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Then Beckett glanced over at the door and saw us. Our eyes met across the room and I thought, oh fuck. Now you’re in for it, Miranda…

Those blue eyes felt like they pierced right through me and I knew I wanted to forgive him, but most of all, I wanted to know why I had to.

So instead of bolting like a frightened deer, I stood firm and waited for him to come to me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Beckett

It rained all week, the water soaking me as I ran at dawn, trying to get enough exercise in so that I slept at night instead of lying awake, thinking of everything.

Everything, like Miranda Parker. Widow of Hospital Corpsman 1st Class Daniel Lewis.

It was crazy – I’d only met her six weeks earlier. How could she occupy so much emotional real estate in so short a time?

As Casey reminded me, I read her letters, all three dozen, and felt like I knew her far better than you normally would get to know a person in that short amount of time. Her letters were personal and intimate, revealing who she was and how she felt.

The truth was that I wanted someone like her to love me the way she loved Dan.

The way Sue had loved me.

Miranda didn’t know me, but I was familiar territory. Military. A law enforcement type. We seemed simpatico and shared a similar sense of humor. Sexually, we were definitely compatible. She really responded to me. She was a hot and eager lover.

I considered texting her several times, but then I thought – no. It would just prolong the pain. Once she knew the truth, she’d hate me and it would just bring up the whole thing again – the death of her new husband. The trauma of the news, his body torn up in the accident, burnt beyond recognition.

Most of all, the fact that he died while rescuing me.

I couldn’t even explain the mission I was on to justify the death. I couldn’t admit I was with SAD and that we were doing something classified. Black. Not on the books.

I ached to tell her the truth and have her forgive me. To take her in my arms and kiss her, hold her. Make love to her.

In my crazy romantic fantasy, she’d learn the truth, she’d forgive me, and we’d fall into each other’s arms and would spend the rest of our lives making each other happy.

That was most likely a combination of bourbon and wishful thinking.

I arrived back at my apartment, and shook off the rain before taking the elevator up to my loft on the seventh floor. The old building was a beauty, and was one of the first to have a working elevator in it. My loft was Spartan, with very Zen décor and wall-to-wall windows looking out over the city.

Miranda said she’d be living in residence in the New Yorker. We couldn’t spend time there – she’d have to come to my place. A place that hadn’t seen a single woman walk through the door in years other than Sue, with the exception of a designer who decorated the place. And Casey.

I wanted Miranda there, in my bed, sitting at my table for a meal. I could picture her cooking at the counter in my kitchen, the two of us sharing a glass of wine while she prepared her famous linguine agli scampi like she promised.

That wasn’t going to happen.

I had to forget about Miranda.

I spent the day at the office, catching up on work I’d let slide since the retreat. Usually, work filled my time and distracted me from other more difficult issues, but for the past week, I’d been unable to focus. That afternoon was no exception, and I found myself going over everything again, pulling up the pictures I took of Miranda while we were together. Selfies of us arm in arm, smiling like life was our bowl of cherries.

Maybe Casey was right. I should tell her the truth – as much of it as I could – and let her decide whether to see me or hit me again and walk out of my life.

It was really her choice to make. I wanted to see her again. There was no doubt about it. I couldn’t stop thinking of her. I felt this huge hole in my chest at the thought that I’d blown it with her but could see no way that she could forgive me.

I sighed and left the office earlier than I planned, deciding that I’d go home, have another shower, and go to my uncle’s club for dinner with Brandon. By all rights, if I had played my cards right instead of fucking things up royally, I’d be bringing Miranda and the four of us could spend an enjoyable evening together.

Instead, I’d be the third wheel, alone with my bourbon, which had become too much of a good friend, helping me fall asleep at night.

I met Brandon at my uncle’s restaurant and we had a nice dinner, lavish food and service, followed by a few drinks with my uncle. His sons, who worked at the restaurant in the kitchen and bar, stood around and we caught up on family news.

“What are you two doing now? Going out to find some pretty girls, I hope…”