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“I am absurdly confused,” she whispered.
“Welcome to my fucking world.”
“No, Jude, you don’t understand.” Staring up at him, she said, “I’m supposed to be an anchor. The grounded one, who grounds others.”
“You are an anchor, Kate. Fuck! That is exactly the word I would use to describe you. Every time I’m spiraling, all I have to do is look at you, or hear your voice, and it levels me out. Hell, sometimes all I have to do is think of you, Kate. And I’m no longer off-kilter.”
“I’m off-kilter, Jude. The anchor can’t be off-kilter!”
“Oh, babe…” He smirked in his wickedly sexy way. “You have to get off-kilter every now and then—with me. When you’re with me. If you’re not off-kilter…I’m not nearly as potent as you claim I am.”
Kate melted. Right into him.
“The thing is,” she finally confessed, “we’re riding a train that’s about to derail.” She covered her face with her hands. Shook her head. Dropped her arms. “Enough with the metaphors, Kate,” she quietly chastised.
And took a moment to find her center.
Gazing into Jude’s eyes again, she told him, “The plain and simple truth is…” She clasped his biceps. Then leapt off her own ledge, saying, “I’m going to Afghanistan.”
“You’re going where?”
Jude’s brows jumped. Then his gaze narrowed on her. Then the brows hitched again.
“Did you just say…Afghanistan?”
He glared at her. Full-on glared.
“You heard correctly,” Kate told him. “Part of the grand plan. The mission. All those portfolios on my coffee table… Mass quantities of paperwork to read and sign. And lots of training to—”
“Afghanistan?” he repeated, his tone as strident as his expression.
Kate swallowed hard, knowing precisely the connotation associated with that one word. “Yes.”
“The fucking country?”
“The fucking country, Jude.”
He stepped away from her.
Did a little pacing himself. Then confronted her.
“What the hell are you thinking, Kate? Are you out of your mind?”
“Not at all,” she said, thanking her lucky stars her tone was fairly regulated. Because her pulse was through the roof. “Just listen for a second, okay?”
“Listen?” he growled. “To what, Kate? To you trying to rationalize that going to Afghanistan is a good idea?”
“It’s a fabulous idea, actually,” she assured him, now a bit indignant.
He crossed his arms over his chest.
She continued.
“Trauma training with military physicians before we embark on the true mission with civilian search and rescue teams and global disaster-relief organizations,” she explained, rather excitedly. “The training is strategically structured, meticulously designed. Every i dotted, every t crossed. I know you’ll appreciate that, Jude. The whole program is thought out to the minutest detail. And a principal of the group is a colleague—a college friend I’ve known since I was eighteen. Nikita Kane. Well, Nikki Balentine-Kane. Nik.”
Kate took a breath. Then added, “Her husband, Conner, was also a college friend. He died following a rescue operation, after he’d saved three hotshot firefighters trapped in a canyon, but—”
“He died following a rescue operation,” Jude simply stated. Though the angst exuding from him spoke volumes.
