BOOKER

Shit. She’s not wrong. I could argue I was so damn young, so full of beans—as well as about a thousand conflicting emotions. That I was excited about my decision to join the Army and what I was convinced would be the glory of war. But the truth is, I didn’t do a single one of the things she just listed. Well, I tried to call, but when it didn’t work out I didn’t follow up. I also wrote my very first letter to her to tell her I loved her and let her know what I had done. But we both know how well those worked out between us. Other than that, I didn’t go out of my way.

Annnnd...I guess I owe it her to actually say some of this to her, face to face, instead of trying to justify my behavior to myself.

I meet her gaze head on. “I’m sorry.”

She blinks up at me. “What?”

I can’t help the small smile tugging up one corner of my mouth, because it is clearer than Seattle’s blue sky in summer she didn’t expect that. “I said I’m sorry. You’re right. I was livid with my father for dragging me to the U-dub like a ten-year-old schoolboy. And I was thrilled to be going off to war. I thought I was going to save the world from the Jerrys and have a big adventure while I was at it.” I shake my head at my long-lost innocence, but it was nothing short of the truth at the time. Briefly remembering the time when I still had those beliefs, makes my sudden laugh drier than dust. “Turns out, my view of what I assumed war would be was wildly romanticized and about as far off center as it gets.”

Looking at her, I realize I have a gut-deep need to win back Lena’s respect. Hell, who am I kidding, to win back her love. And what the hey, now seems like a good time to start.

But before I can say a word, I see Lena shiver and, with a silent sigh, I take her arm. “Look, let’s go inside and warm you up. I’ll tell you anything, everything, you want to know. We should have sat down and had a serious conversation a long time ago.”

“It’s too loud inside to carry on a conversation.”

I grimace. “Yeah. There is that. I’m sorry if I ruined your night to dance.”

She shrugs, and I have no clue if it means Don’t worry about it, not a problem, or Big problem, but what the hell can a girl expect from a palooka like you?

She wouldn’t be wrong about option two. I haven’t once tried to woo her. Haven’t taken her on a date or even shown her the smooth, savoir-faire I was known for in Paris, and have gained a reputation for here in Seattle as well, once I got the club up and running.

I look at Lena, not feeling smooth in the slightest right this moment, yet determined to set things straight between us. “Maybe Will’ll let me borrow his car for a while. You and I could try to find an open diner somewhere. Give us a chance to sit down over a cup of coffee, identify any other misunderstandings we might have and deal with them once and for all.” Okay, it’s hardly two dozen roses or taking her to the top floor of the Sorrento Hotel for dinner and the best view in town. But it would be a start.

Lena is shaking her head even before I finish. “Who knows how long that could tie up his car?” she asks, but mildly, her voice and attitude displaying no rancor. “We have no idea when he and the girls might be ready to go home, so I’d be a nervous wreck worrying about leaving them stranded.”

She suddenly stands a little straighter. “Why don’t we just go in and have some fun with my friends?” she counters. “I swear I’m not trying to avoid a conversation—this simply doesn’t seem like the greatest time or the place. But you could drive me back to the Women’s Residence when we get back to the club. Or to a diner for a piece of pie if you know of any twenty-four-hour ones downtown. We’ll talk then.”

I bend my knees slightly to look into her eyes. “Really talk, Lena. No dancing around the stuff you don’t want to say.”

“Yes. All our cards on the table.” Her eyes are solemn, and as she nods with matching earnestness, her pale, pretty hair swishes against her cheekbones. “Because, you’re right. We need to have a serious sit-down. We are long overdue.”

I squeeze her shoulders and step back. I want to kiss her again—quite desperately I want that. But one lesson my father managed to teach me was to know when to walk away.

“Then that’s the plan,” I whip her around and sling an arm over her shoulder, tucking her against my side. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside before you turn into a popsicle.”