Page 43 of Mountain Defender

Decision made, impatient to get it over with, I texted her just past seven AM asking if she wanted to have breakfast together. Not thirty seconds later, her response blinked onto my screen.

That would be great! I’ll cook something this time. How do omelets sound?

They’d sound delicious if my stomach wasn’t lodged somewhere in my esophagus.

As I walk onto the front porch of Rory’s cabin, two steaming coffees from Breakfast Bliss in hand—yes, I know she offered to cook, but I couldn’t show up with nothing—I firmly tell myself to get it together.

There’s no reason to feel nervous about this.

I’ve narrowly dodged missiles while flying through enemy territory. I’ve pulled out teams who were seconds from capture and a torturous death. I pulled myself back from a cripplingdepression and found a life ten times better than I could have imagined.

It’ll be fine. We’ll have breakfast, then head into the living room to talk. I’ll tell her about the accident. My injury. And regardless of her reaction, I’ll handle it.

Pasting a smile on my face, I shift the coffees into one hand and knock on the door with the other.

In the seconds before she answers, I give myself a mental pep talk.

It’s fine. Maybe she won’t look at me differently. This could be a good thing for us.

I can do this.

Then Rory opens the door, and I immediately realize this isnotthe time for unburdening myself.

She’s smiling, just as she always does when she sees me, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Her posture is stiff, either from pain or stress, and she’s tugging at her hair in that nervous way I’ve seen her do when she’s feeling uncomfortable.

“Hi, Gage,” she says, her eyes shifting from my face to the two coffees and back again. “You didn’t have to bring over coffee. I could have made some.”

Even her voice is flat. Unhappy, despite her best attempts to hide it.

“I know. But I got you one of those cinnamon creme lattes you like.” After a moment’s debate, I hug her with one arm, breathing in the soft floral scent of her hair before pulling away. I hand over her coffee while trying to figure out what to do next. Ask her what’s wrong? Pretend I didn’t notice anything? Fill the silence with conversation or keep quiet, hoping Rory will tell me what’s bothering her on her own?

“Thanks.” She takes the coffee and lifts it to her nose, taking a deep sniff of the rich aroma. A smile lifts her lips. “As nice as the coffee maker here is, nothing beats a latte from Breakfast Bliss.”

“They do make good ones,” I agree. Even though I much prefer my coffee black or unsweetened with cream, I tried one of the cinnamon creme lattes at Rory’s encouragement, and I was pleasantly surprised by how good it was.

“I didn’t start breakfast yet,” Rory says in an apologetic tone. “I got a little delayed. But if you don’t mind waiting…”

“Of course not.” I turn to lock the front door, then follow her into the living room. “I’m not in a rush. Do you want some help?”

“What about work?” Halfway to the kitchen, she stops. Turns. “With all the time you’ve been spending here, are you falling behind?”

“Not at all. I’m all caught up on my deadlines. And besides, I only work on the flight simulators part time, so I have the flexibility to be available for GMG whenever the team needs me.”

“Oh. Okay.” She takes a sip of coffee, then sighs in pleasure. “I just wanted to make sure. It’s not that I don’t like you here. But I don’t want to be selfish if there’s other work you need to be doing.”

As Rory gazes up at me, obviously upset but trying hard to disguise it, I ache to hold her. To pull her into my arms, ask her what’s wrong and do whatever it takes to fix it. To kiss the top of her head, like I slipped up and did at her house the other day. To reaffirm that her hair is just as soft and silky as I remember.

Do I ask her? Or let it go?

“Are you okay?” I ask before I can second guess myself. “You just look?—”

Rory flinches. “Do I look bad?”

“No. Not at all. You look beau—” My mouth clamps shut. A beat later, I add, “You just looked a little upset. And I’m wondering if there’s something I can do to help.”

She stares at me for a few seconds, emotion working in her eyes. Her shoulders sag. “It’s just my sister. Whenever we talk, it stresses me out. But it’s not a big deal.”

“If it bothers you, it’s a problem.” Rory almost never mentions her sister, aside from a few basic details—her name is Emily, she lives in Boston with her husband, and Rory only sees her once or twice a year.

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