Say the Word(148)

“No,” he huffed. “You don’t get it.”

I glanced at Fae with raised brows and she grinned.

“The dress!” Simon yelled, pointing at the picture. “My dress! On the front page of The New York Times!”

I rolled my eyes and heard Bash chuckle behind me. “Oh, of course,” I drawled. “How could I have missed that?”

Simon was walking in rapid circles, clutching the newspaper tightly. “This is going to change everything. Everyone will want to know what you’re wearing. This really couldn’t have worked out any better if I’d planned it myself.”

I snorted. “I’m so glad my abduction and near death, the arrest of both of Bash’s parents, and the kidnapping of twenty eight underage girls was all worth it, Si.”

He looked over at me and grinned. “Oh, shut up. You know how worried I was about you.”

That was true enough. After I’d left the docks, I’d been taken to a nearby hospital for treatment. Bash hadn’t left my side as doctors stitched the cut on my breastbone, wrapped my damaged hands in bandages, and gave me a cold compress to bring down the swelling in my eye, though he refused to accept any aid for his own wounds. Apparently, scraped knuckles and a bloody lip weren’t serious enough to merit a doctor’s attention.

Psh. Men.

I’d been released from the hospital into Conor’s custody and taken immediately to the FBI field office for a debriefing. They’d given me a pair of women’s regulation sweatpants and a black sweatshirt that said SWAT on the back — which I immediately decided to confiscate as payment for my help with their investigation — so I didn’t have to stay in my torn dress while they interviewed me in a small, grey conference room.

For nearly three hours, I’d answered their questions, speaking until my voice grew raspy and my eyes began to droop closed. Every now and then, I’d turn to look through the small window in the door and catch sight of Bash, who was pacing like a caged animal in the hallway. When Conor finally told me I could go home, it was nearly dawn.

A federal agent drove Bash and me back to his loft in SoHo, and I’d passed out only minutes into the trip. I stirred awake when I felt Bash’s arms hook beneath my body and cradle me to his chest.

“Where are we?” I’d mumbled tiredly.

“Home,” he’d said simply, carrying me into the elevator.

I’d smiled at his words, thinking that after the night I’d had, there could be nothing better than a warm bed with the man I loved. I couldn’t wait to sink beneath his fluffy down comforter and sleep for the next three days or so.

Unfortunately, it was clear as soon as Bash opened the door to his loft that no such rest would be possible.

Simon and Fae had been inside waiting for us, their eyes glued to the muted television screen as they watched helicopter footage of the freighter. Apparently, Bash had passed off his house keys to them when he left Harding Tower and they hadn’t hesitated to use them. When Bash stepped through the entryway, they’d both leapt to their feet and rushed to my side.

I had to hand it to Bash — he hadn’t batted an eye when he sat down on his bed, my body still cradled in his arms, and both Fae and Simon climbed on after him. With the four of us crammed in like sardines on the king size mattress, it hadn’t been the restful night’s sleep I’d been envisioning. But I couldn’t complain — I was surrounded by the people I loved most.

My family.

Now, looking from Simon to Fae to Bash, I grinned.

“I love you guys,” I whispered.

“You better,” Fae responded, smiling back at me.

“Obviously,” Simon chimed in, still staring at the photo in the paper.

Bash leaned forward until his mouth brushed my earlobe. “I love you more.”





Chapter Thirty-Eight





After


Ask any experienced climber — not your Average Joe, who tops the peaks and hills just beyond his backyard, but the true daredevils who attempt to conquer the Seven Summits — about his excursions and he’ll say the same thing. When you’re near the summit, in that precarious slope of rock and ice known by many as the Death Zone, the air is so thin you can literally feel each one of your cells screaming out for oxygen. The sun is so bright, you can actually become blinded by its endless glare off the bleached white snow. The altitude sickness affects your cognition, dizzying you to the point of disorientation and death. The pain in your limbs as they ascend higher, the burning in your joints as you force them to pull you ever-upward, only increases the closer you get to the top of the peak.

There are a thousand reasons to turn back, and precious few — perhaps only one — to keep going.

Of the many climbers who attempt to reach the summit, few actually succeed. Two men, armed with identical skill sets, might be placed on the same mountain at the same time — and yet, in all likelihood, only one will make it to the top.

The mountain is climbable; that’s been proven a hundred times over.

The conditions are perfect; a clear, sunny day with a light breeze.

The equipment is state of the art; better than any climbers in the past ever had.

So the question remains — why does one man ascend while another remains at the bottom of the peak, his skyward gaze riveted on a summit he’ll never see up close?