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CHAPTER ONE
JACK
WASHINGTON, D.C.
I barely made it two steps in the door before a petite woman in a tight navy-blue dress abruptly blocked my path and slapped a sticker to my chest. “You’re number nine tonight.”
My focus fell to her hand as she traced a manicured nail along the number written in red Sharpie beneath the little words: “My name is.”
“Not ‘my number is’?” I teased, then peered at her face framed by thick, black hair.
Her green eyes glinted as she stepped back and did a quick inventory of my appearance. I’d decided on dark denim jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves cuffed at the elbows. For whatever reason, my friend and colleague—the same person who insisted on this little dating adventure tonight—all but demanded my forearms be on display. Hell if I knew why.
Clearing my throat, I waited for her eyes to return to my face, curious if she’d ever respond to my joke. The woman did have my ego inflating a tad as her gaze continued to linger on my chest. At forty-two, I was divorced and had been single for what felt like forever. So, I’d take the boost when I could get it.
Of course, the woman had to be fifteen years younger than me (or God help me, more). Probably more. And because I was feeling on the awkward-nervous side I went ahead and added, “So, I’m not a ten, huh?”
She stared at me for a beat. Damn. Not even a smile from her, let alone a laugh.
“No names tonight.” Long fingers tucked her dark hair behind her ear as she gave me another once-over before finally setting her sights on my face. “You’ll have to make it to night two before you earn names,” was all she gave me.
Shit, I really was out of my element. I would have felt more comfortable in the midst of a fight with an M4 or a Glock to keep me company. Missions. Operations. Hunting HVTs (high-value targets). My thing. Fuck, that was a list. So, things, plural.
I shook my head and smirked as my mother’s voice popped into my head with a quick lecture about my poor grammar, internal monologue or not.
“Are you okay, sir?” The woman tipped her head in question as her bright green eyes flew down my body again.
Third time checking me out, huh? And damn, not even her intense gaze or the “sir” stirred a below-the-belt reaction. Am I broken? I mean . . . fuck, maybe?
“I’m fine.” That’s a lie. I was about to speed date, so no, I wasn’t remotely fine. “Uh, where do I go? What do I do?” I finally took a minute to look around the dimly lit dining room that’d clearly been reserved for the night. The fact I was just taking notice of my surroundings was more proof I wasn’t acting like myself. Maybe I should leave.
“To table nine, of course.” She stabbed a finger in the general direction of over there. “You’ll hear a buzzer, and the women will rotate to you every fifteen minutes. We’ll be starting soon.”
“Wait, what?” My hand went back to my chest, covering the number. “Since when do the women have to move around? Call me old fashioned, but shouldn’t the guys have to get their asses up and do the walking?”
A light unexpected chuckle tumbled from her lips. “Do you open doors for the opposite sex, too? Walk on the streetside of a sidewalk alongside a woman to keep her safe?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” It took me a second to realize she’d been sarcastic. Just great.
With her fourth perusal of my body—this time to my crotch—I backed up a few steps.
“How old are you, Nine?”
Did I detect a hint of seduction in her question? And why the hell did I feel like this woman was about to call me “daddy” and mean it in a very different way than I was used to? Time to hit the brakes. “Old enough. But not that old.” That’s all you’re getting from me.
“Mmmhmm.” The peek of her tongue between her lips had me turning to search for my seat among the rows of small tables. Why on earth had I let Mya convince me to try speed dating?
Mya Vanzetti worked with my security company, Falcon Falls, part-time. She also freelanced with a group of Marines, but I had a feeling that’d be ending soon. One of those Marines had feelings for her she didn’t reciprocate, and it was getting awkward for them to work together. At least that’s what Mya had spilled and told me in a slew of drunk texts last weekend.
Finding my spot, I politely nodded at the guy at my nine o’clock who was patting his brow with the bottom of his tie as I settled in my chair.
Anxious, I peered around the room again, clocking every guy in there, assessing for possible threats. Not in the competition-for-a-date department, but more in the “could anyone be an enemy of the state” kind of thing. Force of habit.
The week prior, my team had been in Scotland handling a high-value target, and things went sideways. Really, really fucking sideways. The kind of shit show that had me hanging from the side of a building while my life flashed before my eyes. Thankfully, my teammate, who was now safely back home in Alabama with his wife, hauled me back to the rooftop and saved my ass before I became a permanent fixture on the road fifty feet below.
That moment, though—those precious seconds I kept myself from falling before the rescue—had me sweating less than I was now.
The wild thing? I did want to date. I did want to meet someone and start a family. I was certain my nerves tonight had more to do with me slowly surrendering to the idea I’d never meet my “the one” the way my best friend and many of my teammates already had. Well, for a second last month I thought I’d met her, but then she slipped away before the sun came up, and . . .
