Page 57 of Sit, Stay

I stay quiet. Top doesn't share personal stories often.

"I was headed for deployment," he continues. "Asked her to wait for me. Told her we'd figure it out when I got back. She asked what we'd be figuring out—where we'd live, what she'd do, how we'd build a life together. I said we'd cross that bridge when we came to it. Focus on the mission first." He's quiet for a moment. "She said no. Married someone else six months later."

"Top—"

"I'm not telling you for sympathy. I'm telling you because I spent thirty years in this uniform thinking duty meant the service. Took me too damn long to learn—duty isn't just the uniform. Sometimes it's choosing who you come home to." He looks at me. "You asking that girl to wait while you figure out your life? Or you asking her to build one together?"

My throat goes tight. "I told her about Texas. About the job."

"Did you ask her about Texas?"

"I—" The words stick. "I told her it would be perfect. That she'd have resources, better opportunities⁠—"

"Better than what she's got now?" Top's eyebrow rises. "You tell her what she built in Pine Valley isn't good enough?"

"No. I mean—I didn't mean it like that." I scrub a hand over my face. "I just wanted her to see the potential. What we could build together."

"What you could build, Mercer. On your family's land. In your hometown. With your brother's business." He leans forward. "Where's the part where you asked what she wanted to build?"

The question lands like a physical blow.

I never asked.

I talked to Jake first. Made plans. Showed up at her door with the whole future mapped out and expected her to fall in line.

"I screwed up," I say quietly.

"Probably." Top stands, stretching. "Question is, what are you gonna do about it?"

"Haven't figured that out yet."

"Well, you've got until oh-eight-hundred Thursday to figure it out.”

He gives me a pointed look. "Called in a favor. Got you an extension on those papers. Don't waste it." He whistles for Ranger, who immediately abandons me for a superior officer. Traitor. "And Mercer? Next time you use my dog to work out your relationship problems, you're running the obstacle course yourself. In full gear. At oh-five-hundred."

"Yes, sir."

He walks away, Ranger trotting happily at his side, leaving me alone on a bench in the middle of a training yard with the sudden, crushing realization that I'm an idiot.

Maggie's Place is half-empty when I walk in two hours later. The dinner rush is over, leaving behind the smell of grease and coffee and the kind of comfortable worn-in atmosphere that makes this place feel like home.

Maggie spots me immediately. She's wiping down the counter, red hair pulled back, apron stained with what looks like ketchup and possibly gravy. Her expression shifts when she sees me—assessing, knowing, vaguely maternal and slightly terrifying.

"Flyboy," she says. Not unkindly, but not warmly either.

"Maggie."

"Booth or counter?"

"Booth."

She gestures to my usual spot—red leather, chrome trim, a view of the door. I slide in, and she appears thirty seconds later with a coffee pot and a mug.

"You mess up with my girl?" she asks, pouring.

No preamble. No small talk. Just Maggie O'Rourke cutting straight to the point.

"Probably," I admit.