For now, it would have to be.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—a text from Sterling, confirming the meet in Frankfurt—and I stood, shouldering my bag as the gate agent called my boarding group. I had a job to do, a mission to complete, a world to keep safe. I had responsibilities that didn’t include a man with a vineyard in Montana and eyes that saw too much.
But as I handed my boarding pass to the agent and made my way down the jet way, I was already counting the days until I could text him. Already planning what I would say. Already wondering if he’d be counting too.
Chapter Four
~ Jackson ~
I crouched in the fourth greenhouse, running my finger along the edge of the seed tray to check moisture levels I’d already checked an hour ago. The Belize seeds were starting to sprout—tiny green heads poking through the soil in half the trays—which should have been enough to keep me focused.
Instead, I found myself looking at the drainage problem in the corner for the third time that morning. The puddle had grown overnight, a shallow reflection of the ceiling lights spreading toward the east wall.
I’d stepped over the pile of gravel and PVC pipe I’d left beside it three times already, telling myself I’d fix it after lunch, then after dinner, then first thing tomorrow.
Now it was tomorrow, and the pipe was still sitting on the floor where I’d dropped it, the gravel bag leaning against it like an accomplice.
I moved to the next tray, adjusting the grow light above it even though it was already at the right height. The seeds were barely breaking the surface—fragile green shoots that looked like they might blow away in a stiff breeze. I checked the thermometer hanging from the greenhouse frame: sixty-eight degrees. Perfect for merlot. Too cold for me in just a t-shirt.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket, the vibration traveling up my spine. I ignored it, checking the soil pH in the third tray with a probe I’d calibrated that morning. The reading came back exactly where it had been the last three times I’d checked: 6.2. The perfect number for the variety. I’d known that the first time.
The phone buzzed again. I pulled it out with wet fingers, leaving smudges across the screen.
Cruz’s name glowed at the top of the message. Below it, a photo: a paper cup of airport coffee so bad the sleeve was printedwith a warning in three languages. Underneath, a single line:“Bucharest. Don’t ask.”
I stared at the photo, zooming in on the coffee cup to read the warning—“Caution: Contents Hot” in English, French, and something that looked like Romanian. I typed back“Looks like motor oil”and put the phone face-down on the potting bench.
The seeds needed transplanting, not monitoring. I’d been nursing them since the day after Billings—a month ago, now—bringing them inside at night, moving them from tray to tray as they grew. They were the only thing in the fourth greenhouse; everything else was in the three larger structures behind the house.
My phone buzzed again. I picked it up before the vibration stopped, like a teenager waiting for a text back from a crush. Which was exactly what I was doing, and wasn’t that a sobering thought at thirty-two.
A single thumbs-up emoji. Nothing else.
I dropped the phone back on the bench with more force than necessary. A thumbs-up. After everything—after the hotel room, after the seeds, after the bracelet I was still wearing—a fucking thumbs-up.
The seeds didn’t care about my love life. I checked the next tray, noting that two more shoots had broken the surface. Twenty-seven out of thirty now. Not bad for a first attempt.
My phone buzzed again. I left it where it was, checking the timer on the irrigation system instead. Eighteen minutes until the next watering cycle. The system was automated—I’d installed it myself, running the pipes from the well house to each greenhouse—but I still checked it twice a day, like the timer might decide to stop working on its own.
The phone buzzed a third time. I gave it thirty seconds—enough to make it seem like I wasn’t waiting—then picked it up.
Another photo: the inside of what looked like a conference room, all glass walls and uncomfortable-looking chairs. Underneath:“Five hours. Six more to go. At least the view is decent.”
I typed back “Where?” without thinking, then stared at the single word on the screen. I’d broken the pattern—the one where I answered in as few words as possible, where I never asked questions. Where I pretended this was just a convenience, not a thing that mattered.
I hit send anyway.
The response came back fast:“Lviv. Ukraine border. Hotel security for a defense conference. Exciting stuff.”
I didn’t know what to say to that—didn’t know if “be careful” was the right response to a man who’d spent his adult life jumping out of planes and kicking down doors. So I set the phone down again and moved to the next tray.
The rhythm of it had started the day after Billings: Cruz texting from random airports, me answering with the bare minimum. Bucharest had been a first—a place name instead of just “Eastern Europe”—but the pattern was the same. He texted. I answered. He texted again. I tried not to look at my phone every five minutes.
It wasn’t working.
Another buzz from the phone. I left it where it was for a full minute, moving between trays, adjusting the temperature in the greenhouse with the manual controls I kept meaning to automate.
The text, when I finally checked it, was a question:“What’s the soil pH on the merlot? Remember you mentioned 6.5 being optimal for the rootstock. Want to make sure I’m getting the right numbers.”
