He’d taken her fast and hard, still silent, her face pressed into the pillow and her ass in the air.

  She wanted that again.

  She wanted that forever.

  Damn it. No falling for the rebound guy. Not allowed.

  She swallowed hard, then put on her awake-voice and answered her phone.

  As she listened and responded, realizing she wasn’t going to get back into bed with him, she had to tip her face to the ceiling and fight back hot, angry tears of regret.

  Ten minutes later she hopped out of the shower and let herself cast a single, sad glance at the slumbering giant she was leaving behind. He really was the most beautiful man. Hard and lean, warm and safe.

  This was better.

  She was needed on a flight to Denver at six, and if she woke him, she’d never make it on time.

  This was better.

  If she climbed back into bed, even for a minute, she’d lose her heart to hopeless dreams.

  Shit.

  This wasn’t better.

  But it was what needed to be, because she needed the extra-long shift and the overtime. Because she needed to remember who she was and who she wasn’t.

  She found the note after she got on elevator. It was in her blazer pocket, a sheet of paper from the hotel room notepad, folded in a neat square with a capital M on the front. Her fingers shook as she opened it.

  You’re beautiful. Thank you. ~ Nathan

  Gibson75@xmail.com

  She traced over the letters in his name. Nathan. So her sailor had a name. A nice name. And she’d crept out while he slept. The tears threatened again, and she stared at the elevator numbers, lighting up in descending order.

  She should go back up. Nathan. She should go back and kiss him and tell him her name.

  But then what?

  That would just make goodbye harder.

  It would still be goodbye.

  She ducked her head as she headed through the lobby toward the airport concourse, letting her hair curtain her face from the early morning travellers.

  — —

  Nathan looked for her as he went through the check-in process for the second day in a row. He wasn’t sure what airline she worked for, or what her name was, although he had at least one way of finding that out—she’d left her ID with the hotel clerk.

  But he wanted her to find him. Not now. She wasn’t ready.

  When she was, he hoped she’d still have his notes.

  There were five of them in total. One in her jacket pocket. One in her passport wallet—and it had been damn hard not to peek at her name when he was tucking that away while she slept. One in the outer pocket of her suitcase, one in her Kindle case, and the last one woven into the laces on her running shoes.

  He smiled at the thought of her finding them. Hopefully she’d already found at least one.

  — SIX —

  February

  Dear Nathan,

  Emme stared at the blinking cursor on her screen. It had been six weeks. She’d thought about him every day. Replayed every minute of their night together, to the point where she wasn’t sure she hadn’t dreamed him up.

  But the little wooden box on her bedside table held five short notes, scrawled in the dead of night, that told her Nathan was more than a fantasy and more than a one-night stand…if she could let him in.

  He lives on the other side of the country.

  You’re broken-hearted and ill-prepared for a new relationship.

  It was impossible to pretend that it would just be hooking up if she reached out to a man who lived two thousand miles away.

  Wasn’t there a rule about having a rebound guy before another serious relationship?

  On the other hand, maybe the fact he was on the west coast would be a good thing. They couldn’t rush into anything.

  I’m sorry for not writing sooner. Hi. I’m Emme—pronounced M. Sorry for the little trick there.

  She stared at the first line. Two apologies already. But that’s how she felt, sorry for the undertow of emotional catharsis she’d drag him into if they dropped the masks and showed their real selves.

  I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Every day, in fact, since our night together. How are you?

  So weak. She growled at herself and started to erase that line, then left it. She wouldn’t be able to think of anything better, and they’d already been naked together. She’d cried on his bare chest. The time for fancying up her words was probably long passed.

  She started typing again, letting herself word vomit this time, and eight paragraphs later, she hit send before she could reconsider the action.

  Shoving away from her desk, she paced across the empty master bedroom she was now using as an office. Derek had taken the master bedroom furniture, and she’d just moved her belongings into the spare bedroom rather than bringing over the mismatched furniture that didn’t suit the bigger room. It had been easier on her heart to pretend that she’d eventually get nice stuff, and that this wasn’t her new life—living like a college student again, suffocating under a mountain of debt she’d never asked for.

  Pretend that she’d be able to afford new furniture, when she couldn’t afford the house itself, not while she was still paying off a hefty legal bill. And the house had been bought on Derek’s pilot’s salary. It was a miracle her mortgage broker had been able to swing getting the house into her name alone.

  She closed her eyes. She’d balked at the flexible mortgage he’d gently suggested, but he’d been right. She needed to rid herself of the beautiful turn-of-the-century albatross around her neck.

  She’d call the real estate agent soon. And pray the market gods would smile on her.

  From across the room, her computer dinged. She whirled around, her angst momentarily fleeing from her head. An email.

  Throwing herself back into her seat, she ignored the way her knee banged against the side of the desk as she spun the wheelie chair a little too hard.

