Chapter 16
“It’s not over.” Kate shook her head, motioning for Oz to pass into her apartment ahead of her and then locking the door. “But it’s good news. The guy they caught today is a linchpin in the local Citizens First group. The police aren’t sure they can charge him with much more than disorderly conduct, but hopefully this arrest will put him on notice and scare the rest of the group into submission.”
Oz looked unconvinced as he dropped onto her sofa. She didn’t blame him—she wasn’t nearly as optimistic as she tried to sound. The man who’d thrown the road flares had been identified as Wayne Seibert, one of the area’s key spokesmen for Citizens First. Although the attack was vicious and clearly motivated by hate, Wayne knew his rights and conducted himself carefully so as to avoid anything more than a misdemeanor charge, according to Detective Hegarty. As much as she hoped the group’s activities declined from today, in all honesty she doubted they would.
She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter and stole a glance out the window. The wedding shop was closed, but sometimes her landlady came in on Sunday evenings to do paperwork. There was no sign of her yet, and hopefully she’d stay away, otherwise Kate had no doubt she’d be at the door asking who owned the Mercedes in the parking lot.
She opened and closed a kitchen cabinet distractedly. “Can I get you something? Water, coffee, tea? Or are you hungry? It’s after six, do you want dinner? I’m not sure what I have, I meant to go to the grocery store this afternoon but then—”
“But then you had to rush over to the stadium,” he supplied. “I didn’t think about how much I’ve disrupted your day already when I asked to come back with you. Don’t worry about dinner, we’ll order something. I’ll pay for it.”
“You didn’t disrupt my day. And I’m glad you’re here. You’re welcome anytime.” She crossed the room and sat down beside him, sliding a comforting hand over his thigh. He’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt and still smelled fresh and clean from his post-match shower. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to straddle him and unzip his fly. But his weary expression reminded her to be gentle.
An image of the way she’d found him in the tunnel flashed in her mind, and she tightened her grip on his leg. They’d spent most nights together over the last week, and she’d gotten to know more of his relaxed, funny, charming side every day. It made seeing him in pain even worse, his powerful body trembling from the force of his distress.
He smiled weakly and covered her hand with his own. “What were you doing when you got the call to come down to the stadium?”
“I was at work. I’m really struggling to meet my sales targets. The Skyline account is just about keeping me afloat, but Rich is trying his best to horn in on my commission. I don’t know what I’ll do if he succeeds.” She exhaled and flopped back against the cushion.
“Roland knows only to call you, not Rich. Anyway, he doesn’t like Rich, thinks he’s too pushy. Do you want me to talk to someone in accounts? I can make sure they only put your name on the invoice payments.”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but there’s no point. Rich is the boss, and if he decides that he deserves some sales allocation from the Skyline account, I can’t stop him. Maybe I should start looking for a new job anyway. I suck at sales.”
“It’s a tough market. On my street alone there must be four different security providers’ signs on people’s lawns.”
“I’m better on the implementation side. Setting out the actual security strategies, not selling the idea of them. There’s less money in it, but I could live with that.”
He stretched his long legs and leaned back, crossing his arms. “Was it your plan to get into private security when you left the Army?”
“No. I heard about the job in Saudi from someone else who ETSed the same time I did and took it for the paycheck. Then a recruiting agency for veterans pointed me toward Peak Tactical. I had no plan—still don’t.”
“I couldn’t live with that kind of ambiguity. That’s where you and I differ.”
He smiled, but she couldn’t return it. The point at which they differed was a hell of a lot wider than whether or not she had a plan. Never mind the big things like education and money, he had a whole system for rotating which socks he wore and she spent most mornings rooting through the clothes on her bedroom floor to pick whatever was least wrinkled.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, checking the screen. “My parents want to have a video call. I texted them about what happened at the stadium, now they’re worrying. Do you mind if I speak to them quickly?”
“Of course not. I’ll go in the bedroom. Call me when you’re done.”
She half-stood but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back down.
“I’m not talking to your parents,” she protested.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not—We’re not—”
He arched a brow. “Aren’t we? I think we are, for now at least.”
She bit her lower lip, caught between excitement and disbelief. No matter what Oz had said or done over the last week, on some level she always braced for the letdown that was so familiar. Whether it was an afterthought clarification that by short-term he meant strictly sexual, a pretend-sincere insistence that they remain friends or preferably friends with benefits, or a flat-out line about not seeing other again, she was pretty sure she’d heard them all. She’d long ago learned not to get her hopes up, and as a result she didn’t get her heart broken, either.
