Page 11 of Rogue Survivor
After a brief argument over who should pay—that I win by telling her she can pick up the check next time—we find a quiet table in the back with our coffees and a chocolate chip cookie the size of a small dinner plate.
Isabel cups her mug and inhales deeply, but after her first sip, she stares into the dark brew. “I have a seventeen-year-old daughter.” Her brown eyes flick to mine, and she takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I know that came out of nowhere, but the last time I had…um…a date with someone, he called me a lying bitch when I casually mentioned I had to pick up Veronica from her Model UN class. So now, I try to get it out of the way—”
“Isabel?” I reach across the table, my fingers grazing the soft skin of her wrist. “The last guy you went out with? He don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. We’re having coffee. Not gettin’ married. I’m forty-seven years old with a bad leg, a dent in my skull, and a disability check.”
Shit.
Too much, too soon.
“A dent in your skull? What happened?” Isabel asks, leaning closer. She’s not horrified. Not repulsed. At least, not yet.
“Couple of sombitches got the drop on me when I was working a case. I spent three weeks in the hospital, and now…”
“You’re at the gym every day trying to get your life back.” Laying her hand on the table, she seems to wait for me to take it, then squeezes my fingers gently. “So we both have baggage.”
Chuckling, I pick up my coffee and toast her with it. “You don’t get as far as we have in life without a couple of suitcases in tow.”
If I’m not careful, I’ll end up caring for this funny, beautiful, single mother who makes me feel like I’m not so broken. Right now, it doesn’t matter that I could lose my balance when I stand up. That the chances of me returning to the FBI are slim to none at best. The only thing I care about is making sure Isabel leaves this date with a smile on her face. Maybe falling isn’t always a bad thing.
Chapter Four
Isabel
Staring at my phone,my lunch all but forgotten in front of me, I delete the text on screen and start over—for the tenth time. Why am I so nervous? Connor’s been nothing but polite, respectful, and funny as hell. After almost two weeks of coffee dates, we exchanged numbers, and though Veronica wanted to spend today at the botanical gardens, whenever she pulls out her phone to text Mitzi or post to one of her social media sites—all of which I follow—I message Connor.
She catches me peering at the screen when she comes back with extra ketchup for our fries.
“Mom, you’ve been texting all day. Youneverspend that much time on your phone. Not even when work is kicking your ass—sorry—your butt. Are you talking to a guy?”
“I…um…” I grab my diet pop and take a long sip to try to quell the burning in my cheeks. Why did I have to be so obvious? “Yes.”
“It’s about time! Who is he?” She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on her hands, and bats her eyelashes at me. “Come on. Spill it.”
“He’s just a guy from my gym. We’ve had coffee a few times.”
With an eye roll worthy of Broadway, she snatches the phone out of my hand.
“Veronica! Do not read that!”
But it’s too late. Her mouth forms a littleo. “‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you since our first date.’ ‘Can I take you to dinner? I want more time with you than just the last half of your lunch hour.’ Exactly how long has this been going on, Mom?”
“A week and a half.” I’m dead again. How many times can I feel this…awkward in the space of a month? I’m so embarrassed my daughter caught me flirting, I wish I could disappear under this table and pretend this conversation never happened.
“You have to go out with him. Is he cute? Do you have a picture? How old is he? What does he do for a living? When can I meet him?”
“Slow down,” I say, forcing a chuckle as I retrieve my phone. “He’s forty-seven, and yes, he’s cute. I donothave a picture because I’m not seventeen, and you willnotmeet him until we’re a lot more serious than we are now.”
“Mom.” Another eye roll, this one accompanied by a long, drawn-out sigh. But in the next moment, she turns serious and holds my gaze. “You’ve been alone for almost ten years. Dad would want you to be happy.”
A quick punch to my stomach couldn’t have taken my breath away any faster. Tony’s gone. Taken from me—and Veronica—by a twenty-one-year-old kid whose initiation to one of the local gangs involved robbing the convenience store Tony just happened to pick when our daughter needed cold medicine.
Forcing a slow, steady breath, I try to calm my pounding heart. “I know, sweetheart. And Iamhappy. I have the best daughter in the world who, for some unknown reason, still wants to spend time with me on a weekend. I don’t need anything more.”
That’s what I tell myself anyway. Most of the time it even works.
“In less than a year, I’ll be at college. I know it’s only twenty minutes away, but I’ll have classes and homework and internships and maybe a party or two—I’ll be safe, I promise—and you’ll be free to do whatever you want. No more picking me up from the Academy, no more chauffeuring me to and from Mitzi’s house, no pressure.”
“You’re an amazing young woman.” I reach across the table and link my fingers with hers. “I love that you’re okay with me dating, but I don’t know ifIam. For all the reasons you just listed. I don’t want to miss a minute of your last few months at home with me.”
