Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Then again, he doesn’t think civilian life is for me; he stated as much at our wedding. So maybe he expects me to return and is keeping an eye on the situation just in case.
With Yan, one never knows.
“Well, I hope they come visit us,” Sara says. “The guys, I mean. I didn’t get a chance to talk to them at the wedding, and I feel bad about that.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Really? That is what you feel bad about?”
She drops her gaze to her salad bowl. “And nearly standing you up, obviously.”
The metal edges of the fork handle cut into my palm, and I realize I’m squeezing the utensil too hard. I’m no longer mad at my ptichka, though some of the hurt still lingers. I understand how difficult it was for her to admit she loves me, to embrace me fully after everything I’ve done. She needed me to leave her no choice, and I obliged, threatening her friends to make her show up at our wedding.
No, the source of my anger is not Sara, but the man who tried to manipulate her into bailing on our wedding.
Agent Ryson.
The fact that he dared to show up like that fills me with blistering fury. I leave Henderson alone, they leave me and Sara alone—that was the deal. No more FBI surveillance, no harassment, just a clean slate so we can lead peaceful lives.
He threatened Sara, too. Accused her of conspiring with me to kill her husband. I have no idea what he said to her, exactly, but it must’ve been bad to make her react so strongly.
Under any other circumstances, he would’ve already been rotting with the worms, but I’m supposed to be a law-abiding citizen now. I can’t go around killing FBI agents—not without giving up the life I’ve fought for, the civilian life that Sara needs. So as tempting as it is, Ryson lives—for now, at least. Later on, when enough time has passed, he might meet with an unfortunate accident or an overly aggressive mugger, à la Sara’s patient’s stepfather… but that’s a thought for another day.
Today I have Sara all to myself, and I intend to enjoy it.
“Don’t worry, my love,” I say when my new wife continues to eat quietly, avoiding my gaze. “It’s over. It’s in the past—as are whatever other mistakes we’ve made. Let’s just focus on the present and the future… live our lives without always looking back.”
She looks up, her eyes uncertain. “Do you really think we can?”
“Yes,” I tell her firmly, and reaching over, I bring her hand to my lips for a tender kiss.
After we eat lunch, we go see the listings I showed her, and Sara falls in love with one house—a five-bedroom Victorian that was built in the eighties but completely renovated last year. It has a large back yard—for the dog and the kids, she gleefully tells me—and a gorgeous fireplace in the living room. I’m not crazy that it’s so close to the neighbors and the yard is completely open, but I figure if we plant some trees and put up a fence, we’ll have sufficient privacy.
Either way, it’s better than living in Sara’s current rental.
Before we leave, I put in an above-market all-cash offer, and the realtor calls us a few minutes later to inform us that the offer has been accepted.
“That’s it,” I tell Sara when I hang up. “The closing is next week.”
Her eyes widen. “Really? Just like that?”
“Why not?”
She laughs. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose because most people don’t buy houses as easily as they buy shoes.”
I smile and reach out to take her hand. “Most people aren’t us.”
“No,” she agrees wryly, looking up at me. “They’re not.”
We return home, and I make us dinner—grilled scallops with sweet potato mash and steamed broccolini. As we eat, Sara brings up moving logistics, and I tell her that I’ll take care of everything, just as I did with the wedding arrangements.
“All you’ll need to do is show up at the new place,” I say, pouring her a glass of Pinot Grigio. Then, remembering her inexplicable upset over the sale of her Toyota, I add, “Unless there’s something you want to decide on together? Maybe you want to choose new furniture or decorations?”
She smiles ruefully. “No, I think I’m good. I’m not overly picky about house stuff. If you want to run with it, I’m fine with that.”
“To our new place, then.” I lift my wine glass and clink it gently against hers. “And a new life.”
“To our new life,” she echoes softly, and as she sips from her glass, I can’t help remembering the time when she tried to drug my wine, early on in our relationship. She’d been so defiant then, so sure that she hated me.
Does she still? In some small way?