“I know I’m not wrong about wanting to protect you,” he countered.
“Yeah, yeah, I know and I’m not mad about that,” she told him. “In fact, I happen to sincerely love that I’m up shit’s creek with a Navy SEAL paddle, I really do. But you’re not the only adult in the room anymore. I mean, you were just a kid yourself when we met, and yeah, you hit the grown-up marker before me, but I’ve been an adult, too, for a long time now.”
A long time? He could try to argue that, but he knew it wouldn’t fly. “Okay,” Thomas said instead. “Yes. You are an adult. I agree, but...” He didn’t actually have a but that was more lucid than mindlessly screaming in panic, but he knew Tasha wasn’t even close to done. And having this conversation was important, but holy flipping shit.
She filled in his silence. “What if you suck at dating, as you yourself said, because you’re still looking for that... that... ease of being, too,” she suggested. “Maybe it’s not that you just haven’t met someone you can relax and be yourself with. Maybe it’s that you already have—and I’m sitting right here.”
Oh, God, no, because sweet, holy Jesus, what if she was right? No woman he’d ever dated was ever good enough, smart enough, funny enough...
Tasha kept going. “What if... What if you met me, for the first time, just last week, at Werewulf’s? What if we were both having a burger and a beer at the bar, watching Plan 9 from Outer Space and laughing our butts off, and you needed me to pass you the ketchup? I don’t think you’d little sister me when our eyes met. I really, really don’t.”
“But I helped raise you,” he blurted.
“No, you did not,” Tasha said emphatically. “Sharon and Uncle Alan and Mia raised me. You showed me what a good, honest, kind, respectful man looks like. In the face of all of Sharon’s terrible choices and shitty mistakes, because of you, I had the opportunity to see exactly the kind of man I deserved to have in my life. And I know it’s messed up, but I was already shopping for a husband, even back when I was five, because a part of me believed what Sharon taught me—that I needed a man in order to survive.”
“That is extremely messed up,” he managed.
“Yup,” she said. “And the more I got to know you—the longer we were friends—the more I realized how insanely special you are. And I know you’re not perfect—no one’s perfect—but you really seemed perfect for me. And, yeah, I know, what flavor of crazy is it that a girl so young is thinking about things like that? But I was. I know Sharon’s constant lament played into it. If only someone—my father, God, anyone—married her, then, and only then, would we be okay. I learned that as a truth, before I could talk. Except, when I was with you, I wasn’t just okay, I was great. And as I got older, I wanted that—to feel great like that—forever. But the stupid thing is, after all the time I spent working that messy Sharon-shit out in college, after years of therapy and self-reflection, I suddenly find myself rationing jars of peanuts and olives with you and I’m still thinking, Yeah, I want this, forever.”
Tasha’s eyes were vulnerable in her face. And yeah, it was a grown-up woman’s face.
“TL;DR: I never saw you as a brother,” she whispered. “Not ever. You were always my future soulmate. So that’s my side of the brutally honest dry-heave-free conversation that we should’ve had five years ago—although I don’t think I was ready or able to have it back before all the therapy, so I do think it’s good that we waited. But come on. Your turn. Sister me again and get it over with so we can go to bed.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “Sleep. I meant sleep.”
It was hour two, and counting.
Rio was sitting behind the wheel of the SUV with the engine and heater running, staring out over the still-empty rural airfield, while Dave combat-napped beside him, seat reclined and arms folded tightly across his chest.
The good news was that the county deputy who had been waiting for them in the hangar was a badass older woman who had zero fucks left to give. She’d been told by the FBI—and probably via a direct call from the admiral, too—that Rio and Dave would take custody of the wayward prince when he arrived. So she’d intently studied their military IDs, looking them both hard in the face and checking their heights to boot, making sure they exactly matched their photographs and descriptions. And then she told them pointedly that she would remain nearby, and would escort them, in her police cruiser, all the way to Burlington.
The bad news was that the prince’s stolen jet had yet to arrive.
After stewing for an hour, Rio had called the admiral under the guise of giving him a sit-rep, but in truth to float an idea that he couldn’t shake. What if this was intentionally meant to waste their time? They were making a huge assumption here—trusting incomplete intel from a foreign government. What if Ted had stolen the jet for another reason? Was anyone tracking the wayward flight?
Francisco’s answer to that last question was a resounding yes. The royal jet had been picked up on radar. It was definitely heading toward them, currently under USAF fighter escort. ETA two more hours.
Rio had gone into heavy-duty outside-the-box thinking at that point, tossing out ideas for an alternative to Rosetti and Patterson sit on their asses for two more hours while King and Tasha remain missing in the freezing wilderness. He’d suggested that he and Dave split up. Dave could stay at the airfield, while Rio headed back up into the mountains. After the jet landed, Dave could co-pilot Ted back down to Hanscom Air Force Base, where the prince would be extra safe.
It was an inspired idea, but the admiral had given him a very hard no.
Rio wasn’t done, but he hadn’t gotten out more than a “How about—” before the admiral cut him off.
“Call me when the jet lands,” he said, abruptly ending the call.
Now, a full hour later, one of the phones stuck in the center console’s cup holders made a swooshing sound—announcing an incoming text message. Maybe the admiral had changed his mind, but when Rio reached for the phone, he realized it was Dave’s personal cell.
The incoming text showed up on the screen.
Made you miss me, didn’t I?
It was from H-less Jon, that heartless sonofabitch. It was intentional—his failure to respond to Dave’s many, many texts before now.
Dave was still sleeping hard as a second text came in, also short-and-sweet enough to show up on his lockscreen: I’m outside your apt. Lemme in.
Seriously...?!
“Yo, Dave. Your loser ex finally texted.” Rio held out the phone as Dave’s eyes opened.
“He’s okay? Oh, thank God.” Dave grabbed his phone, but then, as he read the two messages, his face tightened.
“You can do so much better,” Rio said. “Because that shit? Is bullshit.”
Dave was already nodding his agreement, but his eyes were sad. “So, you think it should be Fuck you or Fuck off...?” he asked, already typing in the identical first word of his impending response.
Rio didn’t need to think hard about it. “Off,” he declared. “Off is a shrug. Whatever, bro.”
“I kinda don’t call him bro,” Dave pointed out.