“Put a chair under the door handle.”

  “Really?” he laughs. That’s your security advice?”

  “Sometimes the old ways are the best.”

  “I do have a chain across the door.”

  “One swift kick would bust it open.”

  “Do you often bust open doors like that?” he grins.

  I don’t even bother to answer that. “You’re a hacker, Mr. Saunders…”

  “I’m a programmer…”

  “Exactly, so I bet you could easily hack the hotel’s computer to load a key card with all-entry access.”

  He shrugs but I see the gleam in his eye. Then he gives me a sexy smile.

  “Do I need to put a chair by our shared door to stop you coming in?”

  “Only if you don’t want me to save your life.”

  His smile slips a notch. “Fair point. Well debated. Sleep well, Ms. Andrade.”

  “You, too, Mr. Saunders.”

  It’s three in the morning when my phone buzzes softly with Greg’s name and I’m instantly awake.

  “Unsub outside principal’s door. Trying to access with a key card. Guard the principal and I’ll apprehend.”

  “Roger that,” I whisper.

  I’m already wearing a t-shirt, so I grab my Glock 19 from under my pillow, check the chamber and take off the safety. Then I move silently to Brett’s room, wondering whether or not to wake him.

  “This is a nice surprise Ms. Andrade,” he says, his voice sexy and rough with sleep.

  “Suspect at the door,” I whisper. “Please move calmly and quietly to the bathroom. Get into the tub and slide down.”

  I hear his sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t argue as he slips past me. I don’t take my eyes off the door as I walk backwards into the bathroom, closing and locking the door, keeping my weapon pointed straight ahead.

  “Principal secured,” I whisper to Greg.

  “Copy that.”

  I keep my breathing slow and even, relieved that Brett doesn’t try to talk to me.

  I hear the sounds of a scuffle outside the room and I’m torn between going to help Greg and keeping Brett safe. Relief rushes through me when I hear Greg’s calm voice in my ear piece.

  “Unsub secured.”

  “All clear,” I say aloud, standing up and flipping on the bathroom light.

  Brett has slid his whole body into the tub as I’d ordered, and he grins up at me.

  “Nice t-shirt,” he says, his eyes drifting down my bare legs.

  “Nice … tub,” I reply, trying very hard not to stare at his beautifully naked body.

  I turn away, hearing his quiet chuckle as I toss a bathrobe at him.

  It’s nearly six in the morning before the police finally leave. The suspect is unknown to Brett, but it’s soon discovered that the creep works for a rival software company. Chillingly, the guy was armed and carrying a syringe filled with calcium. It’s a little known fact that an ultra high dose can lead to kidney failure and eventually coma. It’s clever, and might not have been diagnosed in time. The suspect will be looking at a charge of attempted murder.

  Brett looks tired and a little depressed.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He forces a smile and rubs his eyes. “I just want to create programs that will help people,” he says. “I never wanted all of this. I still can’t believe that they wanted to kill me.”

  He shakes his head, a bewildered air of vulnerability shadowing his eyes.

  “I was a police officer for ten years,” I say, “and I’ve seen a lot of bad people. But I promise you that the number of good people outnumber the bad.”

  He meets my gaze. “Thank you, Marina. For everything.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Saunders.”

  He grins, his confidence returning. “Now we’ve shared a life-threatening situation, do you think you could call me Brett?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I think I could manage that. Brett.”

  “Maybe I could take you on a real date now that the bad guy is behind bars?”

  “I don’t date clients.”

  “What about former clients?”

  I cock my head on one side. “I don’t date players.”

  “What about former players?” he asks, his blue eyes flashing behind his glasses.

  “I don’t live in Seattle.”

  “I can commute,” he says, his smile widening. “One dinner, to say thank you for saving my life and all.”

  “Technically, that was Greg.”

  “I don’t want to date Greg.”

  “Not your type?”

  “Definitely not. One date, Marina. Please?”

  I’m tempted, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. “I’ll think about it,” I say at last.

  “Good enough,” he smiles. “For now.”

  THE END

  If you enjoy stories with a strong, kick-ass woman, you might also like to read Battle Scars.

  MJ is a war correspondent, always traveling, always moving on. Until a dusty street in Afghanistan when she collides Marine Sergeant Jackson Connor.

  FEBRUARY

  Just Breathing

  I have nothing to complain about. Really.

  I have a nice home, two adult children who are whole and healthy and living their lives. I might even have grandchildren in a few years.

  I’m in pretty good shape for 59 and go to Pilates twice a week. I have a job I enjoy, working part-time as an office manager for a company that sells hard candy, the kind you find in old fashioned sweet shops.

  Despite the temptations at work, I try to limit my sugar intake. I had treatment for breast cancer five years ago, so I’m mindful of my diet and try to lead a healthy lifestyle.

  Oh, and I should mention that I’m married to Al, who has been a good provider and father to my children.

  So why do I feel this dissatisfaction with my life? This restlessness that wakes me in the night while Al is snoring beside me?

