confidence began to waver a bit. He couldn’t help feeling like he was leaving in disgrace, even if everyone else told him he was full of shit.
Honestly, though—he’d been hired to protect Lyla, and she’d still had to take care of things herself in the end. That made Tate the city’s biggest waste of space, as far as he was concerned.
Honor was honor, though, so he’d attempted to return the money he’d been paid to act as her bodyguard. To the surprise of no one, Red had shut him down, and even though it hadn’t been terribly hard to predict, it had made Tate feel exponentially worse.
And that was before he let himself consider what Lyla must think of him right now.
Funny thing how, four months ago, Tate had truly believed his life had gone to shit. In comparison, his mood now made that guy look like a hopeless romantic.
ABOUT FIVE MILES from his folks’ place, Tate stopped at a gas station to fill Tom’s tank. He called his mom to see if she needed him to get her anything on the way, and when he hung up, Tate noticed that he had a new email from Red.
That, no doubt, could wait.
Tate went into the minimart to grab his father some chips and his mother the requested coffee creamer. As he stood in line waiting to pay, he scanned the rack of paperbacks off to the side with an unsettling combination of dread and hope.
Romances. Books of daily devotions. Atlases. And there, smack dab in the center of everything, was the new mystery by Lyla Lawson. Damn it.
Tate swallowed and looked away, bouncing on his toes with a sudden, desperate impatience. He needed to get away from that book—almost as much as he needed to buy what might be his last and only piece of her.
He held out for two whole minutes, then caved and grabbed the only copy just in time to pay.
Tate felt like a pathetic, grade-A ass, but he clutched that stupid paperback to his chest all the way to the truck like he’d scored the winning lottery ticket. Then he stashed it on the passenger seat to deal with later.
Lyla’s headshot on the back made her look smart and sexy, and made Tate’s chest ache with longing. God, he missed her.
However, in three days he was going to be evaluated yet again by the Army Medical Board, and his future in the service would be decided, for better or worse. By next week, Tate would either find himself on his way back to the desert, or he’d find himself with the rug pulled out from under him.
Either way, Lyla was better off without him.
TATE STAYED UP all night that first night reading her book, then slept late the next day, trying to compensate. Nearly twenty-four hours passed before he remembered that email from Red.
When he finally cracked it open, Tate was stunned to see that his friend had sent him a file containing Lyla’s newest, as-yet-unpublished manuscript, with the terse command to Read This.
He didn’t pause to consider the source, or whether he should actually be reading something that wasn’t in the public arena yet. Tate didn’t stop to wonder why Red had thought it was so necessary to share it or to ask whether his buddy had Lyla’s permission to pass along the advance copy.
He simply closed himself in his childhood bedroom, kicked back on his bed, and began reading The Last Man Standing.
It didn’t take long to realize Lyla had written a fictionalized version of their relationship, and a hot one. If Red had thought this would help Tate pass the time while he licked his wounds, his friend had been dead wrong.
Tate’s wounds were now officially worse. In fact, by the end of the book, he was nearly out of his mind, trying to figure out why the cop in the story would spend two hundred pages longing for the chick he was protecting, and then not tell her—thereby driving her right into the arms of the bad guy.
Was Lyla trying to send him some kind of message? She must be, Tate decided. Why else write the story that way—even if Tate shouldn’t have been able to read it for months yet?
What the message was, however, was escaping him. It wasn’t like Lyla had gone and fallen for Brett Jones since he’d last seen her.
He sat for a while and toyed with just calling and asking, but this didn’t strike him as a phone call kind of conversation. Tate needed to see Lyla’s face if he confronted her—to see what those eyes looked like, and what that sexy, pouty mouth of hers would do.
He knew that even if Lyla tried to dance around the subject with her fancy author words, her expression would tell him the truth. She might be able to spin wild tales on paper, but in real life, the girl couldn’t lie worth shit.
If only he wasn’t so confused about what all this meant. Was Lyla in love with him or the exact opposite? Was she just a vulture, snatching at snippets of real life to make a buck? God only knew.
After days of hanging out with his parents and secretly obsessing about it, though, Tate had a bit of an epiphany. Whether Lyla loved him back or not didn’t change the fact that he was head over heels in love with her.
He was all kinds of wrong for the woman, but he wanted her badly. He didn’t want to wait for her, either.
For years, Tate had been living every breath as a soldier, but somehow, without intending to, he’d broken himself of the habit.
His desire to get back to active duty had suffered a quiet death sometime in the last few days, killed off by the accumulation of all those normal meals and comfortable beds, and by Tate’s reluctance to give up any lingering hope he had of being with Lyla long term.
Now, he could actually see that there might be more in store for him than war and deprivation. Tate could have more holidays with family, with actual seasons and gifts to give. He could share more laughs with friends, with beers and cards and Monday Night football on the television.
Tate could have a real life, with kids and pets and a home of his own. A picket fence and a warm woman in his bed at night, as long as that woman was Lyla.
He
would convince her, even if he had to die trying.
So, Tate pulled out a fresh notepad and began writing a new list. Any mission was possible, he’d learned, if you did the right recon and planning—and Tate wasn’t the best at what he did for no reason.
By the time he was done, Lyla was going to be his.
THE AFTERNOON BEFORE his Med Board review, Tate sat in Dr. Ross’s office to review the CT and MRI results that Weill Cornell had sent him, as well as to discuss what he could expect from the Army doctors the following day.
Given what had happened after only a little hand-to-hand and a quick sprint down the block, Tate could guess they wouldn’t be too excited about green-lighting him.
But, while Tate listened to Dr. Ross yammer on about the need to keep him on the anticonvulsant for a while longer, he was also thinking about Lyla’s book.
He thought about the way she looked at him, and about how much his parents and his brother would love her. Tate daydreamed about what it would be like to roll into his hometown with Lyla in tow—to show her off at weddings and introduce her to his former teachers and coaches on the Fourth of July.
A future with her rolled out in front of him like an unspooling ribbon, and Tate wanted it. He wanted all of it like he’d never wanted anything before…and that definitely explained what happened next.
He hadn’t planned out this part, per se, but suddenly it felt right.
First, Dr. Ross said, “The psychiatrist gave you your best review yet, so that’s good. I feel comfortable going ahead with our plan to wean you off the antidepressants now. But I’d still love to hear it from you. So, tell me—besides that one crazy episode in New York, how are you feeling about your recovery?”
“I’m good,” Tate replied. And that was all thanks to Lyla, the woman he’d never expected to meet and couldn’t, as it turned out, let go.
“But…to be honest,” he continued, “I’m not sure I’m ever going to get to the point where I’d want to be, in order to be active again.”
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 33
