I orgasm before Ladd does, and I’m left bereft even as pleasure overtakes me. The orgasm I have is as strong as he’s ever given me, maybe even more so since it’s been so long and I’ve missed him so much. But I’m sad we didn’t topple over the edge together, to share in that bond we once had. Ladd and I were always so connected in heart, body, and mind that we often came together. We often experienced that beautiful moment at the deepest connection one can experience with another person.

  I know deep in my soul he purposely held off his orgasm until I had mine. Sharing his body, taking my mind off things, making me feel better. But he’s not going to give me that very special part of him I used to have.

  He’s not going to share his soul and his love with me because there is none to give.

  ♦

  When it’s over, and our heart rates have normalized, Ladd rolls onto his back. I can’t tell if he has the immediate regret that I imagine will hit him at some point, but he doesn’t make a move to scurry away.

  What I wouldn’t give to curl into him, but I know the moment where he’ll give me comfort and care for what I’ve been through has passed. I can feel the wall back between us, as strong as ever.

  I stay silent, not daring to move.

  Not daring to say a word because even with the invisible wall between us, and the fact he’s not touching me at all, I’ll still take his nearness for as long as he’ll give it. I know when he walks out that door, I’ll never see him again.

  And then it happens, way faster than I want it to.

  “I should go,” he says as he starts to roll in the opposite direction.

  “I came to see you ten years ago,” I blurt, lifting up onto one elbow and angling toward him.

  Ladd freezes in place, neck craning to look at me, disbelief painted on his face.

  “It’s true.” My words come out rushed, hoping it will spark conversation and maybe he’ll let me make amends. “You were living in Falls Church at the time. I had knocked on your door, but you weren’t home. I waited across the street in my car for you to come back. And you did.”

  “Ten years ago,” he repeats slowly, I’m sure knowing exactly the time frame I’m talking about.

  I nod. “You got out of the car, and then you helped a woman out of the passenger seat. She was pregnant. And that’s when I saw your wedding ring.”

  Something flashes across Ladd’s face. I think it’s anger, but it’s gone so suddenly that maybe I imagined it.

  “So,” I say hesitantly, feeling the thread of the connection we just had almost fully evaporate. “Did you have a boy or a girl?”

  “A boy,” Ladd says softly.

  “And what happened with you and your wife?” I press.

  “What makes you think anything happened?” He’s irritated, but I don’t have the ability to stop this torture.

  “You wouldn’t have slept with me if you were married,” I say with certainty. “So you’re either separated or divorced. You’re most definitely not seeing anyone, or you wouldn’t have a condom in your wallet. You’re not that type of guy.”

  There’s that flash again, and it’s most definitely irritation. “You don’t know anything about me anymore. I could be that type of guy.”

  I shake my head. “No. You’d never be that type of guy. At your core, you’re too honorable.”

  Ladd scrubs his hand over his face, eyes flitting to the window. He’s collecting his thoughts, and I wait to see what he wants to discuss. I wait for him to ask me why I showed up at his place all those years ago.

  But he doesn’t.

  Instead, he stands and glances back down at me. “I need to go. I want to get a flight back to Pittsburgh tonight.”

  And just like that, it’s over.

  Without another word, he moves into the bathroom and shuts the door. I scramble off the bed, pulling my clothes on. I wear them like armor and move into the main living area. I wait by the window that overlooks the parking lot. Somewhere down there, Ladd most likely has a car he’ll take to the airport to catch a flight back to his life in Pittsburgh.

  I hear him come out of the bathroom, the sound of him getting dressed. I keep my eyes pinned on the parking lot.

  “Greer,” he says from behind me, and I turn to see him at the edge of the short hall that leads to the door. He has car keys in hand.

  I stand where I am, knowing inherently he doesn’t want a goodbye hug or for me to make this awkward.

  “Safe travels,” I say with a smile.

  “You too,” he replies. My heart squeezes when I see the indecision in his eyes and know it’s causing him pain.

  I don’t want him to have another painful moment at my expense.

  “I’m okay,” I say with a nod toward the door. “You should go.”

  For a moment, he holds my eyes and then nods at me.

  I’m already turning to look out the window before the door shuts behind him.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ladd

  Rinsing out my coffee cup, movement out the window over the sink catches my eye. A dark gray Tahoe is coming up my driveway. It snowed early this morning, but only a few inches accumulated. I hear the crunch of the snow and gravel as the Tahoe pulls onto the parking pad in front of the porch.

  My heart rate picks up with joy as the passenger door opens and my son, Ethan, bounds out with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s got sunny-blond hair like his mom, worn a bit too long for my taste as former military, but I indulge his desire for individuality. I can’t see them from here, but he has my blue eyes.

  Britney gets out of the driver’s seat and comes around the front of the Tahoe, her heavy winter coat doing nothing to hide her rounded belly that comes into view before the rest of her. She has a hand at her lower back, and I know from watching her pregnancy with Ethan that it hurts.

  I’m turning from the window when Ethan bursts through the front door and yells, “Dad! I’m home.”