  I try to tell myself that it’s too much imagination, or too much cheese at supper. I tell myself that it’s inevitable when a woman is approaching her sixtieth birthday—regrets of the past, fear of the future.

  Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m feeling obsolete, like an older, mid-range car, like a Ford Focus. Yes, that’s me: I’m a Ford Focus—reliable, not very exciting, low maintenance and runs well.

  But inside, I’m still me. I’m still the girl who danced all night and watched the sun come up with a man I adored. I made wishes on rainbows and lucky pennies, and I have been blessed.

  I’m greedy, that’s what it is, envious of others, always wanting what I don’t have. But what is it that I don’t have? Why aren’t I happy? Why aren’t I content to go into the autumn of my life and knit baby clothes, or make quilts, or make gingerbread, or do any of those selfless and satisfying tasks that older women are supposed to enjoy?

  “Al, what do you think about retiring early and sailing around the world?”

  Startled, my husband peers up at me over his reading glasses.

  “What do I think? I think it’s a lousy idea.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you get seasick and we don’t know how to sail.”

  It’s a fair point, but you’d think that a man who reads Lee Child and James Patterson, a man who devours thrillers, you’d think he might be a little more adventurous.

  “Well, what about buying an RV and driving all over the country, up to Canada or Alaska, and then travel down through Mexico, maybe Brazil.”

  “What the heck are you talking about, Diane?”

  “Don’t you think we should just do something while we’re young and healthy?”

  That makes him laugh. “I hate to tell you this, hon, but we’re not young. We’re not even middle-aged—not unless you’re planning on living to be 120.”

  I don’t feel middle-aged.

  “Well, while we’re healthy then. Don’t you want to see more of the world?”

  “We went to Cancun last year.”

  “For a two-week vacation! I’m talking about really traveling!”

  He looks doubtful. “We could do a cruise, I guess.”

  “Don’t you want more out of life than this?”

  I sound petulant and I know that I’m whining like a spoiled brat.

  He gives me a quelling look and I fall silent. I don’t have the words to express how I feel, like I’m just going through the motions, like I’m just breathing, not living.

  After a moment, Al speaks again.

  “We agreed that we’d have a new kitchen this year, instead of a vacation.”

  It’s true. We did agree that. Or rather, Al thought the house needed updating. I like our kitchen even though it is worn and maybe a little old fashioned. I raised our children in this kitchen. It’s homey. Okay, I know it’s tired but honestly, I’d rather go somewhere and do something exciting than admire a bunch of new cabinets. But we have to be sensible, and although we’re okay for money, we can’t have a new kitchen and a vacation. Al explained it to me.

  I said I’d work full-time to earn some extra money, but Al worries that a full-time job might be too stressful for me. What he means is that he worries my cancer will come back. When the oncologist told us the news five years ago, I’ve never seen him so scared.

  He looked after me while I was having treatment, but he still acts like I’m a fragile piece of porcelain. We hardly even have sex. I’ve seen him wince at the scars where I had my lumpectomies. So when we do occasionally manage it, it’s always in the dark with the lights off. Al says it’s more sensual like that—but I don’t think he likes my scars.

  I’ve talked to my best friend Trisha. She says that all men over 50 go off sex and that I should be relieved. She says she has all the action she needs from her battery-operated-boyfriend. She says I need a project. She says a new kitchen will last longer than a two-week vacation and be more useful.

  She’s right.

  Which is why Benson Harding arrives at our front door at 8am, on a crisp, cold morning, a few weeks after Christmas, ready to build the new kitchen.

  He comes highly recommended. I suppose I was expecting a younger guy in his thirties or forties, but Benson is my age, maybe even a little older. He’s very attractive, what Trisha would call a silver fox with an athletic body. But it’s his eyes that get me—dark blue eyes with a starburst of wrinkles at the corners that make it seem like he’s spent a lifetime smiling.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Walters. Your husband spoke to me about your new kitchen.”

  “Yes, and please call me Diane.”

  I like him. I like how polite he is, how friendly. I like how focused he is when he talks about the benefits of hardwood and his favorite white oak. I like that he clears up after himself at the end of the day, always trying to leave me with space to cook. I like that on the days I’m not there, it’s still obvious that he’s done a full day’s work. I like that he laughs at my jokes and I like that he joins me for a coffee mid-morning on the days that I am there.

  He tells me about his grownup daughter and her attempts to get him to try online dating.

  His wife died ten years ago, and his eyes look lost when he talks about her.

  I like that he’s still in love with his dead wife, but it makes me question whether Al is still in love with me. Or I with him.

  He loves the lake in winter when it’s empty and waves pound onto the shore. He loves watching paddleboarders and sometimes still takes out his own board. He likes listening to local bands, especially blues bands, and says he’s learning the saxophone but he’s terrible and the sound frightens the neighbor’s cat, and we both laugh.

  Two weeks into the month-long project, he tells me that he’s got a date that evening. He laughs nervously and says he hasn’t been on a first date for 37 years.

