He rubbed his hands over his face. Variations of “Babe, I collect information on targets” and “it’s important to understand the difference between a sniper and a mercenary” didn’t bode well. Jason tried out his splint and double checked the ground cover before he set off. Conversation starter after conversation starter drifted to mind as he hobbled. He tried to gage how much sympathy might come with a sprained ankle and a discussion opener like, “I had a shitty day at the office.” Not much.
But he didn’t have to have the answer that moment. He’d work on his explanation once he’d figured out how to get out of the Appalachian Mountains and into Louisville on an injured ankle, without a vehicle.
CHAPTER SIX
Blessed with a freelancer’s schedule, Roxana turned her inbox’s away message on and took the entire day off to scroll wedding websites, take bridal-style quizzes, and dream what the big day would look like.
With his build, Jason was born to wear a tuxedo, but he’d be miserable. Worse, if he had on a tux, chances were high she’d be in an equally formal dress. Roxana found her way onto Etsy and lost the remaining morning hours to pages of breath-stealing dresses.
After a lazy lunch of smoked mozzarella, basil, and tomato on crunchy bread, she painted her toenails a matte lavender and texted friends with the good news, jotting down every suggestion into a temporary notebook that would organize her thoughts until she found the perfect wedding planner notebook.
The doorbell rang, and her festive vibes fizzled. Roxana dropped her phone onto the desk and let her office chair slowly spin toward the front of the house. Her semi-managed anxiety roared out of control and raced down her spine. Sweat pricked under her arms and down the back of her neck, and the daily success that came from therapy and medicine vanished. Nothing could prevent the PTSD-landslide that came with the mundane interruption of a ringing doorbell.
Two knocks pounded from the front of the house despite the large NO SOLICITORS sign clearly displayed like a billboard on the storm door.
The doorbell rang again.
Roxana couldn’t swallow. A distant whisper at the back of her head tried in vain to remind her of what she could do, things she could say, chant, meditate, whatever, so that they could work their therapeutic magic. She couldn’t hear them, and despite all of the practice, she couldn’t recall a single word meant to shift her gut-level reaction.
The worst possibilities filled her thoughts and resurrected the memories of her brother’s murder and her father’s unexpected death. Roxana forced herself from the desk, certain something had happened to Hagan and that Jason had been in a car accident. Or maybe her mother had another stroke.
Roxana’s vision tunneled. She abandoned her office nook off the side of the kitchen and followed the well-worn path through the narrow house. The distance was no more than a dozen strides, but she might have well been crossing a desert dressed for an avalanche. Each step ripped open painful memories of door-side conversations—notifications—that had shattered her family’s happy existence.
She held on to the doorknob as though it might give her the strength she always pretended to have and then peeked through the peephole. Relief surged over her like a tidal wave of dopamine. From one extreme to the next, tears pricked Roxana’s eyes. Her self-deprecating laughter bubbled so quickly she could’ve been the poster child for bipolar disorder if she hadn’t known better.
Roxana didn’t have her wildly swinging emotions under control, but she couldn’t ignore the door any longer. She opened the front door, squinting against the sun, and unlocked the storm door. “Spiker,” she greeted a colleague of Jason’s whom she’d met in passing over the years, “Hi. I didn’t—” adrenaline made her voice shake “—expect you.”
Spiker’s eyes narrowed. “Surprise.”
A knockout brunette stood at his side. Both offered tight smiles that made Roxana feel like a specimen in a laboratory. She brushed off the feeling, knowing that it took far more than a minute for her emotional equilibrium to settle after clinging to the edge of a near-panic attack.
She moistened her lips and brushed stray hairs behind her ears, reminding herself that they didn’t have x-ray vision. They couldn’t have known her level of panic and sick dread that came from the sound of a doorbell. “Jason’s not here.”
“Actually.” Spiker inched closer. “We wanted to talk with you.”
“Um…” A guarded shiver ran down her neck, distinctly different from the recent crashing wave of anxiety. Roxana shifted her gaze to the woman. “We haven’t met.”
“Vanka.” The woman’s cool voice was as crisp as her clothing. Despite the sweltering summer day, she wore a white blouse and fitted black jacket with three-quarter sleeves paired with tight, cropped black pants.
“Roxana,” she returned. “But since you’re here, I’d guess you already knew my name.”
Vanka didn’t respond.
Roxana stiffened and compared the woman to Spiker. His dark jeans and stylish button-down shirt seemed breathable, in a business casual way. With his sleeves rolled and sweat shining on his forehead, he wasn’t immune to the heatwave. Side by side, Vanka and Spiker were dressed as though they’d been pulled from vastly different places and forced onto Roxana’s front porch. She focused on Spiker. “Jason didn’t mention you were in town.”
“It was unexpected.” The corners of his mouth tightened. “You know how it goes. When the job calls…”
“Right,” she forced a small laugh, “the life of accountants. Always on call.”
Vanka and Spiker didn’t bother to reciprocate the fake pleasantries.
“Jason didn’t mention anything about a local contract.”
Spiker edged closer. “Can we come in?”
Discomfort knotted in her shoulders and had Roxana not recalled meeting Spiker before she would’ve shut the door. Roxana shifted to Vanka. “You’re an accountant, also?”
“I’m a colleague of your boyfriend’s.”
“Fiancé,” Roxana corrected with an unsubtle bite.
“That’s interesting.” Vanka’s lips curled in a way that could mean a dozen things.
None of the possibilities gave Roxana the warm and fuzzies. She gripped the side of the door, unsettled with the way Vanka sized her up as if appraising a horse.
“Congratulations.” Spiker broke the awkward silence and angled his large build for the door. “Can we come in?”
She wanted to say absolutely not but sweat glistened on Spiker’s forehead. She would have killed Jason if he were rude to one of her clients. The same rules applied to his coworkers. Even the pretty, possibly bitchy ones. Roxana compromised with her manners. “I can let Jason know you were in town.” Though, wouldn’t they have already reached out to him? “Or—”
Vanka fluttered her hands in front of her face. “Wow, this heat is something.”
Roxana bit her lip. “I could bring you a bottle of water—”
“Thanks.” Spiker gripped the door before she could finish saying for the road.
Vanka placed her high heel shoe inside the door jam. “The air conditioning feels great.”