Page 128 of Enemy of My Enemy

“The whole apartment smelled like smoke…” he whispered.

“You had a can of baked beans—barely warm—and some grocery store potato salad, and this black hunk of chicken.” She shook her head, alternating talking and eating as she smiled at Jack.

The memory hit him like drowning in the ocean, a wave descending over him and pulling him under. They were so young, just out of college, newlyweds, and she’d been in the field, training for ten days. He’d desperately wanted to do something for her, but he was so painfully inexperienced in the kitchen. Dining halls in college and fast food had turned him into a terrible cook. He’d tried—and failed—to make her a welcome home dinner.

“I loved you so much that I ate it,” Leslie breathed. “And I loved it, even though it was terrible.” She laughed again. “But it was something you did for me.”

God, the memories were pouring in, everywhere, all around him. Leslie, laughing just like this, at the burned chicken. Eating at the table in her Army uniform pants and her tucked-in undershirt, showing off her strong muscles, her corded arms. Her hair in a tight, professional bun. Her eyes, twinkling as she ate burned chicken and cold beans and held Jack’s hand through it all.

His stomach rolled again, clenching, and he slid the second plate to Leslie as she scraped her first clean. He pressed his lips together. Blinked fast.

“You got good at cooking.” She winked at him. “Where did you learn this?”

Ethan. Ethan made it for me, and it became my favorite the moment I tried it, the moment he fed me the first piece of steak, feeding me while I played footsie with him under the table, and we’d had half a bottle of wine on empty stomachs—

He wanted to vomit.

“Ethan,” he said softly. “He made it for me. I learned a lot from him.”

Leslie stilled. Her gaze flicked from her second half-empty plate to Jack. She slowly finished chewing, her fork picking through the remnants of salad and rice and turning over strips of steak.

She set the fork down. Swallowed. Pushed the plate aside.

“Are we going to talk about this?” She chewed on her lower lip. Pushed a strand of limp hair behind her ear. “Are we going to talk about him?”

“No.” Jack shook his head. “No.”

“Jack.” She leaned forward, almost leaning into his space. He forced himself not to jerk away. “We’re going to have to. We need to figure out what to do. What’s going to happen now—”

“I’m going to take care of you.” He couldn’t meet her gaze. “You’ll never want for anything. I’ll make sure you have everything. The best doctors. The best therapists. The best of anything you want—”

“What about a husband?” She reached for his hand. “What about having my husband back?”

Her touch burned, a sizzle on his bones that stabbed the center of his heart. He jerked away.

Silence.

Her hand hovered over where she’d barely touched the back of his. “Oh,” she breathed.

“Damn it, Leslie.” Curling forward, Jack braced himself on his knees. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

“I’m your wife, Jack. We loved each other, so deeply. We can find that love again… if you give us a chance.”

He squeezed his eyes closed.

“Can we try to get to know each other? Maybe… see what happens?” Her chin wavered, but she held her head high. “I never stopped loving you. Never. Could you… maybe just try? Can we at least see if our marriage is still there?”

He bolted to his feet. The walls were closing in; the floor was rising up. His stomach was rolling again, too fast, too hard, and he was going to vomit. Cold sweat prickled along his skin, clinging to the back of his neck. “I need time,” he grunted. “I need—”

Ethan.

Quick steps took him to the open door and out into the hallway. The agents stared at him again, hot gazes burning his skin. He ran, down the hallway and back to his bedroom. Shoved open the door.

He barely made it to the toilet before he collapsed to his knees and heaved, green bile and empty nothingness spilling from him.

He sat back, leaning against the bathroom wall.

What was he going to do?