  He looks right into the living room and then left into the kitchen, sees me, and tears around the island. Christ, he’s getting big and nearly bowls me over as he throws himself at me. I pick him up—glad for my strength that I can heft my ten-year-old who still thinks it’s cool to hug his parents.

  Ethan’s arms band tight around my neck for a moment.

  “Missed you, kid,” I say gruffly.

  “Missed you too,” he replies, then he’s squirming to be let down. Affection time is over.

  My eyes go to the backpack he tossed on the floor, and I nod at it. “You know it doesn’t go there.”

  “Right.” His grin is impish, and he runs back into the foyer and grabs the pack just as Britney walks in. He runs up the stairs and disappears from sight.

  Britney closes the door and smiles fondly up the staircase after him before turning my way. “I swear they ply that kid with meth at school. I don’t know where that energy comes from.”

  I snicker and move her way, bending to place a light kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for picking him up for me.”

  “No problem,” she replies lightly, not bothering to remove her coat. She’s not staying because we’re no longer married, but we have remained very good friends. A relationship that many marvel at and most can’t understand.

  Britney and I called it quits when Ethan was just five, but we did so with a deep commitment to doing our best to keep Ethan happy. We felt the only way to achieve that was to co-parent with open hearts and a vow to keep any animosity that might brew up—because let’s face it, there’s a reason people get divorced—between ourselves, and never in front of him.

  It’s worked out well.

  Better than well, actually, as the divide that broke our marriage seemed to mend once we divorced and settled in as nothing more than friends. We stayed in the DC area until last year when Britney wanted to move to Pittsburgh because her new husband, Ben, got a great job offer. He’s a surgeon, now working at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center.

  Up until then, I worked as an analyst in the headquarters at Langley, having left behind my career in clandestine affairs when I married Britney. I wanted a family more than the adventure, and I was ready to settle down.

  But when Britney told me about Ben’s new job and that they were moving, I knew there was no way I was going to be separated from my son, even if it was a quick flight. Our custody arrangement is loose and laid-back, and if I want to see Ethan on any day that she has him, I’m welcome to do so. Same goes for her. There was no way I was going to miss baseball games and chances to help with homework or deprive him of any need he might have of me.

  So I left the CIA and joined Jameson, and I’ve not regretted my decision once. Ethan is the most important thing in my life. Where he goes, so do I.

  My son bounds down the stairs, taking two at a time. Britney chastises him, but I just grin at his energy and absolute disregard for safety.

  That’s what boys do.

  “Give me a hug,” Britney demands, and because Ethan is a sweet kid who loves his mother the way he loves me, he gives her a good one.

  “Can I play Fortnite, Dad?” he asks once released from his mother’s hold.

  I glance at my watch. “Thirty minutes, then it’s on to homework.”

  “Awww… come on,” he protests. “An hour.”

  “You heard your dad,” Britney chimes in, giving him a stern look. “Accept your thirty minutes graciously, or you can start your homework now.”

  Ethan’s eyes come to mine, but I nod toward his mom. “What she said. Thirty minutes, then homework.”

  Huffing his disappointment, he moves into the living room. When his back is turned, Britney holds out her fist. I bump mine against it.

  One of the things we agreed upon early when we separated is that we would be united in all decisions and would never let Ethan play us against one another. The Golden Rule is when a parent lays down a rule in the house, the other supports it. If we disagree, we discuss it in private and adjust as necessary. Britney and I have remained a united parental block, and in my opinion, Ethan has flourished under the consistency, despite the fact he has divorced parents.

  “Okay, I’m out of here.” Britney turns to the door. “Ben wants to grab an early dinner.”

  “You mean, you want to grab an early dinner,” I tease, and she blushes.

  “I can’t help it if I’m tired and ready for bed at seven p.m. You try carrying around a watermelon in your stomach all day and tell me if you have the energy for anything past that time.”

  “Touché,” I acknowledge.

  I open the door for her, and she starts to walk out, offering one last smile. But the smile slips, and she hesitates. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “Why?”

  Because I haven’t been okay since I returned to Pittsburgh from Langley two nights ago. I can’t stop thinking about Greer, the incredible time we spent in bed together, and the fact that she sought me out ten years ago.

  Why? What did she want? Why didn’t she stay and talk to me?

  And why the fuck do I care? I should never have had sex with her, and yet I was powerless to stop it.

  Ultimately, I have to accept we’re still incendiary together, but it was a onetime thing. I’ve moved on.

  But she will not leave my mind, and to say that all kinds of emotions are stirred up—both good and bad, but mostly confusing—is an understatement.

  “I’m fine,” I say to Britney with a confident smile.

  “You don’t look fine,” she says suspiciously.

  “Would I lie to you?” I reply.

  “Yes, you would. To keep me from worrying about you.”

  She’s not wrong about that.

  “I’m good,” I insist, putting my hand to her back and gently nudging her out the door. “Go eat your early old-woman dinner with Ben. Tell him I said hello, and to give you a back rub tonight.”

  Britney wrinkles her nose. “It’s weird that you tell Ben all the tips we learned when we were pregnant with Ethan.”

  “It’s weird we’re still friends and you married a guy I happen to like,” I counter.

