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CAROLINE

“It was a long time ago. Let’s not get into this.”

Avoiding his gaze, I lean against his chest, willing the frustration away.

I should take in the sky, gray and cloudy as it is, the gurgling creek, and the remaining amber and crimson aspen leaves clinging in the face of the coming winter, and be grateful.

If someone spotted us with a telephoto lens, they would see a couple, not the exes that we are. I should push away, but the deep thud of his heartbeat comforts me. And it’s chilly, getting colder as the minutes tick by, and his body is a furnace.

“You said a cold front’s coming through?”

“It’s December in Colorado. We’ve had unseasonably warm weather, but this cool front coming down from Canada was forecasted a week ago. You should’ve packed a winter coat.”

“Why do you sound offended?”

“Because.”

He can’t see it, but I roll my eyes at his childish response.

“You weren’t planning to stay. I’m certain you checked the weather when you packed. In your mind, there was no possibility of staying through the weekend.”

His heart thuds softly against my back, and the familiar rhythm reverberates through my spine and ribs.

“Why would there be a possibility? We’ve been legally separated for years. The divorce agreement is just a technicality. Are you egging for a fight?”

“No.” He huffs and curls himself around me, shifting so he’s not leaning back anymore, but leaning forward. “I’m saying the things I should’ve said years ago.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s my last chance. I can’t win with you, though. You’re either mad at me for speaking my mind or mad when I don’t.”

“I’m not mad,” I lie. He’s right, and it pisses me off.

An ant crawls onto my bare foot, and I kick my leg up.

“You need your shoe.” He taps my thigh and grunts as he pushes up off the ground, careful to leave me in place.

“You said it was too dangerous to get my phone, but you’ll get my shoe?”

He shrugs, swiping dirt off his suit coat tail and ass. He’s always filled out his trousers nicely, but his rear is drool-worthy in jeans. And low-slung pajama bottoms that hang just right on his hips.

“Smoke’s gone. The burning smell has dissipated. And I want to see if the radio works. It feels like it’s taking them a long time to get here.”

It’s probably only been about fifteen minutes, but I agree with him. It feels like hours have passed.

“If this is sabotage, if someone wanted to kill you, how do you know they wouldn’t come after you now?”

He pauses, halfway between me and the wreck. He scans the treetops, then shakes his head.

“No. If someone purposefully did this, they expected me to die in the crash.”

“They wouldn’t expect you might live?”

“It’d be a gamble. But tracking my descent and sending in follow-up crews that might intersect first responders…” He shakes his head. “No. If someone tried, they’re waiting for news reports to learn if they succeeded. We’re in the clear. For now.”

When he reaches the helicopter, he puts a hand on the side, pulling and pushing, back and forth, like he’s checking stability. An unnecessary move, given that the hunk of metal isn’t moving anywhere without a crane.

Satisfied, he hoists himself into the shell and drops from sight.

What if there is another explosion? Could I get him out?

When I stand, my skin tingles on my rear from sitting on the hard surface of the boulder.

A cluster of bare birch trees wedged between soaring firs stands in contrast to the aspens, their mostly leafless limbs ready to bend to the will of winter. The wind rustles the leaves along the ground.

I rub my arms as awareness sets in of how isolated we are in this valley, surrounded by wilderness. If they don’t find us, we’ll have to hike through a forest and hope we stumble across a road. My mouth dries, and the wind burns my eyes.

My shoe appears, then Dorian.

“Won’t turn on,” he announces, waving a phone in his other hand. “Most likely heat damage. I’m sure there’d be zero signal anyway.”

He’s right about the signal. I have no idea where our position is relative to the nearest cell towers, but unless we’re close, there’s a significant likelihood of signal blockage from the mountain terrain.

I scan our surroundings, noting escape routes, potential cover positions, and lines of sight.

The training never really leaves you, even when you’re supposedly just waiting for rescue.

There’s no need to take cover, as he’s likely correct.

If someone purposefully tampered with the hydraulic lines, it would be nearly impossible to plan where he’d choose to make a crash landing, wouldn’t it?

“Here’s your shoe.” He throws it through the air, and it lands silently on a patch of grass near my feet. Soot covers the leather, but other than appearing like it’s been near heavy smoke, the heel and sole are intact, and it’s functional.

He disappears, then reappears with a rolled blanket beneath one arm and a small white box with a red first aid symbol on it.

“Comms are out. Wires got smoked in the explosion.”

