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And I couldn't wait.

Chapter Forty

I left the office feeling good. The latest case that Simon had me working on was something I could really sink my teeth into. I’d have to be out of town for two days, but Joy was doing great after seeing Dr. Liu, and I would bet my bottom dollar that Emmie would come and stay with her while I was gone. But God only knew what they would get up to while I was away.

When I pulled into my driveway, the garage door was just starting to close.

Sweet. Joy had just gotten home. That meant that I could stop her from trying to cook something. I loved the woman, but cooking a meal just wasn’t a skill she was ever going to master.

I parked my truck in the driveway and let myself in through the front door.

“Dinner’s going to be ready in twenty minutes,” Joy hollered.

My stomach lurched. “Joy, you don’t have to go to any trouble.”

She popped her head out of the kitchen. “I hear the fear in your voice, Mr. Navy SEAL. Don’t worry, Mom dropped off food at the clinic. Your stomach is safe.”

“Oh yeah? What did she send?”

“Homemade chicken noodle soup and chocolate cake. She suggested grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the soup.”

“Uhm. Why don’t you go get cleaned up? I know how you always like to take a shower after spending time with your babies.”

Joy let out a big laugh. “I see right through you. You don’t want me attempting to make the grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“Guilty as charged. Now scoot.” I smacked her ass as she sashayed toward our bedroom, earning me another laugh.

I pulled out the pot and ladled the soup into it, turning the heat to medium. The smell hit me immediately. Rich broth. Tender chicken. Fresh herbs that reminded me of Sunday dinners from a lifetime ago.

My chest tightened without warning.

Dad used to make grilled cheese and tomato soup when Mom worked late shifts at the hospital. He'd stand at the stove in his uniform, still perfectly pressed despite twelve hours at the base, and flip sandwiches while telling me about his day. Nothing classified. Just the mundane details of life as an Air Force major that made my eight-year-old self feel important.

I hadn't thought about those moments in years.

The butter sizzled as I dropped a buttered sandwich into the pan, and I tried to shake off the sudden weight in my chest. I had soup to heat and sandwiches to make. Joy needed feeding, and wallowing in memories wouldn't accomplish that.

But the image stuck. Dad in his blues, sleeves rolled up, humming some old country song while he cooked. He'd taught me that real men took care of their families. That providing comfort was just as important as providing protection.

I flipped the first sandwich and started on the second. Golden brown. Perfect. Dad would approve.

When was the last time I'd talked to him? He'd stopped leaving voicemails after the first year. Stopped sending texts after the second. I'd cut him off so completely he'd probably given up hope of ever hearing from me again.

And why? Because I couldn't face the disappointment I’d hear in his voice when he learned what had happened in Africa. Because admitting I'd failed my team meant admitting I'd failed everything he'd taught me about leadership and honor.

The soup started bubbling, and I stirred it with more force than necessary.

“Graham?”

I turned to find Joy standing in the kitchen doorway, her head resting against the wall.

“I thought I'd set us up at the table. This smells amazing.”

But she was looking at my face, not the food. Those blue eyes missed nothing.

I ladled soup into two bowls and added the sandwiches to plates.

I followed her to the dining table. We ate in comfortable silence for several minutes. Joy demolished half her sandwich and most of her soup before she looked up at me again.