  I laugh too, although I don’t feel like laughing.

  I try to reassure him. I say it’s like riding a bike and it’ll come back to him.

  Then he says to me, “It’s easy talking to you. I don’t know what I’ll say to a stranger.”

  And I realize that in three weeks of talking, we’ve become friends. And I try to remember the last time Al and I talked like we were friends.

  So I try.

  “How was your day, darling?”

  “The usual.”

  “Did you get that new client? Barker something…”

  “No, he went with someone else.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Al doesn’t reply and I try to think of something else to say.

  “Let’s go to the lake this weekend.”

  He glances across at me, puzzled. “It’s February.”

  “I know but it would be fun.”

  “Freezing our asses off, and you know the wind upsets my sinuses.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Okay, well you pick something.”

  “Pick what?”

  “Somewhere to go, something to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything! We could … go for a drive, have lunch out. You know, just enjoy ourselves.”

  “We’ll see,” he says.

  That means no. But I’m not giving up.

  I don’t see Benson the next day because I’m working. I think about calling in sick and staying at home just so I can ask him about his date. I hope it went well. No, I don’t. I want to keep my friend to myself.

  But I can’t.

  Can I?

  All day at work, I’m distracted. I don’t think anyone else notices. And I wonder if anyone notices me at all, anyone who isn’t Benson, because he notices everything.

  The next morning, I’m more anxious than usual to see him. I have a crush on my carpenter. I’m 59 and I’m crushing like a schoolgirl.

  I can’t wait for Al to leave for work.

  The day is overcast and the temperature has dropped during the night.

  “Looks like snow,” says Al. “The kitchen guy might not come to day.”

  My stomach falls to my boots, but Al is wrong. Benson arrives at 8am. He’s never late. I love … I like that about him.

  I make him a coffee even though I know it’ll go cold because he starts right away and gets caught up in his work.

  “Measure twice, cut once,” he mutters to himself.

  It makes me smile.

  I have chores to do, but instead I stare out the window watching the first flurries begin to fall. By mid-morning, there’s an inch of snow on the ground and it’s still falling.

  I head to the kitchen to make more coffee. I’m right. Benson only had a few sips this morning.

  He grins up at me. “Perfect timing.”

  “Coffee?” I ask, holding up his cup. “Or is this your way of telling me you hate my coffee?”

  He laughs. “Nope, best java in the county. But do you know what I’d really like?”

  I hold my breath. It’s stupid, I know.

  “What would you really like?”

  “To make a snowman.”

  “Excuse me?”

  It’s not what I was expecting. Or hoping for.

  “The snow is perfect for making a snowman. Come on! We’ve been working hard. Let’s play a little.”

  And he pulls on his coat, scarf and gloves and rushes into the backyard, his face upturned to the flakes that settle on his long lashes.

  I love how he delights in the simple things in life.

  I pull on my warmest coat and hurry after him.

  We laugh like children as we build our snowman, and Benson wraps his scarf around the chubby neck of our snowy friend.

  Then we go into the kitchen and drink hot chocolate.

  “How was your date?” I ask casually.

  His face lights up.

  I don’t like that.

  “Her name is Jerrie and she’s a school counsellor. Yeah, I think we really hit it off. I’m seeing her again on the weekend.”

  “For Valentine’s Day?”

  I say the words thoughtlessly and helplessly.

  I think he blushes. It might just be the heat from the hot chocolate.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think of that when I asked if I could see her again. But she’s one of those people you just warm to, you know? I’m taking her to my favorite Mexican restaurant.” He grins at me. “I think you’d really like her.”

  I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t.

  He sighs, and his smile slips. “I miss Anna so much. We had a good marriage, like you and Al. But I feel maybe I’m ready to find someone to share my life with again. Maybe. It’s early days.”

  He grins boyishly and I’d have to be blind not to see the stirrings of hope in those dark blue eyes.

  “Well, I’d better get back to work. Another four or five days and you’ll have your new kitchen, Di.”

  His words make me want to cry.

  When he leaves, I know I won’t see him till after the weekend. Watching his tail-lights in the gathering gloom, I do cry, ridiculous tears.

  I’m quiet when Al returns home, but it’s several hours until he notices. He mutes the TV and turns to look at me.

  “You’re quiet.”

  “Mmm.”

  He blinks, uncertain how to continue. “Are you feeling okay?”

  I shrug, not raising my eyes from the page that I’ve been staring at unseeingly. “A little tired.”

  “Do you think you should see the doctor?”

  This makes me glance up. “No. I’m fine.”

  He licks his lips. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” I snap irritably.

  “Because it started last time when you were feeling tired.”

  My annoyance vanishes as I see the ever-present fear lurking in his eyes. “I’m fine, Al. I promise.”

  “You’d tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course I would.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced and keeps glancing at me but I keep my eyes on my book.

  “Did Harding say when he’d finish the kitchen?”

  “A few days.”

  “Good. It’ll be a relief to get our house back.”

  I can’t bear this.