Page 130 of Enthrall Ecstasy
“My assistant booked this.” He shook his head. “I told her I was meeting you. For some reason, she thought this was what we were going for.”
“She probably doesn’t know L.A.,” I said.
“She lives here.” With a smile, he added, “And so do I.”
“Since when?”
“A week ago.”
“Cameron didn’t say anything.”
“He thought it best to wait and see how I liked living here before we announced it.”
“Cole Tea headquarters is now in L.A?”
He gave a nod and that confident smile still looked good on him. No arrogance, merely the assured look of someone who had a different kind of benchmark…a man of his word, someone who could be trusted.
Someone who’d almost died for his country.
Every day we lived was a gift.
I knew they’d completed construction on Cole Tower. Cameron had given me a tour, but not mentioned having his brother here.
“You’ve got to come visit,” said Henry.
“Of course.” I leaned back, grateful at the thought of having him around. “You look good,” I said. “How have you been?”
“Can’t complain. How about you?” he said. “Going old school with the beard, I see.”
Because we’d all worn beards back in Afghanistan.
Caressing it, I gave a nod. “It’s a change.”
“Have you heard from anyone?”
“Only a few. You?”
He looked away. “I didn’t exactly leave Afghanistan on a high note.”
“Jesus, you left there a fucking hero.”
That old familiar guilt found me again, that he’d been the one captured. Henry had gone back in to rescue one of our own. Mortar fire had cut him off. That mission had left one dead and Henry in the hands of the enemy.
The terrorists had inflicted the kind of cruelty that was hard to stomach. I didn’t want to think of their name, let alone say it. They didn’t deserve one more brain cell wasted on them.
Henry Montgomery Cole had sacrificed it all for his men.
For me.
I owed him my life.
I was courteous enough not to bring up his PTSD. We all had it to a degree—it was an old enemy waiting to rise up and ruin our fucking day.
I’d seen first-hand how it had ravaged his life, his psyche and his heart. He was doing better now; though with him in New York and me here I’d not been around to witness any further flare-ups.
He seemed to read my thoughts. “I’m doing EMDR therapy. Seems to help.”
“I’ve heard of it,” I said. “Eye movement desensitization.”
