“—so we’re going to need to scrap this part of the project and rebuild from the ground up. A total pivot.”

Greg’s voice cuts through the desert heat drying my brain from the inside out in time for me to register that I’m being fucked over. I flip the topmost page on my folio and try to wrench my thoughts into some kind of order, out of the sunburned anger flaring up from the center of my chest.

“That’s—” It’s bullshit, is what it is. I’ve been managing the living hell out of this project—an in-house surveillance plan for a client out in the suburbs—for two weeks.

Two weeks I’ve spent with my mind still at Gillette Castle. That place could be a fortress. I can’t get the wide, green lawns out of my head, or the view from that balcony. Up above the river like that, you could see trouble coming. You could make the walls thick and sturdy and lock the doors, and never encounter a fucking crane again in your life.

“Wes, you’re the best person to run point on that, since you’re our person on the ground. We’ll need to start with the internals first and move on to the—”

“No.”

Greg looks up from his notes, eyebrows slightly raised. I should back down. I should be deferential. He’s my boss. But he’s being a fucking prick in this moment, and I can feel the dust storm particles against my skin, the tearing metal from the crane I walked by on the way to work this morning still ringing in my ears.

I grab the last remaining shred of control with both hands and force myself back into order. “I’ll look at the internals, but the externals need to be set in stone first. If we’re scrapping everything, I want my people to go about it in the right order.” I deliver this news in a tone so nonchalant that there’s no possible way it betrays my fury at being blindsided.

Greg gives me a slow nod. “It’s client feedback behind this push. This is not a referendum on your work.”

Around the table, the other project managers shift in their seats. Part of me, deep down, wants to lower my head, wants to slouch my shoulders and sheepishly apologize for causing a scene. But my heart beats in a sick off-rhythm and there it is, the crunch of the Humvee tires on the gravel road, and fuck that. Fuck that, if I’ll ever apologize for asserting myself. It’s what got me out of Afghanistan and back here alive. Back here to sit at this meeting and watch as Greg reshuffles everything I’ve been devoting my time to.

I put a smile—or at least a neutral expression—on my face, and let myself lean back an inch into my chair. “Of course not.”

“Just so you know.” Greg cracks a smile. Crisis averted. For him, anyway. I need to wash the grit off my hands, out of my eyes. I need to get home to Whitney. She’ll make me feel clean. She’ll make me feel like there are a thousand miles between us and the rest of the world. I know she will.

Whitney flings open the door before I can put my keys in the lock. “Wes.” She sings my name, her voice pitched high with joy, and throws her arms over her head. “You’re home. Finally. God, I’m into you.” She leaps at me, her arms wrapping tight around my neck, and plants a lipsticked kiss on the side of my neck, then another square on the mouth. It arrests the forward motion I was committed to in the hallway.

Get inside.

I have to get inside.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m in such a good mood?” Her dark eyes glow and she bites her bottom lip, rosy with her lipstick. Whit rocks her weight backward, tugging me along with it, and for the life of me, I can’t find her rhythm. All I want is to be inside.

I drop a hand to her waist and pull her close. “I don’t have to ask that. It’s because I’m home.” Another thought rises to the top of my consciousness. “You’re here early.”

She takes a deep breath, as if to scream, and the muscles at my core brace for the piercing sound. “Igotapart.” The words are a breathless jumble. She’s trying to contain herself, but it’s not working very well.

“Tell me again, in English.”

“I. Got. A. Part.” Whitney beams at me, and I take her all in—the little black dress she’d never wear to work. Her hair, sleekly arranged in a twist that’s made for nightlife. The words coming out of her sweet mouth. “A part, Wes. I got a role. I’m officially cast in an off-Broadway show.” She’s incandescent with joy.

“That’s amazing,” I say, because that’s what you’re supposed to say when you’re the boyfriend of an actress. This could be Whitney’s big break. She’s been talking about this audition for a straight week now. I should have seen it coming. “Let’s go inside and celebrate.”

“Go inside?” She waggles a finger at me. “We’re not going inside. We’re going out.” She takes my hands in hers. “This calls for a real celebration. Jesus, Wes, I have so much to tell you. I can’t deliver this news on the same old couch from our old life.”

My head throbs, and I pull her in close, trying to get her to stand still. “Are you sure about that? There are other things we could do to make the celebration—”

“It’s dinner or nothing.” She puts her hands on either side of my face and pulls me in for a kiss that starts out chastely happy and deepens into something racy and dark, and I’m split in two. I would do anything for Whitney. I would say anything for Whitney. But that pain in the back of my neck is spreading up onto the top of my skull and more than anything, I want to throw the deadbolts on the door behind us. The apartment is a far cry from Gillette Castle, with miles of quiet space surrounding it, but at least we can be inside our own walls.

“I’ll cook anything you want. Say the word.”