“How long do you think until first responders arrive?”

“Not too long. After my mayday call, air traffic control notified the Air Force Rescue Coordination Center. Activated a local search and rescue team. Given our location, it’s likely the Colorado Army National Guard will deploy their High-Altitude Army National Guard Aviation Training site specialists.

A scouting plane will be on its way soon.

You don’t need to worry. Help is on the way. ”

“How do you know all that?”

“I didn’t buy my helicopter pilot’s license. I earned it.” His smug expression has me rolling my eyes, although I should be happy he studied and earned his license. I likely owe my life to his efforts.

He wiggles the white metal box. “I put some flares in here. If it gets darker and they haven’t found us yet, I’ll shoot them off.”

“Why not now?”

“Don’t want to waste them. If the fixed plane flies by, and it doesn’t appear they saw us, I’ll shoot one off.” He scans the area. “They’d have to be blind not to see us, though.” He opens the metal box and lifts a water bottle. “You thirsty?”

Given the stream, we were never in danger of dying of thirst, but I’ll gladly take a bottle of water. Although looking at the yellowed label, I question the age. We might be better off emptying it and using it to collect fresh mountain water.

He spreads the blanket out on the boulder and gives a second blanket to me. “In case you get cold.”

“You don’t have a winter coat either.” I don’t mean to sound as reproachful as I do.

“I planned to land and go to the office.”

“Crashing wasn’t on your bingo card?”

“Emergency landing. We didn’t crash.”

I open my mouth and wrinkle my brow, blown away that he’s going to argue this point.

“We can agree to disagree,” he says at the same time I relent with the saying, “Potato potahto.”

I sit on the blanket, leaving my shoes on so my toes don’t freeze.

He returns to the blanket, situating himself close beside me, and I wish he would lift me onto his lap again.

“We’ve got nothing to do but talk. Nowhere to go.” He leans forward, untying the laces on his dress shoes. “Can we call a truce? Ask questions and get answers.”

“Who are you, and what did they do with Dorian?”

“I’m being serious.”

A niggling voice in my head reminds me I have questions, too. And there’s a team back home expecting me to return with answers. They aren’t picking up anything of value from the bugs I planted back at Dorian’s home, given he’s here with me.

“I’ll make you a deal. You ask a question, I get a question.”

He grins, and I know what he’s thinking. Our third night together, we met at a pub and played guess which of the three statements is true, going back and forth for hours. Tit for tat always got us far…until it didn’t.

“Truth,” he says. “Let’s keep it simple. One question, one answer. Back and forth.”

My pulse quickens slightly. This is an opportunity for information extraction through casual conversation.

The crash has given me an opening I couldn’t have planned better; he’s emotional, unguarded, and ready to talk.

The operative in me recognizes the opportunity while guilt twists my heart at the manipulation.

A gust of wind barrels through the woods and cuts straight through my clothes.

“Let’s lie down facing each other,” he says, settling onto his side. “We’ll drape the blanket over us. Let our body heat work to keep us warm.”

I eye the space between us, envisioning the scenario.

It doesn’t strike me as wise. There’s not a ton of space on the flat part of the boulder, and we’d need to lie close.

It’s not a problem, except that seconds ago, I wished he’d put me back onto his lap, and I’m emotional after the crash and prone to slipping down a familiar spiral that won’t end well.

“Clothes will stay on.” He’s still good at reading my mind.

“Fine,” I say, attempting to overlook his exasperation. This isn’t a normal situation for either of us.

We settle down onto the blanket, our bottom halves aligned for warmth. We both use our arms to prop up our heads, and there’s space between our top halves so we can talk.

“Too bad the chopper didn’t have pillows.”

“Yes, I might add a tent to the gear in my next one.”

“You’re going to keep flying?” He’s out of his mind.

“Yes, I am. That was an easy question. Now, it’s my turn.”

He grins. I’ve always loved his boyish grins. An unrestricted curve of the lips morphs the business titan into an everyday man.

“Who is Luke?”

Whoa. Did he read my messages?

“Someone I work with. I already told you I’m not dating anyone.” I narrow my eyes and scoff. “That feels like a wasted question.” But his loss. Now, it’s my turn.

“Are you a part of a global alliance or syndicate?”

I keep my voice casual, but I observe every microexpression, every pause, every shift in his posture. His eyes widen slightly—there it is, the tell we look for in intelligence work. Not surprise at the question, but recognition.