Chapter 6

He thought he'd known what the word frozen meant, when he'd been sitting out there in the old clunker freezing his junk off.

But ten minutes with Tish Taylor in here? Now he knew what frozen really meant.

Icy fingers, reaching into his very soul. The ordered cessation of all life-giving activities. And the only miracle was that his heart was still pumping.

If she had her way, it wouldn't be, seemed like.

But she was waiting for an answer to that question, as if it was all important. As if they'd never been a thing.

He sighed, from a leaden place. “I’ll check."

She left the tiny window, crossed back into the living room.

He scrutinized her as she took up residence on the spot of floor, cross-legged, once again. Stared into the tree as though a Hollywood blockbuster was playing deep within its branches.

And his heart damn well ached.

She'd always been able to clam up when hurt, but this was a new record tonight. Not because of the time involved. Roughly ten minutes? Not a biggie, that way. He'd been able to cajole her out of longer ones.

But the absolute ease and pervasiveness of how she froze him out—that was scary.

And he still didn't know what she was doing here tonight. Unless it was some ritual. Hell, she might even be doing it once a year. Maybe she was playing out that whole scene from three Christmases ago in some weird old, sick drama. Somehow he didn't think so. But it was crazy how badly he needed to connect with her.

For someone he hadn't seen for three years and told himself he'd gotten over...it was a surprisingly important need.

Not important, he chided himself. He fixed on the view into the living room. He saw the corner of her jean-clad knee sticking out, the down coat having separated in the middle, settling on the floor around her.

No, the need wasn't important, nor was it philosophical, for old time’s sake, that kind of stuff.

Raw. It was astonishingly raw, and here, in the now.

He kept staring at that knee. Just a disembodied, jean-clad knee. Tish's knee. Shit.

Her mitted hand appeared, settled on her knee, and he got to watch both together.

And it reminded him of a time not that long ago.

She'd pirouetted in the living room as the late afternoon winter sun poured in through the front windows, clad in another puffy coat perfect for northern Canadian winters. This one pale pink, her signature fluffy hot pink scarf whirling out from her, practically horizontal in the air behind her as she spun.

He'd walked into the large circle she was creating, interrupted it, and the scarf had slapped at his light denim jacket. He'd been cold. Hadn't been able to afford a new coat after scraping the money together for the mortgage, so he'd opted on getting a second-hand one from a local food bank. He’d found this one, two sizes too big. Huge. He'd thought that would be okay, but he'd forgotten to put on the requisite two sweaters underneath whenever he went out so he'd gotten used to freezing.

He'd grabbed her, yanked her close to him. The crush. The feel of her cheek against his as he whispered into her ear. “I’m cold.”

"So get your big mitts off me and go put on some clothes, underneath that huge trapezoid you're wearing."

"Clothes ain't gonna cut it." He'd teased her, and her cheeks had reddened.

God. Just like that. He'd always been able to make her blush.

But she'd become bold in their knowing of each other, at ease with things she'd been twisted up inside about at first. Beautifully bold, and he'd loved it. "Maybe you have some other ideas? Something else you want to put on, to heat you up?" The sexiness, the lust in her eyes for him, had gotten him hot. Hotter than any other woman before.

And warm. Hell, it had gotten him warm. Warm in the stupid heart, something he'd never known could be turned on like this, and stay turned on. He'd thought—forever.

Yeah, forever.

It's never going to freaking stop.

But he’d kept that thought from her. Couldn’t say it, or anywhere near it. He didn't have the words as they made out, and hoped—just hoped she knew. The lack of words, the silence, meant exactly the opposite. There were too many words, thoughts, sentiments, all fighting furiously in his heart, colliding with each other. All wanting to come out at the same time, in one insane, mad rush.

So he said nothing, during, after. Just was—one. With her.

They'd liked that they'd have the late afternoon sun in their new home. At least, Tish did. "You'll be able to serve me dinner, right here on our folding tables, and we'll have the sun."

He'd pretended to be shocked. "Serving you? Ha! You'll be serving me!"

Movement in the living room in the present moment caught his eye. Her mitted hand rubbed her knee, probably to warm it up. Brought him back to the present with a jolt.

What the hell was he doing here?

And more critically—how the hell was he gonna have a normal conversation with her?

He'd tried all the polite shit, and it had fallen flat.

She was better without him. Hell.

The pain surfaced for a second, then was gone.

Back when he first left, he'd barely been able to breathe when he thought of her, so he'd blocked her out. He'd needed all his brain cells just to survive in the new world he'd storm-jumped into. But soon—very soon—he'd checked up on her, even while he’d been focusing on the most critical skills he needed in that new world.

How to stay alive, 101. For the guy for whom the most dangerous thing he'd ever done was curate the tech needed to keep a Special Ops unit going, things had taken a surreal turn.

But he'd learned to swim in the ocean of mess he’d been tossed into, duck under when needed, and surface only when they'd stopped shooting and he could raise his nose up, get a couple of gulps of oxygen in without his head being blown off, before going under again.

Yeah, life had taken an interesting turn.

He glanced at his watch. Hell. His precious reconnaissance time was down the tube. The time he needed to triply ensure that Jammy would be safe. Shit.

