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The word often came with a thousand nuances of meaning, especially when one spoke to ex-military operatives. Tracy didn’t know a speck of Bommer’s back story but was willing to bet he’d worn dog tags at some point in his life. “An adventure with a happy ending, I hope?”
Bommer’s grin returned with wider emphasis. “Damn straight.” A slide of his thumb across the screen revealed a baby barely older than twelve months, with golden eyes like her father and sable curls matching her mother’s. “Her name’s Selene.”
“She’s beautiful too.” She meant it.
Shay gazed at the screen with soft eyes. “She is, isn’t she?”
“And she needs her daddy right now.” She meant that even more. Though Luke had been nearly ten times Selene’s age when Ryker died, there were more times than not that it had already felt like he was gone—none of it proper preparation for when he was. “Go, Shay Bommer,” she urged. “Kiss your daughter. Be with your wife. Those are direct orders from your vice president.”
Bommer pocketed the phone, looking tempted to follow up by full-on hugging her. He held himself back after a quick glance from Sol, though his exuberance remained palpable as he scooped up her hand again. “Thank you, Madame Vice President. Thank you.”
Tracy returned the tight squeeze of his fingers. “Thank me by sending me a picture of your healthy new baby.”
“Roger that,” he replied with gusto, before centering himself with a long breath and continuing. “But first things first. I’m not leaving you and Sol in the dirt here.”
Of course he wasn’t. Which was why, as soon as the words left him, nervousness tapped a delicious dance up Tracy’s spine. This was it. Time to play the part of the land’s second-in-command, when all she wanted to do was twirl hair around her finger like the swooning teen inside—
Especially as Bommer motioned John the hulk to stand directly in front of her.
Manna of heaven. Up close, he was even more formidable. Had she expected anything less? Perhaps she had. A slight slump. A schism of ugliness in the crinkles at his eyes’ edges. A soft spot anywhere on his body. Instead, his fierce force engulfed her harder, matching the nickname Dan had referred to him by. Dragon. She half-expected mighty wings to unfold from his back.
“I’m honored—and damn lucky—to be presenting Captain Keoni John Franzen,” Shay declared. “Captain Franzen, the Vice President.”
“Mrs. Rhodes. It’s my pl—”
The baritone cut short as soon as their hands clasped—and their gazes locked. As much as Tracy reveled in his voice, she secretly celebrated his hesitance. Thank God she wasn’t alone in the feeling. No. Feelings, plural. So many, colliding all at once. Feathers of fire through her hand. Radiant heat up her arm. The awareness, now coursing through her whole body, of his form. Of even more than that. For a moment, just one blissful moment, the rest of the room disappeared. The noise of the world stopped. All was a haze of golden energy…the same shade she could now glimpse, in tiny perfect flecks, at the very edges of his dark brown irises.
What would those rings of light look like from inches away? What would everything look like, smell like, feel like with the man pressed close instead of at arm’s length? And why was she tempted to use some of Dan’s four-letter words when realizing none of those fantasies were relevant, much less possible?
And why did she want to tell Shay Bommer to shut the hell up when he spoke again, shattering the gold haze?
“Franz is the gold standard, Madame Vice President. You’re actually getting an upgrade, but I won’t say that too loudly in front of him.” He chuffed, pointing to Franzen’s severe haircut. “His dome gets too big, we worry about the doorframes becoming sawdust.”
“Yeah? And if yours gets too big, they turn into forests.”
Tracy giggled before she could help it. She attempted an apologetic look at Shay. “You do have a lot of hair, bucko.” It cascaded around his face in artful negligence like a young Jared Leto or an old John Lennon, usually inspiring appreciative female glances—though not hers. The etched elegance of Franzen’s look, though? Her fingers itched from the thought of those black spikes jabbing into them.
Who was she kidding? Her fingertips only carried the start of the itch.
Behave.
Focus.
“Bucko.” Franz snort-laughed it, exposing the hint of a smile. Holy hell, the man had dazzling teeth. “Dude. You’re a bucko.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a—” Shay interrupted himself, seeming to remember they stood in suits in a convention center, not BDUs in a jungle. “You’re a good friend, man. That’s what you are.”
“Ohhh, boy.” Tracy mock-groused it. “There’s the pregnancy hormones talking now.” She cocked her head, encouraged by Franzen’s smirk. “Save the boo-hoo for the delivery room, Bommer—and just tell me what I need to know about this one. ‘Dragon’, was it? Do I dare ask where that came from?”
Like a kid waiting at Dairy Queen, she couldn’t wait for the man’s bigger smile. Instead, he started resembling The Hulk, eyes stormy and lips tense, before muttering, “It’s just a name. Doesn’t mean anything.”
There was more to that. A lot more. Tracy read that much in the ensuing expression across Bommer’s face, debating a reaction somewhere between a fuck you and a full throat punch. He eschewed both to state, “As soon as I called with the SOS, John graciously hopped his backside onto a plane from Seattle. He’s been based there for the last eleven years—at least the few times he’s been stateside—out of Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Headed the Spec Ops team my brother was on, or at least that’s what it says on paper. What it doesn’t say is—”
Franzen chopped him short with a grunt. “Don’t start.”
Tracy tapped a toe. “Oh, come on. Humor me. What doesn’t it say?”
Shay smiled.