“No cooking,” Whitney demands. “We’re going out. I’m sure it’s been a long day at work. God knows it’s been hellish for me, having to sit through staff meetings when I had news like this to tell you. There’s so much I have to tell you, Wes. It’s going to be insane.” She puts her palms to the top of her head like there’s no possible way she can hold all the thoughts in. “We can’t possibly cook. Let’s go. Come on. Change your shirt and let’s go.”

Whitney leaps back toward the door and grabs her purse from inside. The words rise to the tip of my tongue—I’d rather celebrate at home—but I swallow them down. I can’t bear the thought of her face falling. I can’t bear the thought of taking any of her joy from her, as much as the outside world grates on me.

A few minutes inside. I’ll take a few minutes inside, and then I’ll be fine. It will all be fine.

“I’ll be right out. Okay? Just let me change my shirt.”

“I’ll be right here.” Whit swings her purse up onto her shoulder and leans against the wall, as sultry and vibrant as she’s ever been. It rips my heart in two. “Waiting for my favorite man.”

“—nights during rehearsal. The schedule is kind of crazy, but that’s okay, right? You’ll have plenty of time to revel in solitude.”

“What?” It’s unbearably loud in Vino, which apparently doubles as some kind of dance club on evenings when I don’t want to be out. They’ve got the music cranked to such a high volume that it’s hard to focus on the words coming out of Whitney’s mouth, despite the fact that her red lipstick highlights every movement of her lips. Desire punches its way up through the haze in my chest. I want to kiss her. But I can’t hold on to the feeling because of that fucking music. “Sorry. I can’t—” I motion around my head.

Whitney tips her head back and laughs, shimmying her shoulders. “I know. It’s so violently loud. But it makes me feel alive. Or maybe it’s the wine. Probably all of it. God, this is such a good day.” The next moment, she’s out of her seat, around at my side of the table. “Dance with me.”

“Christ, no. There are limits.”

“Come on. Dance with me.”

She tugs on my hand. I don’t stand. A body that’s sitting would rather be sitting. “Whit—”

“I can’t hear you,” she says over the music and pulls hard enough that I stand.

“This isn’t that kind of—”

“The hell it’s not.” Whitney swings her hips on the way to a dance floor—an honest-to-God dance floor—crammed against the opposite side of Vino. I slow down, taking over the pace, and she shimmies up to me, laughing, her hands on my waist. “See? Dancing.”

There are two other couples on the dance floor, all of them obsessed with each other. I want to sink into the moment, to let Whitney show me what that’s like, but I can’t.

I can’t.

I’m apart from it.

She’s snugged right up against me. The only thing separating us is our clothes. But she’s on the other side of an impassable divide. I want to lock a door—any door—behind us and tear the fabric away.

My head throbs.

I take Whitney’s hand in mine and spin her out, then back in, the tension easing now that I’m the one leading. I learned how to dance at a program my mom put on at her school, a thousand years ago and a million miles away.

Whitney is beside herself. “I didn’t know you could dance.”

“False. We danced together at my sister’s reception.”

“I didn’t know you could dance like this.”

It was less urgent, at the reception. I wasn’t trying to tame her then. No—that’s not the right word. I wasn’t trying to contain her then. Tonight, it’s a different story.

She moves faster, throwing herself headlong into the moment, ratcheting up the energy on the dance floor. It’s seductive as hell, the way she moves those hips, but I don’t want to be seeing them here. My mind won’t shut off, and that urgent need to be somewhere away from the open, away from being a viable target, buzzes down my skin like a razor.

I catch her on the next spin and she twirls right into me, against my chest.

“Let’s go.”

“Are you kidding?” She turns in my arms and somehow manages to execute the movement so gracefully, it looks like a legitimate dance move. “We’ve only had one glass.”

“Let’s go.”

“Oooh.” Her dark eyes light up at the gravel of my voice. “I like you when you’re like this.”

“Not likely.” I curve my arm around her waist regardless. For once, she comes around without a fight.

I drop too much money on the table—a more-than-generous tip—and Whitney protests. The music echoes in my ears. “It’s fine. We’re celebrating, remember?”

She blushes, furiously happy, and chatters all the way back to the apartment.

I slam the door behind us and flip the locks, then lean my forehead against the cool wood.

“Wes? You okay?” She sounds far away, but she’s only standing in the middle of the living room.

“Long day.” It’s true. It’s been a long fucking day. It’s been a long several years, and some of those years won’t leave me the hell alone.

“Come to bed,” she says wickedly.

It’s nearly an hour later when she curls up against my chest, panting, her cheeks flushed, the little wisps at her hairline curled from the heat. I’ve never been so tired. Not since I was overseas. Every one of my limbs is heavy, weighted down, and Whitney’s body curled against mine anchors me to the bed.

She sighs happily. “We should enjoy this.”

I’m struggling to stay awake, but this rings a warning bell in the back of my mind. “Why? Aren’t we already enjoying it?”

“Things are going to be so crazy, now that I have this role.” She shrugs her shoulders, settling in. “Who knows when it’ll ever settle down?”