  Throat dry, pulse fluttering a mile a minute in her neck, Emme clicked on the email from Nathan, her hand shaking the entire time.

  M. Emme. I like it. I’ve had your name all this time, huh? Clever you.

  I was hoping you’d email me. How many of my notes did you find? You started to wake up as I was stashing them in your luggage, or I’d have written more. I’d have written a hundred of them if I thought it would increase the odds of you actually contacting me. So don’t worry about how long it’s been—and I don’t think six weeks and three days is that long, by the way.

  Oh God, he’d counted the days. She dragged her lower lip through her teeth, the implications of his attention to detail rolling heavily through her head. But as she kept reading, he turned the conversation in a safer direction, and the pounding in her chest eased just enough to feel comfortable. It did nothing for the nervous flutter, though.

  Must be freezing there. I hear you’re having a wicked cold snap. Hopefully spring is early this year.

  I’m going to read your email over and over again. It’s great to hear from you. Nice to put a name to my memories. It sounds like you’ve got a lot going on—I knew that already. If writing to me about any of it helps ease that burden, feel free to flood my inbox. I’m a vault, I promise. But really…I just want to know what secret punk girl music you’re listening to, and if you managed to get away for a few days to San Antonio. Think of me as your…pen pal.

  Nathan Meyers

  Her heart squeezed tight. He was just as special as she’d remembered—genuinely caring about her, a complete stranger. More than anything, she needed someone in her life who she could talk to, someone who wasn’t her mother or sister, who were both still disappointed that her fairy-tale marriage to the prince in the pilot uniform hadn’t worked out. Or her friends from work who were so jaded about pilots they had trouble scraping up enough sympathy to hear about Emme’s sadness.

  And frankly, she was kind of sick of it herself.

  Pen pals, she typed. I like that. Is it weird to say I’ve missed you over the last six weeks? I think I have, and now that I’m typing this, I wish I hadn’t taken so long to reach out.

  And I want to hear about what’s going on with you, too.

  Yours,

  Emme Ryan

  P.S. I found five notes. Still have them.

  She made herself get up and go find some lunch after hitting send, but as soon as she’d assembled a ham and swiss sandwich and grabbed a Coke, she found herself settling in front of the computer again. His first response had been so quick…

  But there were no new emails in her inbox. She clicked over to Facebook and worked through a dozen notifications about things she didn’t really care about, then flipped back.

  Still nothing.

  Not liking the out-of-control roller coaster her heart was currently riding, she forced herself to finish her sandwich, then got up. She had email on her phone—she needed to get out of the house. So what if it was freezing outside?

  Besides, she had three weeks left in her pre-paid gym membership. Might as well use it as much as possible before it ended.

  — —

  Nathan felt his pocket vibrate, but right after responding to Emme’s first email, he’d been pulled into an O-Group meeting with his lieutenant. They’d received an initial heads up that a sensitive subject might need to be rescued from the South Pacific. They were waiting on intel from the CIA, but they might need to pull together an urgent-extraction team. Not the type of orders group one could check their email during. He’d be torn a new asshole by the major if he pulled out his phone while he was supposed to be paying attention.

  As soon as they finished up, he read Emme’s message—twice, the second time with a shit-eating grin on his face—then stayed in the empty conference room to type his response.

  Yep, five notes. You got ’em all.

  I was in an orders group when you emailed again. You have no idea how hard it was not to check my phone when I felt it vibrate. You’re going to get me in trouble.

  He added a winking emoticon, then deleted it. Then typed it again. He couldn’t decide if it added a playful touch, or veered into flirting too hard.

  Being indecisive was a new feeling that Nathan didn’t wear well. But he didn’t want to fuck this up.

  He could still taste her. Still heard her breathless moans as she writhed beneath him.

  He could still count her freckles if he closed his eyes.

  Six weeks had never felt like a lifetime before. He’d been desperate to hear from her, but known she wasn’t ready. Probably still wasn’t, but her first email had dripped with loneliness.

  He wanted to fly to Chicago, track her down, and hold her tight.

  But if he did that, he’d never let her go.

  So instead, he hit send. Winky face and all.

  “Meyers, you gotta minute?” His LT’s voice jerked his attention away from Chicago and back to the reality.

  Nathan nodded as his team leader joined him in the empty room. “Yes, sir.”

  It was a knee-jerk formality that wasn’t necessary with Jason Steyner, but Nathan always defaulted to a rigid command structure when they shifted into active duty. He needed to show his officer—who had less boots-on-the-ground experience, by far—in his words and deeds that the entire team would follow him straight to hell if so ordered.

  And then do the impossible and come right back.

  “How are you feeling about Novak doing a mission?”

  Nathan put his phone away and scrubbed one hand over his face. “Yeah. He’s going to be fine.”

  “You know him well?”