Competing priorities. That was hell when coupled with life-or-death stakes for both.

The drop needed to be completed at two-thirty, and he still had time for that. His fingers sought the item in his pocket again, curved around it in the little inner area that was Velcro’d for safekeeping.

The flash drive. The algorithms he’d written that would do their dirty work for them without him present. It was the only way he could think to buy his absence for the trip he’d told them he and Ian had to take for medical reasons. He’d always found coding, anything digital, hella-easy. When others cried in the University classes, he just got the job done. Wondered why two hours had been assigned for something that took ten minutes.

He’d taken to the dark net like a loon to the glassy sheen on the cool, crisp lake of Jack’s Bay.

And it was a gift the bastards had learned about, through their association with Ian. Once they did, their tentacles reached out to acquire his services. A way to digitize their criminal activities was gold. They were small-time thugs, really. But deadly. He’d considered going to the cops a few times to be rid of them, but Ian’s hands were too dirty by this time, even if he wanted out. Little brother in the slammer would not be good.

And his hands had gotten dirty as well, too fast.

So he’d become their bitch. He’d taken a leave to sort things out, but kept serving, meanwhile, as army reserve. Until he’d decided he had to leave that, as well, and soon enough, he’d exited the life he loved, completely.

Being a solider had meant the world to him, and he’d taken a surprisingly big hit with his emotions about leaving.

But he no longer qualified for people to depend on him. To be the one who helped others. To change their lives for the better.

He became the one who hurt them instead.

So he’d taken orders. Tried to tone them down, misdirect them when he could, definitely. But he did their dirty work.

If it was a way to keep Ian alive, it was done. Stupid little brother. He’d finally realized what a mess his rebelliousness had gotten them both into, but by then it was too late.

And then to find out he also had Masters breathing down his neck…the cop to end all cops, the nightmare, horror cop…well. Getting squeezed from two rogue elements was super fun, he’d found. And knew the whole thing needed an end date. Not just for him and Ian either, but for all the people he was hurting with his criminal activities, even though they were electronic.

Well, with this last project, he’d brokered a deal. He told them he needed to go abroad for treatment. Without it, he’d be of no use to them.

They’d been angry. And the only way, the absolute only way for him to make them even consider it was if he gave them access to a chunk of his work, handed it over. He’d been protective of it to date, but they almost hadn’t gone for any deal, and he’d been desperate.

So the drop tonight had turned into a critical moment. The only way to buy Ian’s freedom. Both of their lives.

And then—they were off the grid.

But he had to make sure Tish was okay first. Those dumb partiers from across the street had already tried to break in. Knew she was in here, if they’d seen her hauling the tree.

He moved back into the doorway, scrutinized her. Knew things were going a million miles a minute in that brain of hers.

She didn't even look at him as she spoke. "If you're staying here to make sure everything is okay, I'm fine on my own. Thanks, but I'm good."

He snorted. "Yeah, right."

She crossed her arms, hugging herself, probably to generate heat. "Maybe, but it’s my choice." She set her chin and the message registered. Painfully.

"Fine. I'll take a look outside. I need to get going too, actually." He saw the relief flash across her face, and something leaked out of him, left him. That early bit of joy, that bit of hope at having run into her.

Looked like things were barreling really well along Shit Creek. No Christmas Eve redemption, here. Hell, every day had been redemption before, with her. The ups, the downs. The sudden realization that this girl liked him a lot—as much as he liked her.

Plans. A life. He'd had an actual, damn life.

Until the crap with his brother had hit the fan.

He inhaled a deep breath, schooled his face. Crossed over to the landing, spied out carefully.

She came to meet him, still hugging herself. "Well?"

"Those goons aren't in the car anymore."

And indeed, they weren’t. Instead, the lights were on across the street in the formerly darkened house and music—a hard driving, punk beat was assaulting the street, the harsh notes forcing their way in through the cracks around the door.

She looked at him with dismay. "They're partying."

"Yeah. I could take off now, but if they see any activity, if they're getting hopped up on booze or drugs..." he shook his head. "If I leave now and they see me, they'll come check out the house, and find you here."

He fixed her with a hard gaze. Willing her, on some level, to just say yes.

Damn it, just say it. Yes.

Leave with me and be safe.

“Come with me. I’ll drop you off somewhere. We can grab you a cab. I’ll pay. We’ll get you to a…”

“Whoa, hold on there, boy!” Her face came alive, but not in the good way. “You can do whatever you want. But I’m staying.” She stalked away from him, looked deep into the sparse bottom of the so-called Christmas tree again, effectively dismissing him. “I’m staying. All night.”

She was?

Hell. He couldn’t stay all night. Ian was in the crosshairs.

But he couldn’t leave her either.

Fine. He’d stay for now, keep a strict eye on the time, and come up with a solution. He just had to.

And maybe if he told her he was staying, she’d get the bug in her butt to leave. Problem solved.

"Sorry, Tish, but if the choice is to piss you off by imposing my presence on you when you clearly don't want it, or have you turn up dead, raped, or some garbage like that, my choice is clear."

One corner of her mouth raised in a perfectly natural, unschooled grimace.

Nice to know he was such a desirable option.