Chapter 31

Chelsea took her half-eaten Frosties to the sink, dumped the remains down the garbage disposal, and tried to screw up her courage while she placed her bowl in Rusty’s small European-sized dishwasher.

Now that the agenda was set, the others had wandered into the living room to welcome Rusty home. She heard them filling him in on the new plan and thanking him for his hospitality. She knew she should probably go add her voice to theirs—Rusty Parker really had gone above and beyond—but she wasn’t sure how convincing she would sound. Not because she wasn’t grateful for all Rusty had done, but because she was wholly preoccupied by the fact that the time for the truth had come. Here in a few minutes, the sweet, seductive smile on Dagan’s face would turn hard and ashy.

Hang tough, her father’s ghostly voice whispered through her head. It had been his go-to phrase anytime things got hard. It was so much simpler than This too shall pass or Life’s full of ups and downs or any of those other trite sayings that always sounded as if they’d fallen straight out of a dog’s ass.

Hang tough, she coached herself. Do what has to be done.

Bracing her hands on the edge of the countertop—their countertop—she closed her eyes and allowed herself a brief moment, just one more second to enjoy the fantasy that this could be the beginning of something. Then she quickly reminded herself that it was the beginning. Of. The. End.

When she turned to face Dagan, her movements felt sluggish, as though she were wading through the Dead Marshes from The Two Towers. To her ears, her voice was a tiny, broken thing when she finally said, “Dagan?”

Maybe it was her tone, maybe it was her face, or then again maybe it was the fact that Dagan Zoelner was no slouch when it came to reading people. Truly, when she considered it, she was surprised that after all these years, he hadn’t intuited that something was seriously wrong between them. But regardless, his expression sobered. “Chels? What is it, babe? What’s wrong?”

If he kept using that endearment, she might lose her ever-loving mind.

“I need to talk to you.” She glanced toward the living room where the others were gathered. Apparently, Ace had told a joke because everyone was laughing while Ace looked on, pleased with himself. What Chelsea wouldn’t give at that moment to trade places with any one of them. But she had made her bed all those years ago, and now it was time she lay in it.

Hang tough.

“In private,” she added. “Will you come upstairs with me?”

The frown line deepened between Dagan’s sleek, dark eyebrows. “Of course.” He dumped the discolored milk from his bowl and added it to the dishwasher.

She could feel him behind her like she could feel her own heart beating in her chest as she made her way to the stairs. It was as if he were part of her. Something fundamental, something crucial, something…she couldn’t live without.

Well, we shall soon see if that’s true.

“And just where do you two think you’re going?” Emily asked, a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“To talk,” Dagan answered for them both. Chelsea was glad. She wasn’t sure she could speak around the Carolina pine–sized lump in her throat.

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?” Emily asked.

“Guest bedroom is the first door on your right after the landing,” Rusty told them after elbowing Emily.

“Thanks,” Chelsea managed. Not brave enough to meet their eyes and see their amused looks, she turned and made her way up the stairs. Each tread felt like a climb up the Wall at the northern border of the Seven Kingdoms.

She tried to think of a way to spin her tale to save Dagan from hurt. But no matter how she rearranged the events in her head, she always ended up in the same place. Total devastation.

By the time she reached the landing, her knees were shaking. When she grabbed the knob on the door to the guest room, she was not surprised to see her fingers trembling.

Hang tough. It became a mantra. Hang tough. Hang tough. Hang tough.

Opening the door, she saw the bedroom was as tastefully decorated as the rest of the house. A big oak four-poster bed took center stage, dressed in a cool cream spread and seafoam throw pillows. The air smell oddly of hibiscus. She assumed that was due to the bowl of potpourri sitting atop the chest of drawers.

She wondered if she would associate the smell of hibiscus with heartbreak for the rest of her life.

“Nice bed,” Dagan said from behind her. “How about we put it to good use and then talk after?”

Before she could turn and answer, he’d booted the door closed and caught her around the waist, pulling her back against him. He used the Beard to nuzzle the juncture of her neck. Goose bumps erupted over her entire body.

For just a second, she allowed herself to lean against him. To feel his heat and strength and unflinching power. She was both lost and found inside his embrace. Torn apart and re-formed into a new whole. It felt wonderful. And awful.

Gently extricating herself from his embrace, she turned to face him. Her voice was a hoarse, strangled-sounding thing. “Z…” She used the nickname intentionally, giving up the intimacy of his name. “We have to talk about Afghanistan.”