Meeting Oz’s parents—even if for only a few minutes on a blurry video chat—implied a degree of commitment she’d given up on years ago. She wasn’t sure whether to be delighted or terrified.
Oz tapped his parents’ number with his thumb. “I’ll just introduce you. They know who you are, but only in a professional capacity.”
She wanted to ask why—because they weren’t serious enough to tell them, or because they wouldn’t like her? Then again, maybe she didn’t want to know the answer.
He looked up at her as if something had suddenly occurred to him. “Have you told your family about me?”
She pursed her lips. “Yes.”
“The whole story?”
She nodded. “But you haven’t met my mom and sister. Telling them anything is like telling—” She clamped her mouth shut as the sound of ringing resonated from the phone. After a couple of seconds the screen lit up and two faces appeared.
Kate smiled nervously as Oz began speaking in what she assumed was Turkish, since it sounded nothing like the language he spoke with Roland. She tried not to stare, but a brief glance told her Oz’s good looks were genetic. His father looked like a slightly swarthier, more angular version of George Clooney, and his mother had the same large, dark eyes, and thick black hair. They were seated in front of shelves packed with books and Oz’s mother wore one of those little silk scarves Kate imagined sophisticated European women were born knowing how to tie exactly right.
She thought of the video calls she’d had with her family while she was in Saudi Arabia. The TV blaring in the background, her sister screeching at Dallas to quit whatever she was doing, her mom standing up mid-sentence to refill her wine glass.
For a second she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She wasn’t like them. She could do this. She could live up to the commitment this moment promised. She could be the woman Oz wanted.
Hell, apparently she already was.
“Kate, these are my parents, Murat and Alara. This is Kate,” he said in English, snapping her to attention. She waved feebly. Hopefully his parents didn’t speak much English and they could get this over with quickly.
“Hello Kate,” his parents said in unison, and his father added, “Such a pleasure to meet you. We’ve heard all about the great job you’ve done on Özkan’s house.”
“Oh, okay,” she replied, feeling more awkward by the second. His parents’ accents were thicker than his, but clearly they both spoke perfect English. Probably better than she did.
“We know how particular Oz is about his house—and his clothes, and his car, and his food—so that can’t have been an easy task for you.” His mother’s smile was encouraging in a conspiratorial, woman-to-woman way.
“We got there in the end,” she said breezily, trying to remain neutral and not read judgment into every nuance of their expressions.
“Özkan says you’re from Georgia originally?” His father asked.
“Yup, a small town north of Atlanta.”
“Everyone tells us we should see Georgia in the spring, but for some reason we always find ourselves visiting at the beginning of the soccer season in February or toward the end in the autumn.” Alara rolled her eyes self-effacingly as if admitting to something idiotic. If she knew that yesterday Kate’s mom had absentmindedly put the garage-door opener through the slot in a post-office drop box she might have a different perspective. “One of these days we’ll get there in time to see the azaleas and dogwoods blooming.”
“You must find your way to Sweden,” Murat said with a warm smile. “Summer is the most beautiful time here, and we have a wonderful cottage on Faro, a little island up north. It takes a while to get there because it’s so remote, and requires changing planes, then—”
“Okay, Baba, she doesn’t need to know the full logistics right now,” Oz interrupted. “Everything’s fine. We need to get dinner and the two of you need to go to bed.”
Alara smirked at her husband and said something in Turkish that made him laugh. From Oz’s narrowed eyes Kate suspected it was at his expense.
The three of them spoke in Turkish for another minute, then Oz said in English, “Goodnight, talk to you later.”
Kate waved and his parents waved back, reiterating how pleased they were to meet her. She blushed and mumbled something approximating agreement, then Oz cut the call.
She started to say something about how nice his parents were when he pulled one of her legs over his and kissed her, his hands on her cheeks, his mouth soft and warm.
She crossed her wrists behind his neck, exhaling contentedly. This was the proof that they worked, when on paper they made no sense at all.
She wasted so much energy on anxious will-he, won’t-he thoughts, lost hours of sleep tossing and turning and mentally inventorying all the incompatibilities that would eventually doom them. She had to stop. She had to learn to stifle every one of her doubtful instincts and trust him.
“Thank you for that,” he murmured against her temple. “I know I ambushed you.”
“It’s okay. Your parents seem great. And they speak English.”
“Most Swedes do. Swedish isn’t a language that gets you very far in the rest of the world.”
“But were you speaking to your parents in Turkish?”
He nodded. “Turkish at home, Swedish in school.”
“Wow. That seems so fancy. Very different to my family,” she admitted.
He stretched one arm along the back of the couch. “You haven’t told me much about them.”
