Page 55 of Unexpected Heroine

Not the time for sass, Josh.

My mind and heart engage in a battle of wills to see which will bring me to my knees first.

It was bad enough that a semi-strange man barged into the house without warning in the midst of a shitastrophe. Yet it’s what he said that rocked my world. Now, I’m left replaying conversations from the past few days where James has interacted with his Redleg peers.

I can’t remember a single time that someone referred to him by his name.

No James. No Jimmy, Jim, or J. Not even his last name, Harris.

It’s been T or Tomer.

On the night of my rescue, I was out of it and couldn’t be sure what I heard. The man in the weapons room called him T. His boss called him Tomer when we were racing out of there. A few other people I can’t pinpoint did too. Each time it’s popped back into my mind since then, I dismissed it, chalking it up to my trauma.

Then I heard it again the other day.

That giant guy... What’s his name? Leo. When he got into the SUV, he hollered Tomer.

Now, Josh has done it too.

James answers to it every damn time.

Unfortunately, I can’t process the implications of this revelation because he’s bolting down the hallway at full speed.

Away from me.

As I run past the foyer, attempting to catch up to James—or should I call him T—Josh offers a half wave before slinking out and closing the door behind him.

I linger in the hall, peering into the office while James returns the items to the drawers where he got them. Once done, he shuts off the light and brushes past me.

As much as I want to scream at him to calm down and talk to me, I won’t do it.

Every woman has been told to calm down in a moment of justifiable rage. It’s probably worked a whopping zero times.

But at this moment, I sort of get it because I desperately need him to chill the fuck out.

Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards. He’s incapable of speaking, let alone bottling up the confusing emotions pulsing through his body. It’s relatable, even if I’m not in the same head space for once.

The hollow ache in my chest has nothing to do with the bruised ribs. It’s solid anguish for this man and what he witnessed.

For a moment, I imagine the feelings I’m having now—pain for his suffering and not mine—must be what he’s been dealing with these last days.

Like he’s done for me, I’ll attempt to pull it together. Shelter and comfort him. Protect him from darkness.

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for whatever’s about to happen as I follow him down the hall.

As soon as he gets into the open expanse of the living room, his pace slows to an abrupt halt. He turns to face me to make sure I’m coming. Of course I am. I might as well start wearing a collar for as much as I follow him like a puppy.

As he watches me approach, he extends his hand toward me, palm facing upward. Without hesitation, I lace our fingers together and let his familiar skin infuse me with strength.

For a second, I pretend my mind isn’t barreling down a one-way street in the wrong direction. During rush hour. With a tire blown out. The check engine light flashing. Smoke billowing from under the hood.

It’s taking everything in me to avoid confronting him about his name, but I know it’s not the right time. I’m trying to be rational about this.

You know? Anti-Lettie Holt.

He tugs on my hand, pulling my body toward his. I go willingly into his embrace. Despite his stone face, he vibrates with tension. When I rest my cheek on his chest, his speeding heartbeat thumps against it ferociously.

I attempt to lend him some of my composure, squeezing my arms around his waist with extra oomph.

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