Page 113 of Nothing to Fear

“Say what? That I’m only good at fucking and killing? That you’d be better off without me? Trust me, you don’t want this.”

Wasting the best years of her life worrying every time he went on assignment if he’d come back injured, in a body bag, or at all. Growing to resent him for the things he couldn’t give.

“You don’t have to be good at caring about someone. Either you do, or you don’t.” She drummed her fingers against her thigh, the color rising in her cheeks. “Don’t make excuses. I can handle the truth. Just tell me.”

“What do you need to hear?”

“That we don’t fit. That I’m not the right type of woman for you.” Her chin angled up in a challenge, and something hard as steel ran through her. “That you could never be with someone like me in the real world.”

Unbearable pressure roiled through him, deep beneath the cold-wash front he presented. “Go inside and clear your name, Willow.”

“Don’t be a coward.” Ugly fury punched through her tone. “Say it.”

The air shifted, tension distending between them. How long could ten minutes last?

“Say it.” She shoved him.

He had to do it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid or slicing a jugular.

“We don’t fit.”

She flinched like he’d slapped her. Agony rippled across her face.

Liar. He was a liar, and uttering such a horrible untruth ate at his gut.

Fate was cruel to put this incredible person in his path, his starling. He didn’t choose this life—it chose him. Sometimes, he hated that life. Right now, no question, it hated him right back.

“Go inside,” he begged. “I need to clear my head so I can do my job.”

In a blur, she fled from his field of sight.

A sinkhole opened in his chest. The pain rising in him was worse than anything he’d ever endured physically. For a moment, he couldn’t move.

For her own good. For the best.

Best for her.

He stormed toward the building. It was better to end it before things between them got any deeper. Turbulence inside him spun and swelled. Then it slammed against the wall of his chest and he couldn’t breathe.

Staggering to a stop, he leaned against his Jeep. Kelli’s Jeep. He pressed his fists on the hood, and their last argument before his Daedalus mission came roaring back to him.

“You can’t keep making choices for me, Gideon!” Kelli said.

She’d complained about driving the old Toyota, even though the sedan would’ve lasted forever. Surprising her with a new car should’ve made her happy. Right? Wrong. Again.

“A tiny sports car isn’t practical.” He dropped onto the sofa. “You’d get stuck in the snow and wouldn’t stand a chance in a car accident. You’ll thank me for the Jeep come winter.”

She threw the car keys at his head, and he ducked. “I’ll never thank you for making decisions for me. For taking away the life I wanted to live.”

“Are we talking about a car?”

“Yes! And no!” She marched around the living room like a crazy person. Mental diagnosis: perpetual infuriation. “You were a quarterback with a killer arm who could outrun receivers! You could’ve been a first-round draft pick instead of third, if you’d wanted it. You were supposed to go pro. Who turns down a multimillion-dollar contract to work for the CIA?”

This again? For years, it was always between them, like cancer. “You swore going pro didn’t matter.”

Her cheeks flamed red. “There were other options besides this.” She flung her hands out. “You could’ve been an anchor. A coach at a big school. Something. You never even told me you applied to the Agency.”

He stormed to the kitchen. The situation demanded a drink. Belgian or microbrew?