Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

Despite a million misgivings, adrenaline spurted into his bloodstream, and the familiar burn spiraled through his chest. It took him a second, but Dylan realized the sensation wasn’t excitement. It was fear. And it wasn’t fear of Assad. It was the fear of snapping the tentative connection he’d made with Emma.

“This could make your career,” Charlie said. “You could get out of war reporting and take a network slot.”

A shot of excitement tightened his shoulders. As a network anchor, he could live in New York. Still not Nashville, but Emma had been considering moving to Baltimore with Parnell. Maybe she’d be willing to move to New York with Dylan.

“After nailing this,” Charlie said, “you could write your own ticket.”

Those words chilled Dylan’s blood. They were words he’d heard Charlie say numerous times. The words his boss used as a carrot to get Dylan to take on the kind of assignments other quality journalists stepped away from.

All his past disappointments flooded in. Memories of the complex, in-depth articles he’d written on various terrorist groups and their roots of influence rejected by his network because they weren’t sensational enough. No boom. No blood. He’d ended up selling the pieces to magazines that serviced the millions of smart Americans who wanted honest information on what was really happening overseas.

“Dylan?”

“I’m here. I’m thinking.”

“Hey.” Charlie’s voice grew serious. “You know if you don’t do it, someone else will. You know how quickly you’re forgotten when you step out of the light, and you’ve been gone almost three weeks. Are you really going to let someone else step on you to get what you deserve? You don’t want to go back to freelancing, Dylan. That’s cheap, unappreciated work.”

Dylan leaned against the kitchen counter. “Are you seriously threatening to fire me if I don’t do this interview?”

“Stop being dramatic.”

“Don’t insult me. That’s what I just heard.”

“It’s the nature of the beast, and you know it. Hungry journalists looking for their fifteen minutes of fame will fight to the death over this. You used to be one of those. It’s the exact same way you got your start. There are hundreds of people out there who would kill for the chance to be you.”

No one knew the first fucking thing about being him. And Dylan was sick of this beast. “I’ll let you know.”

He disconnected from a less-than-satisfied editor and kicked the wall. “Fuck.”

* * *

Emma parked in front of the house. Dylan’s rental truck was across the street, there was a new dumpster in the driveway, and the sound of hammering came from inside the house.

Emma shut down her car and sat there a minute, getting her game face on.

It was just sex. She’d been repeating the mantra since she’d left the house three days before. Sex with an ex wasn’t exactly uncommon or even groundbreaking. The internet claimed over twenty-five percent of ex-lovers hooked up, so it had to be true, right?

The results of sleeping with an ex were reportedly mixed, from finding closure to cockblocking their future love life. Emma wasn’t one hundred percent sure where she landed on that scale, but over the last seventy-two hours, all kinds of emotions had resurfaced. Pain and loss, sure, but also a flood of longing and love. In short, spending the night with Dylan had wreaked havoc on Emma’s emotions.

He was still the giving man she’d married, but he’d grown, diversified, and developed the kind of confidence that made Emma melt into his very capable arms.

But that was over. It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. She wouldn’t invite that kind of emotional chaos. She’d suffered enough for ten lifetimes.

Now she had to jump into this renovation venture with both feet, own her decision and do her part to make it happen.

“It was just sex,” she murmured to herself. Maybe if she said it enough, she’d believe it.

Emma pried herself from the car, both excited to see Dylan and dreading it. She passed the dumpster just as Dylan came out of the house holding a door over his head.

He stopped short. “Whoa.” He focused on her, and his face broke into one of those smiles that made her heart flip. “Hey, there.”

He hefted the door over the side of the dumpster and faced her again, hands at his hips. His T-shirt was darkened by sweat and clung to his muscled chest. His dark hair was damp along the edges, and his face glowed with the kind of health she’d once doubted she’d ever see in him again. The same kind of vibrancy that brought back vivid memories of their night together.

But something was off. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You. There’s something…wrong.”