She raised a shoulder. “Not much to tell. I’ve got my mom, my sister and my niece, all crammed into our little house in Jasper. They don’t go anywhere, don’t do much of anything, so there’s not a lot to say about them.”
“Say something anyway.”
She sighed. “Well, being a serial dater is the closest thing my mom’s had to a career. She drinks too much, smokes too much, spends too much energy on too many men. My sister’s slightly better off, but only because she’s hung up on her ex. Between the two of them there’s usually one part-time job, but it always ends with one of them not turning up because they’re hung over or quitting because the latest man has promised he’s going to take care of them.”
“And your niece?”
“Who knows.” Kate threw up her hands. “She’s having a real hard time in school, and I’ve paid for a whole bunch of extra help, plus all sorts of hobbies and activities that will hopefully keep her out of trouble and eventually get her out of Jasper. But she’s only six—there’s a lot of years left for her to fall into the same pattern as her mom and grandma.”
“Sounds stressful.”
“It is. I’m not Dallas’s mother, but I feel like her whole future is my responsibility.” She sighed.
“Do you have a picture of your family?”
“Yup.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and scrolled to a photo of them in a line on the couch on the Fourth of July. “My mom, my sister Emily, and my sister’s daughter, Dallas. The Mitchell women. Three generations.”
He studied the photo. “Your niece is cute.”
“And Emily’s the pretty sister. Go on, you can say it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told her dismissively, handing back the phone. “What’s the story with your dad?”
“Nothing original. Mom had me when she was seventeen. They were both in high school, he tried to be involved for the first year or so, then lost interest. He moved to Nevada when I was three, haven’t heard from him since. Emily has a different father. He’s still around in Jasper, used to take us places on the weekends and stuff. He’s a nice enough guy.”
“And Dallas’s father?”
She rolled her eyes. “Also still around. He and my sister only speak when they want to fight with someone, then they have make-up sex and ignore each other for another few weeks. He does pay child support, and my sister was out of high school when she got pregnant, so I guess that’s our version of social mobility.”
“I’d say you’ve raised the bar a little higher than that.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged.
“You’re so hard on yourself,” he chided, shaking his head. “You’ve traveled, served in the military, transitioned to the private sector and supported your family the whole time. What else do you want to achieve before you’ll give yourself credit?”
His question shot straight through to her core, momentarily robbing her of words. She’d never asked herself that before. Just assumed she was second-best, would always be second-best. What, specifically, did she think would finally satisfy her? A college degree wouldn’t hurt, nor would a higher salary or owning a house, but those were things everyone wanted. They were materialistic—they wouldn’t fundamentally define her.
Then what would?
Oz. If a man like him loved me—if he loved me—that would be enough.
“I don’t know,” she lied.
“Then you should figure it out. You’ll never win if you don’t know what you’re playing for.”
“Thanks, professor.” She stood and stretched. “Are you hungry?”
“Very. But we’re not done here.” He leaned forward, took her hands and tugged her back down beside him. She widened her eyes inquiringly.
“Next weekend’s match is in Boston.”
“I know. Roland asked me to travel to all the away fixtures until this Citizens First nonsense is resolved.”
“You remember I went to college in Boston?”
“Of course.”
“I still have a big group of friends there. Two of them are getting married on Saturday, the day after the match. It’s last-minute, but I’m sure they’ll give me a plus-one if I ask.”
She arched a brow. “Are you asking me to go with you?”
“Yes.”
She hadn’t been to a wedding since her cousin got married when she was fourteen. They’d had a civil ceremony followed by a buffet dinner in a small function room at the VFW. The groom got drunk and the bride snagged her dress on a nail in the floor. The marriage ended in divorce two years later.
All of his friends would be there—his smart, Harvard-educated, successful friends. But she’d held her own with his friends here, plus he’d be by her side. She had to trust that he wouldn’t put her in a situation she couldn’t handle. And she had to trust herself to handle pretty much anything.
She exhaled. “I’ll need a new dress.”
“Take my credit card.” He slid his hand into his pocket and she shook her head to stop him.
“I’ll get my landlady to fix me up with something from downstairs. She’s always reminding me she’ll give me a great discount.”
“Tell her to send me the bill.”
“I can pay for my own damn dress, Oz.”
“Fine. I’m sure I can find another way to repay you.” He ran his hand up her leg, lingering at the apex of her thighs.
She scooted closer, finding the smooth skin on his back beneath his shirt. “I’ll let you do that for free.”
He growled his approval and pulled her against him, lowering his lips to her neck.
She laughed in delight at his touch, tilting her head to give him better access. “I thought you said you were hungry.”
“Starving,” he murmured, and proceeded to show her just how delicious she was.