Until I almost killed us both.
About two miles from home, doing about sixty beneath a moonless sky, I suddenly spotted a lawn-service truck pulled only halfway off the dark stretch of road. I was almost a second too late.
I had to jerk the wheel hard to miss clipping the big Ford, the ass end of my Defender sliding left then right like it was on ice. Iswear we came up on two wheels as I turned into the swerve, the vehicle barely under control and my headlights wildly raking the countryside. I cursed the lawn guys as I recovered from the fishtail.
“Guess they had a flat,” Rowan deadpanned. She was calm enough given the situation.
“Probably.” Though my adrenaline was amped up several notches, I was dead serious when I asked, “Still up for a nightcap?”
“Twist my arm,” she said coyly. Nothing like a brush with destiny to get the heart racing a little.
We walked inside holding hands. Before the door even closed, I pulled her to me and kissed her. We stood in the open doorway for a good minute or two before she stepped away.
“Pour me a drink,” she commanded matter-of-factly. Then she headed upstairs.
Tonight was shaping up to be a special occasion, so I went looking for the bottle of Pappy that Tristan had given me a few years ago. Once I found it, I poured us each a couple of fingers.
I turned at the sound of Rowan coming back downstairs. She was leaning against the newly repaired front door, beckoning me with a crooked index finger. She was wearing an old button-down of mine and clutching the fabric so close to her body that I was pretty sure nothing else was touching her skin.
I left the two glasses sitting on the kitchen counter and walked toward her, while she let the shirt fall open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of what was underneath.
Please don’t screw this up,I told myself.
She placed a finger on my lips as she grabbed my hand and started to lead me upstairs.
We hadn’t gone two steps when someone rapped insistently on my door.
“What the fuck?!”I yelled.
Rowan’s come-hither smile disappeared. She dashed upstairs as I squinted through the peephole, then unlocked the door.
Standing on my front porch was a young man dressed in what I guessed was the summer Secret Service uniform: tan pants, blue polo, and pistol belt.
“Um, sir, is Special Agent in Charge Anderson here, by any chance?”
The little pervert knew damn well she was here.
“Bad timing, dude—but I’ll go take a look.” I gave him a hard stare, telegraphing my eternal grudge against the Secret Service for not only fucking up my door the other night but now fucking up my date night too. I shut the door and left him standing out there.
Rowan was already heading back down the steps, gazing at her phone. She shook her head sadly.
“I’m sorry, Nat. Apparently Walt Fitzgerald has called an all-hands-on-deck meeting at midnight to talk about security for the next few days. The fucking asshole wants me there too.”
It was the first comment she’d made about Senator Harrison’s staff. Despite my hope that missing an evening with me was the root of her frustration, I could sense that she and this Fitzgerald guy saw eye to eye on very little.
“I’ll try to make it back,” she said doubtfully. “But no promises.”
NowIhated this Fitzgerald guy too.
“I understand: Duty calls.” I knew we’d probably both be tied up for the rest of the weekend, but I made an offer anyway:“Maybe we can grab a quick bite over the next couple of days, if you’re free.”
“Here’s my card and my cell number. Call me when you can, okay? Please.”
She had such a downcast look on her face that I couldn’t resist giving her a hug and a quick peck, almost on the lips.
“No worries—of course I’ll call you. I won’t let you go that easily.” She seemed to enjoy the encouragement.
Then Special Agent in Charge Rowan Anderson put on her boss persona: She flung open the front door and barked out an order to the junior agent, and the two of them headed across the yard to the big meeting.
