Page 133 of Missile Strike

Finally, she relented, her arms circling his hips. “Trip and I will miss you.”

Isabella’s gaze followed Danny as he went upstairs to pack.

If she could cling to last night, she would. Even the news of Omar Hassan’s death hadn’t ruined the happiness she’d experienced wrapped in Danny’s arms.

Everything had felt exciting and new. Endless possibilities. For the first time, she could imagine a life that wasn’t built around protecting herself.

She should have known it wouldn’t last.

A sigh worked its way through her body, expelling disgust in its wake.

She’d handled that conversation poorly.

He had to go, even though she’d barely had time to get used to him being here.

It was his job to take off at a moment’s notice. Go where his employer sent him. Protect other people.

Snatching Danny’s mug, she rinsed it in the sink, then stowed it in the dishwasher.

It wasn’t the job that would take him away from her.

It would be the chaos he thrived on.

All she’d ever wanted was stability.

Pouring herself a mug of coffee, she retreated into the living room, ears tuned into the faint sounds that were the background music of the sad soundtrack she was building in her head.

A closet door opening.

A suitcase zipper closing.

She’d see him off with a smile, even if it was for show.

Wait for him to come back before they discussed their future.

The house already felt empty. Sterile.

There’d be plenty of time to feel sorry for herself after Danny was gone.

Upstairs, she refused to look into the open guest bedroom door. She didn’t want to see him pack up all his belongings.

She’d only just gotten him back. How could he already be leaving?

As she gathered her clothes for the laundry, her gaze fell on the long white sleeves she’d rolled up to her wrists.

Danny’s shirt.

She should give it back.

Lifting an arm, she inhaled his scent. Sun. Sea breeze. Sand. And something so potently masculine she knew she’d be sleeping in this shirt until he returned.

Moisture blurred her vision. She blinked until it receded.

“Hey.”

The softly spoken word spun her around.

Danny stood at the threshold of her bedroom door. His duffel was over one shoulder, his laptop bag over the other. The Mustang’s key fob dangled in his hand.