  She returns with a “touché” of her own and grins, then waddles out the door. Her due date is in two weeks, but she was early with Ethan, so we’re all ready for it to happen at any time. Ethan is beyond excited that he’s going to have a little sister.

  I yell at Britney to be careful on the roads. She waves back and I shut the door, locking it. I stand there a moment, watching through the glass to make sure she’s safely in the car. When she’s reversing from the parking pad, I turn away.

  Poking my head in the living room, I consider letting Ethan know we’re having pizza for dinner, but it’s unnecessary. The kid would eat pizza three times a day, every day, if I let him. I don’t disturb him since his game time is limited on school nights and head back into the kitchen to start dinner. I’ve taken a few days off since returning from El Salvador and had time today to make homemade pizza dough and sauce, which is cooling on the stove. Now I just have to get the toppings ready, which is quite the undertaking since my kid loves his pizza like I do, loaded with everything under the sun.

  From the fridge I grab red bell pepper, pepperoni—the good kind, not pre-sliced—ground sausage, a block of mozzarella, and mini portobello mushrooms. Out of the pantry, an onion and a tin of anchovies. Yes, Ethan and I are adventurous eaters, although we both agree ham and pineapple have no business on a pizza.

  As I grab a pan to sauté the sausage, I have a moment of sorrow that Fortnite is more important to Ethan than cooking with his dad. It’s something we enjoy doing together, but at this age, it’s not as important to him. Sucks, because cooking together is an amazing way to bond and have great conversation.

  I learned to love cooking from Greer.

  The pan clatters from my hand onto the stove after I shock myself that she popped into my mind like that.

  And not just a mere thought popping into my mind, but a memory of how much we loved to cook together. Sure, there were times we’d pull out strawberries and whipped cream and that alone would be our meal—and it usually ended up with us naked in the kitchen. But mostly it was about using the time to keep our hands busy while we talked about everything from the mundane things that happened during our day to deep philosophical debates. Our duties with the CIA made quality time hard. We didn’t do joint missions, but in between them—which would often be weeks at a time—we spent every moment together.

  Cooking became our thing. We’d only been together three months—starting with that amazing night in Colombia—when the nature of our relationship changed from just great sex, affection, and fun cooking into something else altogether.

  “Here, slice these olives,” Greer had told me, handing me a bowl of kalamatas. We were on vacation in Santorini, both of us having finished exhausting missions. She’d been in Guatemala, and I’d been in the Czech Republic. Neither was particularly dangerous—just some routine human intel, which was the general gist of what we did for the CIA—but we’d been apart for almost a month. We had three glorious weeks off together, and we chose Greece as our playground.

  “What?” I exclaimed with mock offense. “No way. That’s sissy work.”

  “How can it be sissy work when you get to use a sharp knife?” she asked as she smashed garlic cloves.

  I nabbed the tiny paring knife she’d laid beside the bowl. “This is not a manly weapon.”

  “I half expect you to pull a huge blade from behind your back à la Crocodile Dundee and say, ‘Now this is a knife.’” She said it with a convincing Aussie accent and everything. But in the end, she nodded at the olives. “Get to work.”

  She started a pot of water for the orzo and chattered about silly things, and I listened attentively while I sliced olives.

  It was when she was telling me a story about how she was on a Girl Scout camping trip when she was eleven and in a game of truth or dare one night, she ate some wild mushrooms. Luckily, they were the non-psychedelic kind. Unluckily, while not poisonous, they caused immense “gastric distress,” as she put it, and became the most unpopular girl on that trip.

  I chuckled as I continued my task, eyes never wavering from my knife because while it was very small, it had a mightily sharp edge, and I didn’t want to lose the tip of my finger.

  When I noticed Greer had gone silent, I paused my slicing and turned my attention to her. As always happened when I looked at her, a rush of attraction blew through me. Her beauty was almost criminal, but mostly I had such a deep, unyielding care for her, it scared me sometimes. I’d never had feelings like this for anyone in my life.

  When our eyes met, she stared at me with an intensity I’d not seen before.

  “What?” I asked, placing the knife on the butcher block.

  “I just told you a really embarrassing, gross story about myself, and you just chuckled and never missed a beat cutting those olives.”

  I frowned, not catching her drift. “So?”

  “I’ve never told anyone that story. Not even my parents.”

  “And?” I drawled.

  “You didn’t even grimace. Or say that it was nasty.”

  I turned fully toward her, leaning against the counter. “Not sure I understand where you’re going with this.”

  “You love me,” she said, as if it was a revelation.

  And while I’d never given her those words, the minute she said them, I knew no truer words had ever been spoken.

  “Yeah… I do.”

  It was monumental what was happening at that moment. They were big words, but I’m not sure they were ever really needed. Greer and I said things to each other all the time that were far more important.

  You get me like no one else does.

  You fulfill me.

  My life is infinitely brighter with you in it.

  I’ve never been happier.

  I can’t wait to wake up beside you in the morning.

  Over and over again, we had a million endearments. “I love you” seemed almost paltry next to the acknowledgment we gave our feelings for each other on a daily basis.