"Don't be an ass. And it doesn't matter what I know or what I think or what anybody thinks."
Dallas cocked his head, hearing something unexpected in Liam's tone more than the specific words. "And what do you think?"
"Lots of things," Liam said. "I'm a hell of a thinker."
"Dammit, Li--"
"Fuck, man, you know I love you both. And I'll always tell you if I think you're being a prick." He drew in a long breath. "But there are some things you can't--you can't just butt into."
"In that case, don't tell me what you're thinking. Just tell me what you're saying."
Liam sighed, and Dallas thought that for a moment his badass buddy actually looked a little cornered.
"I'm saying that it's not for me to do the thinking on this one," Liam finally said. "But I'll tell you this. Jane Martin is a hell of a woman. And if I was in love with her, there's not a power on earth that could keep me away."
--
Liam had been gone a full forty-five minutes, but his words still lingered, tormenting Dallas as he tried to read the reports and updates that the team kept shooting to his tablet.
Screw it.
He gave up trying to concentrate. And before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled out his phone.
It wasn't quite midnight in Mendoza, and New York was only two hours behind. Surely he'd find her awake.
He hit the speed dial on his phone. They talked only infrequently these days, but he'd still put her in the first slot. Always had. Probably always would.
The phone rang once. Twice. Five times. And then it clicked to voicemail.
He clenched his fists, hating the feeling of helplessness that one unanswered call could bring. Was she not by her phone? Was she asleep? Was she avoiding him?
He was about to go run on the treadmill--maybe if he exhausted himself his mind would quit thinking about her for five seconds--when his phone chirped with Jane's familiar ringtone.
With one quick motion he snatched it up and answered the call. "Hey."
"You called me?" she asked. "I just saw the missed call on the lock screen."
"I did. Yeah." He rolled his eyes at himself. He sounded like a teenager again.
"Oh. Well, what's--"
"I wanted to say I was sorry again. I pushed. I shouldn't have pushed."
For a moment, there was only silence, and when she did speak, her voice was low, barely a whisper. "No, you shouldn't have. But you weren't the only one pushing. I guess I owe you an apology, too."
"Fair enough," he said. "Apology accepted."
"So was that it?" she asked. "Was that the only reason you called?"
He thought she sounded hopeful, but that might be wishful thinking. And right then, he didn't have a clue what to say. Hell, he wasn't even sure why he called. To hear her voice, maybe. But now that she was on the phone, he was fucking tongue-tied. Him--the man who'd made women melt with nothing more than the tone of his voice and a stern command--couldn't manage to utter a single coherent thought. Because damned if it didn't feel different when it was real.
"Dallas?" she said into his lingering silence. "Shit, are you there? Stupid cellphone, I think the call dropped."
"No." His voice was so low she probably couldn't hear him. "I'm here."
"Are you okay?"
He closed his eyes, done in by the genuine concern in her voice. "No," he said honestly. "I miss you."