She stepped into the common room again, sweeping her gaze over the space with fresh eyes. It was cleaner than she’d expected. Lived in but not neglected. She paused at the coffee table, gathering some books and straightening them before stacking them neatly.
She brushed her fingertips over the scarred wood. No dust.
“Huh. You guys aren’t actually slobs.” The realization made her smile as she moved on.
The kitchen drew her next. She stepped inside and immediately had the itch to bake.
It was always a way to blow off steam, or distract her when she was worried, and the whole family got to benefit from her creations.
She walked to one of the refrigerators and opened the door. It was well-stocked—water bottles lined up in rows and cartons of juice and milk. The second fridge was barer, with a few condiments and some grated cheese but nothing that resembled fresh food.
Now the pantry—that was different. The shelves were packed with dry goods and canned items, enough supplies to feed a small army.
She darted a look at the labeled cupboards. Dry goods. Medical. Ammo.
Holding her breath, she cracked the door of the cupboard reading Ammo. Sure enough, boxes were stacked as neatly as everything else.
Most people had junk drawers. Apparently military teams had cupboards filled with bullets.
She stood there for a beat longer, knowing what would keep her busy. She moved through the kitchen with purposenow. She’d been in here enough times feeding herself while the team was away, that she knew where everything was. She lined up ingredients on the stainless-steel countertops and mentally piecing together a meal with what was on hand.
It didn’t take long to settle on something simple and filling. Chili. Cornbread. Brownies.
Comfort food with shades of home.
She worked steadily through the next half hour, chopping, stirring, measuring. Finding a rhythm in the work that calmed her. But it didn’t take her mind off the fact she would be leaving soon—tonight, if possible.
She’d also be leaving the only man she’d been truly interested in, in…well, ever.
With the chili simmering on the range and the cornbread and brownies baking in the oven, Jolie walked around the table, pushing in the mismatched dining chairs. At the head of the table someone left a few books scattered there, as if they’d been in the middle of reading and been called away.
Cannon.
She flipped open a cover and stilled as she skimmed a stamp marking the inside cover.
Property of the Montclair.
The lettering was intricate, the font elegant, a decorative bookplate that felt completely out of place in an underground military base filled with concrete and steel.
She traced the corner of the stamp, her mind buzzing with mystery and intrigue.
“What is the Montclair?” The quiet question slipped into the empty room, unanswered—but loud enough that she knew she wouldn’t be able to let it go.
EIGHT
Archer was out the door and in motion before his body caught up with his mind.
The alarm cut through the heat coiled in his gut and the sharp pull of the woman who’d been coming apart for him just seconds before.
By the time he skidded into the locker room, the team was already hustling to gear up.
“Where’s your shirt, Monk?” Rome called out, strapping his body armor in place.
He grunted and reached for a stack of clothes.
Their commanding officer strode through the room like a live current, his tone clipped. “Load hot and move fast. Possible hostile movement twenty minutes out. I want eyes open and heads clear. We debrief in the chopper.”
Boots thumped and weapons rattled as they kitted up, the open space filling with the familiar throb of urgency. Men moved around each other with practiced speed, every motion stripped down to muscle memory and efficiency.
