Chapter Eight

Blake climbed a set of stairs at the crowded train station, his gaze focused on the back of a petite older woman’s gray head. He had no idea why he’d told Zandra that stuff about his dad, but the words were out before he could yank them back in. And now he felt vulnerable as hell.

He didn’t like feeling vulnerable. In his line of work, vulnerability got you killed.

Not that this was a life or death situation, but still. Zandra made him want to be vulnerable. That was extremely inconvenient with him already struggling to keep her at arm’s length.

Ahead of him, the older woman stumbled, her arms falling forward. Blake sprung into action, reaching out and grabbing onto both the older woman’s shoulders, gently bringing her back to a standing position. “Are you okay?” he asked her once she was steady. “Ganz langsam. Geht es Ihnen gut?” His German wasn’t that great, but he’d remembered a few phrases.

“Danke zu sagen. Thank you. I am fine,” the older woman supplied in perfect English. Given the part of the world they were in, he wasn’t surprised. He’d often seen shop workers flow from one European language to another as easily as the customers who shopped.

The older woman touched her head and smoothed out a section of hair that had unraveled from its bun. “You are very kind.”

“I am happy to help.”

The woman began her ascent up the last few steps, and Blake followed at a close but not invasive distance. Just in case.

It wasn’t until he reached the landing that he turned toward where Zandra was, just a few feet behind him on the top step. A corner of her full mouth tipped up in a smile as she stood there, the travelers climbing the stairs spilling around her, though she didn’t seem to notice.

He couldn’t help it. He adjusted his backpack and reached a hand out in silent invitation, the need to touch her, to hold her, to show her…something, anything meaningful overwhelming him to the point where he sucked in a deep breath. Damn, but it seemed hard to stay in control around her.

She extended her hand and grasped his, a reassuring smile on her face.

“You ready?” he asked with a slight squeeze of her hand.

Zandra simply nodded.

They said nothing more as they navigated the crowd, alone yet not alone in the sea of fellow travelers. Comfortable enough in the silence, their hands clasped together the only indication—a reassuring one—that they were in this thing together.

By the time they’d boarded the train and were settled in their seats, he’d deliberately let her hand go and forced his brain back to task. He didn’t want his moment of weakness, of needing to touch her, to give her the wrong impression.

“So, you were telling me about your grandfather,” she prompted as she reached for her camera bag.

You know, what he really ought to do was tell her it wasn’t any of her business or else keep his answers brief. But that need to spill his guts to her, specifically, was still running strong.

So why the hell not? Really, it was no different than being with a battle buddy, was it? Someone you trusted to have your back in the thick of things, someone who, in those dark moments, you trusted enough to share your secrets with…in case you didn’t make it back from a mission.

And while shooting photos in Europe was hardly close to a battle situation, the same principles applied. At least, that’s what Blake told himself.

“My grandfather helped raise me,” he finally said. Even after all this time, he felt his throat close, and he swallowed the dull ache away. “Mom was always trying to get me to sit still, but Gramps was the one who insisted I behave like a boy, doing all the normal stuff boys do.”

She scrunched her nose. “There’s no such thing.”

“Yeah, well, that was a different time. Fishing, hunting, boating. We did it all.” And every one of those excursions was a learning lesson so that Blake understood the value of self-control, of self-reliance, of self-belief. These became the building blocks of his Army life. Scratch that, of Blake’s whole life.

“What about your dad?” she gently asked. “Do you remember much about him?”

He thought long and hard, and tried to conjure up the memory of the only man he’d called “dad.” He didn’t remember much other than there was a lot of laughter when his dad was still alive. His mom hadn’t laughed much afterwards, and it’d only been in recent years—since she started college classes—that Blake had heard her deep-down laughter again. “Guess that’s what happens when you reach for your dreams,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?” Zandra’s quietly asked question broke through his thoughts, broke through the memories of those early days without his dad around.

“Nothing.” He pulled the ball cap off and shoved a hand through his hair. “I was just remembering something, that’s all.”

She studied him closely, like she was trying to figure him out. “Oh. Well, like you said earlier, you’re working to pursue your dream.”

“Some of us have that opportunity.” He shrugged again. “Others have to be patient, have to wait for something to open up for them, you know?” He sure as hell knew all about that one in spades.

“Sounds like you’ve got that part figured out.”

“Do any of us, really? We go through life doing the best we can with what we’ve got. At the end of the day, that’s all we can really do.”

“That’s for sure. Tell me something…” She drummed her fingers on the wood table between them and leaned forward. “Back there, with the little old lady, you do that kind of thing a lot?”

“Thing?”

“Help people out. Protect them. That kind of thing. You do that naturally, don’t you?”

Interesting. He’d never really thought about it. “I guess.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “So you’re like the defender of the meek?”

Ha. He thought back to his last mission, the one before he’d been pulled to become a training specialist. Much as he hated to admit it, sometimes justice was best served at the end of a weapon, but he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—do that outside his role in the military. He would work within the constraints of the law.

“I’m more like a helper of those who need it.” Especially those the justice system had failed—like his mom.

Which was why he’d chosen to pursue a career as a prosecuting attorney once he got the chance. At the rate his mother was going, he’d begin before he knew it.

He. Could. Not. Wait.