I’d known by the time I was ten that the only world I wanted to live in was hers. To see the world in colors and light the way she did, to witness the way her hands created beauty from nothingness, knowing it was a direct representation of her own soul. And when she’d chosen Sullivan…rather, when I thought she had, I’d chosen to blend that part of her with me, to take her with me in the only way I could. I learned to build new, beautiful things in the midst of poverty and war. I gave in to my inevitable nature when the mission called for it and never thought twice about ending the life of someone who could eventually be a threat to this country—to Willow. But I lived for the months where our assignment was supportive rather than destructive in nature.

I built temporary bridges to transport military equipment. But I also built permanent ones to transport food and people. I set off bombs in buildings where terrorists met and then built a school to educate the little sister who’d watched her bigger one killed for daring to crack a book. I was forever paying the debt for the lives I’d taken, trying to balance out the weight so my handbasket to hell didn’t sink quite so fast.

But today, when Oscar had thrown Sullivan at me like that—at Willow—I’d realized the balance might never tip in my favor, and I wasn’t sure that was something I could let Willow pay for.

I rolled up the greenhouse plans and secured them in the waterproof bin beneath the table in case weather moved in. Then, with the rook biting into my palm, I walked back to the house, where I knew she’d be waiting, because I’d fallen for a woman who might just be as stubborn as I was.

A quick kick, and I dropped my muddy boots in the laundry room and stripped out of my clothes, throwing all but my boxers into the washer and pressing start. Beauty of a tankless water heater? I could shower at the same time and give myself another few minutes of buffer before I went to battle.

I glanced her way as I passed the library, only to see her sitting at the easel, sketching something, oblivious, or at least acting like she was.

Five minutes later, I toweled off my hair, dressed, and headed into the library, where she still sat at the easel.

“That’s where I found the sketch,” I said, breaking the silence but raising the tension.

She put the pencil down and pivoted on the stool to face me. She’d hung her jacket next to mine by the door and was still wearing the same shirt she’d put on inside out this morning.

This morning felt like a decade ago.