She sailed to the checkout. It was time to try something different.
She was going to get over Rick-the-Dick if she had to date every man in Dare Valley to do it.
Chapter 2
Tanner McBride stopped on the street corner, waiting for the light to change. He reveled in the controlled chaos, the honks from aggressive drivers, and the rumblings of New Yorkers as they pushed their way down the sidewalk in determined strides. It made him almost giddy that he didn’t need to worry about being shot at or stared at for being an American.
British accents caught his attention, and he swiveled his head. Pale fingers pointed at a map of the downtown area. An older woman in a floral dress shook her head and stepped into traffic.
Seeing the approaching cab, Tanner lunged forward and hauled her back to the curb. The cab rushed past, blowing his new sports jacket up like dry clothes on a windy clothesline.
The woman patted her bosom. “My goodness, I looked the wrong way.”
Tanner’s heart sputtered and then returned to its usual cadence. That had been tame in comparison to what he’d faced on a day-to-day basis in Afghanistan.
“We drive on the opposite side of you folks in England. I wouldn’t jaywalk.”
She squeezed his arm. “Thank you.”
He hustled across the street.
Everyone had told him he’d experience a sense of unreality when he returned home, and he might be bored by the lack of conflict and chaos. So far he could see a grain of truth in that. Hopefully New York would be big enough and edgy enough to keep him from going insane. He scanned the street and the rows and rows of postage-stamp eateries and restaurants. At least there was food. Christ, he was going to eat everything in sight for the next six months since food was safe here.
The out-of-the-way restaurant called The Porterhouse seemed an odd location for meeting his new boss, but Richard Sommerville wasn’t known for being conventional. Even though everyone thought he was a prick, he was a well-respected newspaper editor. And now he was thinking about running for the Senate.
Working the International Desk for The Standard would give him a terrific opportunity to further his career. He’d paid serious dues as an international correspondent. Now, it was time to come home and have a normal life—whatever the hell that meant.
But he planned to find out.
He was good at finding things out.
A bell chimed when he opened the door. Sommerville sat three tables up on the right, chatting on his phone, looking like what his mother would call a Pretty Boy Floyd in some fancy, gray, pin-striped suit Tanner would bet cost more than his plane ticket from Kabul to New York City. The restaurant sported worn red booths, scuffed hardwood tables, and no other customers. The smell of hickory aged steaks made his mouth water. Tanner pulled out a chair, hoping he wouldn’t have to wear a suit for this job. A sports jacket, button-down shirt, and creased slacks were about as much dressing up as he could take on a daily basis.
Sommerville lifted a finger to convey he was finishing up his conversation. “Listen, I need to run. You do what I tell you. I don’t want any more excuses.” He clicked off and laid his phone on the table as delicately as a priest would handle a sacred instrument. “Tanner McBride, it’s great to see you. Welcome to The Big Apple.”
They shook hands, measuring each other. Sommerville might be a well-respected journalist, but he was too GQ. Man used crap in his blond hair that had it swirling in a way some people might call fashionable. It looked fussy to Tanner. The guy probably got manicures too, if his hands were any indication. Yet the gleam in Sommerville’s eyes couldn’t be missed. Predatory, but in a classy way. Stupid people wouldn’t see it.
Tanner wasn’t stupid.
A man at the front turned the CLOSED sign over in the window and locked the door. Tanner’s radar went up, but he kept his face expressionless. Sommerville wanted privacy. Must be something big. The out-of-the-way venue began to make more sense.
“Let’s order, and you can tell me about your last days in Kabul.”
He was tired of talking about Kabul, but he indulged his new boss. Journalists who rode desks tended to get off on the war stories of other journalists.
Sommerville nursed his scotch as Tanner gave him the highlights of his recent tour. Lies, blood, and death pretty much summed it up. There were good people there like anywhere else, but if he never saw the place again, he’d be happy. God, he was tired of seeing kids get killed over politics and drugs.
Tanner waited for Sommerville to share the reason for the private meeting. He was halfway finished with his medium rare ribeye steak when Sommerville set aside his drink, finally ready to talk. Tanner reached for his water.