JT drops his fork on the empty plate he just set aside and leans back with a satisfied sigh. I bite the inside of my cheek to stave off the happy housewife grin I feel creeping across my face and look around the backyard for some suitable distraction, anything to keep me from fluttering my eyelashes at JT like a ridiculous lunatic.
The Maxwells’ yard offers plenty for me to look at, from a dramatic fire pit to elaborate native plantings and rockscapes. While they don’t have a pool like the Greenes do, they have a full outdoor kitchen, complete with a wine cooler, two prep sinks, long concrete counters, an icemaker, and a huge gas grill. Adjacent to the lavish outdoor kitchen, a redwood pergola shelters an enormous round dining table. Intricate carvings embellished the table’s wooden top, and a matching design is etched into the backs of the chairs around it.
JT explained earlier that his father had taken up woodworking after his retirement from the Air Force and the elaborate carvings are his work. I held back a snort, because I should have known that somehow JT’s gruff and commanding father would be able to turn a humble piece of teakwood into something worthy of King Arthur’s court.
JT slumps down into the couch and pats his still-rock-hard abs, making another contented sound.
“That dinner was fucking awesome. I’ll definitely send that thank-you note to Tara, but mostly because she scares me a little. I’ve encountered cartel-level drug traffickers who don’t have the same kind of don’t-fuck-with-me swagger that she does.”
He swipes his beer off the end table next to him and drains it in one gulp. I do the same with my beer, then tuck my legs up underneath me and scoot a few inches closer to JT on the couch. I fiddle with the hem of my dress, hoping he won’t notice the way his mention of drug cartels makes me a little twitchy.
Because, hello, drug cartels.
I take a deep breath and do everything I can to sound casual.
“I’m guessing there’s never a boring day in your job, huh? Tracking down fugitives and drug traffickers must be pretty dangerous.”
JT makes a noncommittal sound, then stretches his legs out and clasps his hands behind his head, relaxing. I stare at my kneecaps, refusing to overanalyze his body language—at least not any more than I already have.
“Do you ever wish you had a less dangerous job?”
He lifts a shoulder lazily. “I don’t really think about it, I guess. It’s definitely not a low-stakes job, but I don’t go into work every day worrying about whether I’m going to come home at night. At some point, you just decide that this is what you want to do and you accept the risks that come with it, because you can’t sit around worrying about what if all the time. If you do, you need to find another job.”
The hem of my dress is now gripped in my tight fists. Here he is, talking about the prospect of not coming home at night like that’s just another part of the job, the same way some people think about their unpredictable tips delivering pizzas. I loosen my hold on the fabric and breathe deeply through my nose, working hard to steady my voice.
“So you don’t want to do anything else for a living? This is it for you?”
Another shrug from him. Then he yawns. I seriously consider yanking on his earlobe or twisting his nipple, anything to make him sit up straight and act as if he actually gives a shit about his safety, instead of all this shrugging and yawning.
“I can’t really see myself doing anything else. We’re a military family, so when I was younger I thought I’d do the same thing. But after my first tour with the Marines, I realized that staying enlisted wasn’t what I wanted to do, at least not for a career, so I didn’t re-up. I went back to school, got my degree, and then became a Marshal right after. So far, it’s been a good fit. I’m actually up for a pretty big promotion right now, and if I get it, it’s something I could do until I’m ready to retire.”
My mind immediately goes to wondering what comes with the promotion he’s talking about. Does it involve more scenarios where he needs to wear a bulletproof vest? Or would being promoted mean he spends most of his time behind a desk? And if he does end up behind a desk, will the Marshal Service provide a treadmill desk? Or at least a standing desk? Because I know there are studies out there that say sitting for too long at work is worse than smoking or eating fast food every day. If so, he needs to be sure he doesn’t forget to stand up and take a quick walk every few…
Oh, hell.
This is insane. I need to stop acting like some overwrought girl who’s sending her beau off to war at the train station, all torn up inside about whether I’m ever going to see him again. Or in my case, worrying about what kind of desk will be available to him.
What I need to do is get myself together here and talk to him like a rational, sensible human being. I can do that. I know I can.
“What kind of promotion?”
There, I congratulate myself silently. That’s a totally normal follow-up question, without any wailing or hysterics or bizarre ramblings about treadmill desks. Kudos to me.
“I’d be the field supervisor for our team. At first, I wasn’t sure I even wanted the job, but then I realized how much latitude I’d have over where we focus our efforts. There’s this case that I’ve been working for over a year now, a drug runner with local gang ties who escaped from prison and then basically disappeared. A case like that isn’t considered a top priority, so I can only work on it in between other things. If I’m running the team, though, I could run it up the list. Other than that, the job just means more responsibility, especially on the bigger cases.”
He air-quotes the last two words with a flick of his fingers, another gesture that makes me want to jab him in the ribs with my fingers.
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll take point on anything that’s high-profile. Attempted murder cases, aggravated assault, felony menacing, sex trafficking, that sort of thing. The kind of guys who make you strap your tac vest on a little tighter.” He cuts a glance at me, with a little smirk on his face. “Oh, and those cartel guys, too. The ones Tara puts to shame.”
Then he winks.
He freaking winks. As if what he’s saying is nothing but a joke. A joke that involves tracking down bad guys who you hope don’t shoot you.
Hardy-har-har.
I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and start counting backwards from ten.
Ten, nine, eight…
I pause, taking a calming breath.
Seven, six, five…
“Anya?” JT puts his warm hand on my cheek. “Hey, talk to me.”
Four, three, two…
Another deep breath.
One.
I open my eyes. Concern is etched across JT’s features, but that doesn’t stop me from pinning him with a glare.
“You have to stop talking about the cartel, and your tac vest, and chasing down bad guys like it’s no big deal. I can’t deal with it. I just… can’t.”
His head rears back a little and worry lines crease his forehead. Great. More of me spilling my guts, except for this time it was about him, instead of me and the Fenton. I let my head sag forward and press my palms against my cheeks, taking a moment to reboot whatever it is I think I still need to say. Once I’m sure I have things under control, I drop my hands from my face.