Page 1 of George’s Big Day

ONE

SPRING EPIPHANY

Sitting in a T-shirt and mostly clean fatigues—they had been laundered at the hospital—watching my fiancé bustle around the kitchen, I had a revelation.

“Hey,” I croaked out, my voice still trying to come back from yelling over gunfire and explosions for a week straight, “I don’t think we’re gonna make it to the altar.”

“Oh yes we are,” he corrected me quickly, smiling as he put down in front of me a big bowl of tomato bisque and a large grilled-cheese sandwich on sourdough. “Now eat.”

He had watched me moments before stagger and hop to the sink to wash my hands—my ankle had been crushed under rubble and now had four pins in it—and he’d decided right then that I needed to eat first and then take a shower. Normally I got under the hot water first, and then, clean, let him feed me. But he was right. Today I might not have made it back out. I was dead on my feet. And I didn’t come home bloody or dirty, which had happened more than once, as I’d spent the last two weeks in a hospital in Balad, fifty miles out of Baghdad, but to be in my own shower under endless hot water with strong pressure that wouldn’t run out, that would be a treat. Of course, I hadn’t told him anything about a hospital stay. All he knew was that I arrived home with a broken ankle, nothing more. He didn’t need to know how touch and go it had been.

“No,” I said, my chin resting on my palm, my elbow the only thing keeping my face out of the soup. “I don’t mean never. I mean sometime in the next few months.”

Dr. Kurt Butler, the man I loved, chuckled. “Yes, dear, I know that.”

I squinted at him. “You do?”

He scoffed. “It makes sense. You’ve had back-to-back deployments, and then you went out with that FBI hurt team⁠—”

“HRT team,” I corrected him.

“Which stands for what, so I can store that away in my brain?”

I didn’t like the idea of him having to memorize anything that wasn’t good in relation to me. I worried about that. Like one day he’d wake up and think how much easier it would be if he married a pharmacist. “Why would you need to⁠—”

“Just tell me,” he coaxed, cutting my sandwich into strips because he knew I liked to dip things. It also made it easier to eat.

“Hostage Rescue Team,” I clarified, picking up one of the pieces of sandwich oozing with cheesy goodness. He made it with smoky gouda, Gruyère, provolone, and sharp cheddar. I’d have thought the sharp kind wouldn’t be good, but it was amazing. Added to that, he made tomato bisque, not soup, but bisque, and now, starving and bruised, I was more than thankful.

“Okay, got it.” He leaned on the counter of the kitchen island. “But as I was saying, after this last mission you were sent on, I knew that a spring wedding was not in our future. But a fall wedding sounds lovely as well.”

“I don’t want you to think…”

He reached for me, but his hand stopped before he made contact.

“What’s with that?” I growled at him. “You don’t wanna touch me?”

On cue, I got the head tip, the bored look, and the huff of breath.

“Yeah, all right,” I muttered. “I heard how stupid that was.”

“Did you? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Quick grimace from him. “Love, I don’t think you realize how bruised your face looks, and there are cuts everywhere. I don’t know where to touch and not hurt you.”

“I promise, anything you do could never hurt me,” I said with an exaggerated wink.

“Easy, tiger. Why don’t you eat and take a shower and a nap. I’ll cancel the get-together I was having tonight.”

“No, don’t cancel anything. I can come down if I want, or veg upstairs, and you can check on me. It’s not a big deal.”

“No, I⁠—”

“C’mon. It’s fine. I promise.”

“I would much rather get some work done while you recuperate.”