Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

Dylan’s voice came over the speaker. “Hey, beautiful. Making progress. This would be so much more fun with you here, but I’m not sure I’d feel safe giving you a sledgehammer while I was within striking distance. Call when you’re free, I really need your input on some of the design changes before I tear apart the kitchen, and by the way you ditched me this morning, I’m obviously not able to read your mind the way I once could, ’cause I was ready to swear I could get you to stay. You’re going to have to help me out here.”

He paused as if he wanted to say something else. The look in his eyes clearly told Emma he wanted to say something like last night was amazing or I can’t stop thinking about you or I need you, come over now, but he said, “Talk soon” and disconnected.

Maizey looked up. “Jesus Christ, he’s so sweet.”

“There.” She pointed at the phone. “Now. But take my word for it, he’s not so sweet telling you he doesn’t love you anymore and wants you out of his life. Nope, not sweet at all.”

“He’s trying, Emma. He’s doing all this for you.” A plea rang in Maizey’s voice. “He was a kid. He did the best he could. He messed up, but he did it for the right reasons. You’ve got to find a way to forgive him so you can get past this. Whether or not you decide to be with Dylan isn’t as important as just putting this mess to bed. You’ve been carrying this burden too long.”

Maizey was right about resolving her feelings for Dylan. But she also knew that trusting men hadn’t worked for her for nearly a decade, and it wasn’t going to change overnight. And she sure didn’t need a man jumping in and trying to fix her life. If there was one thing Emma learned bone-deep, it was that no one could be trusted to take care of her. She had to take care of herself.

Which meant it was time for Emma to take back some control.

14

Dylan hauled the sledgehammer above his head and swung. The heavy metal head blasted through old sheetrock. Gypsum cracked, and powder exploded into the air. It only took two more blows to expose the framing for the wall between the two larger bedrooms, where the new Jack-and-Jill bath would go.

Dylan set the hammer aside and pulled at a few small pieces of drywall clinging to the studs. He tossed them into a pile by the door, pulled down his face mask, an

d drank half a bottle of water. Despite the safety goggles, the dust in the air stung his eyes. And, damn, the extended manual labor cut at his nerves like razors.

Still, the pain only diverted his thoughts from Emma for a few minutes at a time. She’d been working shitty shifts for three days and said she didn’t have the time or energy for anything but a few texts. But Dylan knew she was distancing herself. Putting time and space between them after their deep, connected reunion. Even she knew what they’d shared wasn’t just sex.

But every time he replayed her detached, flippant exit, his heart dropped like a rock. Their night together had only magnified both his desire and his loss. Fantasizing about what it would feel like to touch her again, kiss her again, hadn’t come anywhere close to the reality. Sheer bliss. For several long, heavenly hours, he’d been healed. Whole. Overflowing with the kind of joy only Emma could bring.

Then she’d acted like it was nothing and walked away.

Dylan exhaled, picked up a towel, and wiped his face. Logically, he knew Emma had no reason to love him. No reason to want him. And him coming back now was way too little, a lifetime too late. But emotionally, he was a fucking mess.

He took a breath and wandered into the backyard, using the picnic table to help him stretch his limbs and back. After twenty minutes, the pain stabbing him like a hundred hot pokers eased.

His cell rang. He pulled it from his back pocket hoping to see Emma’s name on the screen. Instead, the name of his editor and boss from the network, Charlie, showed up.

“Shit.” Dylan dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Charlie hadn’t wanted him to take this leave and now wanted Dylan on the next plane out. He’d been sending Charlie’s calls to voicemail, but now that he’d been here three weeks, Dylan really couldn’t avoid him without the threat of losing his job. But just the thought of returning to Syria felt like a boulder on his shoulders. He tapped the display and brought the phone to his ear. “Hey, Charlie.”

“Dylan, finally. So glad to finally get you.”

“Yeah, sorry. Dealing with family stuff. What’s up?”

“You are not going to believe this. Are you sitting down?”

The next moment stretched time, and Dylan’s mind jumped around like a ricocheting bullet. He realized this was the first time since he’d taken the job that those words had created dread instead of excitement. “Just tell me.”

“Assad has agreed to sit down for an interview. Can you fuckin’ believe that? The first interview since he targeted the White Helmets. And since you broke the story, he said he’ll only sit down with you.”

Pain gripped Dylan, flattening his heart and soul like a vise. That night from hell flooded into his head. To the sound of Amir choking on his own blood. The deafening silence and soul-sucking isolation that swamped Dylan once Amir had passed.

He dragged in a ragged breath. “Sounds like Assad’s angling to get me alone so he can cut my head off on national television.”

“We thought of that.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dylan stared at the sky. “I was kidding. Sort of.”

“We’re prepared to send you with a top-of-the-line security team. Former SEALs and Delta Force, top-notch, the real deal. We’ll set up a neutral location where we have control.”

Dylan’s mind instantly veered toward a very dark place. If he had a team of former military badasses at his disposal, he’d be using them to annihilate Assad, not interview him.

“Come on, Dylan.” Charlie sounded like a junkie begging for a fix. “Tell me you’ll do it.”