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REN

One year later…

Washington, D.C.

H e kissed her goodbye in the rain. The arched entrance to Union Station framed the scene; his black umbrella shielded them from the downpour while her closed pink one separated their bodies like a sentry.

He should have been wearing a fedora and a trenchcoat.

She should have had a pillbox hat with a delicate veil pinned around it.

That would have completed this fifties movie farewell.

Leo “Ren” Jameson pulled back from their prom night peck and shoved his free hand into his trouser pocket.

Sofria Kirk busied herself, extending the handle of her rolling suitcase.

When there were no other reasonable excuses not to say something, they both spoke at once—then stopped—then started again—then stopped again.

Ren chuckled. “You go.”

Sofria’s fawn-colored cheeks pinked. “I was just going to say I’ll call you when I land in Amman.”

A group of middle school students engulfed them as a teacher herded the kids into the train station. Ren pulled Sofria out of the commotion. With a soft smile, he said, “Good. That’s good.”

She frowned, looking down at her tight grip on the umbrella. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to get away. I know you mentioned visiting Petra.”

If they had been dancing, this would have been the moment when she stepped on his foot.

Ren squeezed her forearm. “Don’t worry about that. You get set up at the embassy, and we can plan a visit when you’re settled.”

Sofria stepped back. He didn’t miss the measure of relief as they neared the end of this awkward farewell.

Thunder rumbled as a fresh wave of rain caught the wind. Ren mirrored her retreat. “Safe travels.”

She managed a bright smile and waved the pink umbrella. Then Sofria Kirk disappeared into the rushing throng.

Ren stood in the downpour and watched until he could no longer see her petite frame and curtain of dark hair. A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he recalled their first encounter. Desire had hit him like a lightning bolt: instantaneous, blinding, and utterly devastating.

At the time, he’d had one shocking, hopeful thought: she can fix me .

What began with the promise of forever and a surge of lust had fizzled into polite, nearly platonic encounters.

The woman he had concocted in his fantasies, full of fire and trust, was nothing like Sofria Kirk.

She could discuss anything from Proust to Plato to Pollock; she played chess and Go and Mahjong.

On paper, she was a brilliant, exotic, fascinating creature.

The three-dimensional version was something else.

Or perhaps Sofria Kirk was all those things, just not to Ren.

They had only been on a handful of dates, but each one was worse than the last. Sitting at a café table, Sofria Kirk was as dull as dishwater.

Or maybe he was. Or perhaps they were simply incapable of fanning the flame that had drawn him to her like an eager moth.

Whatever the reason, the sparks that had flown when they first met had landed in a puddle with an anticlimactic hiss.

Her embassy assignment with the CIA in Jordan was initially a crushing obstacle. It had become a convenient excuse.

Frustration and disappointment swirled in his gut as he walked to the taxi stand amid the rain-soaked travelers.

He knew how the next few months would play out.

She’d call when she arrived in Amman as promised—probably from the airport so she would have an excuse to keep the conversation brief.

They’d Facetime once or twice that first month.

Ren would never mention the trip to Petra, and Sofria wouldn’t remind him.

The calls would become texts. Then nothing.

Ren Jameson and Sofria Kirk were both brave people with risky jobs.

But neither of them had the courage to admit it was over.