Page 20 of Ex-Military Biker’s Bride

To her.

I go back to the apartment after an hour because there's nowhere else to go, and it's worse than I expected. My shirt's on a chair where she pulled it off over her head, and I pick it up and breathe in her scent.

I take the paper out of my shirt pocket, put it on the counter, and sit down staring at it.

Luke.

She wrote my name and then she stopped. Ran out of time? Or did she run out of nerve?

I can’t decide what’s worse.

Chapter Nine

OLIVIA

The truck stop sits where the county road meets the highway. We’re in the middle of nowhere, an hour’s drive from High Vale. There’s a fuel island and a diner, and a parking lot with maybe four vehicles in it.

My editor’s car is one of them.

I park Savage's truck around the side by the propane cage and sit for a second with my hands on the wheel. Two rigs are idling with their curtains drawn and their running lights on, and a dog is barking in one of them.

I'm going to fix this; I have to.

Nancy's in the back booth.

She's ordered coffee she hasn't touched. Her silver bob is immaculate, but her glasses are pushed down her nose, the glass smeared, and her normally perfectly ironed blouse is creased. In ten years I have never seen this woman outside a corporate building.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” she says.

“You’re right.” I slide in opposite her and get it out fast, before I lose my nerve.

I'm killing the story. Not delaying it; killing it completely. I want the preliminary findings deleted off her drive, and I'll pay the advance back over as long as it takes.

Nancy doesn't argue, which freaks me out. We’ve spent ten years fighting over subheadings and commas, but she takes me pulling the story with a nod and glances out of the window.

Something is really wrong. My stomach lurches.

“Nancy.”

“There are people who'll be very relieved to hear that.” Her hand comes across the table and covers mine. It's cold. “Olivia. I want you to know I didn't have a choice.”

The bell over the door goes.

There are three of them. They walk slowly, like this is all completely normal.

The one in the center is around forty. Dark curly hair, cut recently, a quilted jacket and clean boots, the kind of man you wouldn’t look twice at. He stops at the end of the booth. He smiles at me like we've met before and he's pleased about it.

“Miss Martin. Steve Peters.” He tips his head toward the back of the building. “There's an office through here that they’ll let us use. It's quieter, and I'd rather not do this while people are eating.”

I look at Nancy.

“Your editor's been very cooperative,” Peters says. Perfectly pleasant. “Don’t be too hard on her. Most people find it easier to comply, at this stage.”

One of the others helps Nancy up out of the booth by the elbow, polite as a waiter, and walks her out through the front door into the gray light.

The office behind the fuel desk is small. It has a strip light, a desk, two chairs, and a calendar from a tire company that’s still turned to last month. It smells of fryer oil and pine air freshener, which does nothing to help my stomach.

Peters sits, putting a folder on the desk between us. “May I be direct? It saves us both a lot of small talk.”