The Last Letter(71)

“There’s someone I’d like to have dinner with tonight.”

His eyes narrowed.

“With you,” I quickly corrected. “Dinner with you and the someone.”

“You want me to chaperone a date?” His voice dropped to that low, sandpaper-rough tone that woke up my body in parts that had been asleep since Jeff.

“No. I want to meet with my lawyer, and I’m hoping you’ll go with me. About”—I glanced over to where Maisie was napping on the couch—“what you offered yesterday. Kind of.”

Surprise widened his eyes for a second, and I savored the reaction. I didn’t have many opportunities to shock Beckett.

“Kind of?”

Hope flashed in his eyes, catapulting my heart into my throat. “I want to ask some questions first before I say anything. I don’t even know if what I’m thinking about is possible, but I’d be really grateful if you went with me to figure it out.”

“Of course. What time?”

I looked at the clock and then forced a smile. “In about forty-five minutes?”

Instead of scoffing, or snipping that it was too short notice, he simply nodded, saying, “Okay,” and walked out.

I used the time to pack a little for our trip, force Colt into the bathtub, and throw dinner for the kids into the oven. I took Maisie’s temp when she woke up and sighed in relief at the beautiful 98.5 reading as Ada arrived. Then I generally puttered in nervousness before putting on what little makeup I had, which meant a swipe of mascara and a little lip gloss.

Not that this was a date or anything.

Beckett arrived exactly a half hour after he’d departed, his scruff shaved off, smelling like soap and leather, and him. Unh.

“Ready?” he asked after hugging both the kids.

“Yep,” I said, grabbing my purse and a white cardigan.

We walked down the steps, and he opened my door for me. At the moment, in his dress pants, open-collared shirt, and dark blue blazer, he looked more gentleman than special ops soldier, but I knew it was just icing. He might look all fluffy and frosted, but under the clothes he was devil’s food, period.

And I really, really, really liked chocolate.

I climbed up into the truck, and he shut the door, but not before he let his eyes linger on my legs for a moment longer than necessary. Good choice on the heels.

Our drive into Telluride was quiet, accompanied by only a little classic rock streaming through the speakers.

“This was Ryan’s favorite,” he said quietly, catching me off guard. “Used to drive me nuts with it.”

Thunderstruck.

“Yeah, it was,” I agreed. “Did he still play—”

“A wicked air guitar?” Beckett asked with a smile. “Oh yeah. Every chance he got. Between this and Poison, I’ve had my fill of watching him fingerpick at nothing. Did he ever tell you we got to meet Bret Michaels?”

“What? No way!”

“Check the glove box.” He motioned with his head, and I eagerly fumbled with the latch until it opened. “Under the manual.”

I pulled out a white envelope thick and distorted with pictures.

“I think it’s about halfway through.”

I flipped through the pictures, seeing Beckett all over the world, with other soldiers like him, like Ryan. Until I looked closer and saw that it was Ryan in a group photo. My breath caught, and I ran my thumb over his familiar face, an all too familiar ache settling in my chest.

“I miss him,” I said quietly.

“Me, too.” His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “It’s a good thing, though. Missing him. Grief means you had someone worth grieving.”

I found a picture where the soldiers were three rows deep, all camo’d and bearded. For just that second, I let myself wonder, and before I knew it, my mouth opened. “Which one is Chaos?”

Beckett’s head snapped toward mine as we reached a red light, and I felt a split-second of guilt. Did Beckett know how Chaos had felt about me? Or the way I’d felt about him?

His gaze dropped to the photo. “He’s third from the left.”

I searched the picture, hungry for my first sight of Chaos as we pulled into a parking spot in front of the restaurant. There was Beckett, serious as always… “There are two other soldiers three rows in.” Both had thick, short beards and sunglasses on.

The driver’s side door shut. Beckett had already killed the ignition and gotten out of the truck.

“I guess that subject’s closed,” I muttered, examining the faces one last time before sliding them back in the envelope with a heavy heart. Would I ever get to look again? Ever get the chance to ask questions?

I put the pictures back into the glove box just before Beckett opened my door and helped me down. Heels and running boards weren’t always the easiest combo. Then we walked into the restaurant, a little family-owned Italian place I loved.

When we reached our table, Mark was already waiting, and stood.

“Whoa. Gutierrez?” Beckett asked as Mark came around the table and kissed my cheek.

“Nice to see you, Gentry. Shall we sit?”

Beckett held out my chair, and I took it, scooting in. It was an almost archaic gesture, but it made me feel protected, cared for, and a little off-balance.

“So you don’t just run the rescue crew,” Beckett said as the men took their seats.