  “Well enough. He’d rather be in the sandpit with Team 9. There’s some guilt there.” Trick Novak had been reassigned to Nathan’s platoon in Team 11 after his last tour of duty, because of some concerns about possible PTSD, and his former teammates were now in the Middle East again. He was still more than capable to serve as a SEAL, but the short missions that Team 11 were currently doing were more appropriate while he was being followed by the medical team.

  Steyner nodded. “Nothing wrong with shifting it up. His psych eval was fine.”

  Nathan gave his boss a hard look. They all knew it was possible to get the all-clear and still be a mess. “It’d be good if you underline for him how valuable he is on this mission.”

  “And you will…”

  “Play the worried mother hen.” Nathan snorted. “Probably would be more believable the other way around, if I was the hard-ass. But I’ve already told him to take the time he needs.”

  “Got it. I’ll tell him time’s up. Uncle Sam needs him.”

  As they finished up their conversation, an intelligence officer found them and Nathan excused himself to give their team a stand-by alert.

  It wasn’t until he threw himself into the cab of his truck, to drive home and shower and grab some sleep, that he had a quiet moment to check his email again.

  That didn’t mean Emme hadn’t been on his mind. She’d imprinted on him that night in Chicago. He’d managed to lock that down when he woke up and found her gone. Now that she’d opened up the lines of communication, he was pretty sure that lock was permanently busted.

  But he couldn’t let her distract him from work—or let work distract him from her.

  She deserved his whole attention when he could give it. He’d been rolling that over in his head since that flight back to California—until January, he’d had no problem limiting his dating to strictly casual connections. It was easier with his job.

  It meant there was zero guilt when he couldn’t look at his phone for hours, days, or weeks. When he had to leave at the last minute and couldn’t say when he’d be back. When his team rotated to long tours overseas, and he packed up and didn’t look back for six months or a year, because his attention had to be completely on the deadly threats ahead.

  There’d be no leaving Emme behind. Hell, he already had her in his heart as they planned heading out to Honolulu to meet the underwater team. He’d see her face when he needed motivation to do the impossible.

  There was a very real risk that he was over-sentimentalizing their connection. Letting his dreams of Emme fill the gaping hole in his chest.

  She might break his heart.

  That would have to be okay. It was hers to break.

  And in the meantime, he’d do his damnedest to keep it safe for her.

  — SEVEN —

  April

  Emailing Emme had become a necessary part of Nathan’s day. Maybe because that was the only contact they had. Definitely because her words filled him with hope, even though she didn’t give any other indication of being ready for more contact. He was waiting for an opening to ask—for a visit, a phone call, anything—but she so carefully didn’t give him a chance that he told himself to be patient. And his team was in a cycle of active missions, which meant it was the wrong time to be getting wrapped up in a woman anyway. But that’s exactly what was happening.

  He’d fallen fast for her—months too fast—and now he was suffering for it.

  Everything was out of order. When his friends got into serious relationships, they had a chance to explain to their girlfriends the ins and outs of dating a SEAL.

  He wasn’t dating Emme. Not yet.

  Hell, he wasn’t even talking to her.

  And he sure as shit couldn’t write anything out in an email.

  But it was hard not telling her where he was going and how long he’d be gone. The day after their first round of emails back and forth, his team had flown out to Hawaii, and then beyond, to rescue a CIA operative and a crew of American ocean-treasure hunters in the South Pacific.

  One of his men, Trick Novak, had ended up in the hospital with a busted arm after besting a modern-day pirate in hand-to-hand combat, which turned the planned five-day turnaround into six, and by the time they were back, Nathan was dying to see Emme’s words again. Desperate to talk to her, too—he could admit that to himself. But she never offered her number and he held himself back from asking.

  But when he got back, there were many emails waiting, each one soothing the ragged edges of his worry, and as soon as he replied to one, more flowed between them. He greedily soaked up all of her words like they were water flooding a desert after a drought. He sent her questions and funny pictures, anything to get another response.

  Some days they sent dozens of messages back and forth, most of them short, a lot of them silly, but enough of them were raw and honest that he pieced together a pretty clear image of her life in Chicago.

  Two months rolled by.

  They fell into a routine of starting each day with a funny meme. You might be cool, but you’ll never be as cool as Freddie Mercury riding on Darth Vadar’s shoulders, she sent him one morning, the words spelled out in block letters on the black and white photo.

  He dug around in Google and found an infographic about how many people wrote a bunch of hit songs. At the bottom was Freddie’s picture next to “Bohemian Rhapsody”—he hadn’t needed a team of songwriters to help him.

  He was the real deal, Nathan wrote back.

  Plus Brian May. Right?

  Right. He stretched on his bed as he looked at his phone. She was a Queen fan. If she told him she liked Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, it would be all over and he’d die of total happiness. You ever play guitar?

  Nope, she wrote back. Piano when I was a kid. Then sax in high school. *Shudder*. Now I’m just a fan. You?

 

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