“Oh. Well, while I watch you eat a salad, I’m going to eat a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich with fries.”

My mouth watered at the thought of hot, gooey provolone. Thick, crispy fries. “Okay.”

When the server had gone, Blair said, “Okay, tell me everything. Leave nothing out.”

Taking a deep breath, I told her everything about the previous twenty-four hours—how we’d enjoyed the day together, how Mariah kept wanting to sit between us, how he’d walked me home after the movie and asked me to live with him right there on my front porch.

“It’s so perfect,” she gushed. “How did you even sleep last night?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, fiddling with my napkin in my lap. “There was one thing that had me kind of worried, though.”

“What?”

“Just this weird mood shift at one point. The entire day had been so great, and then back at his house, I suddenly felt like he was on the verge of a breakdown or something. He was anxious and silent. Fidgety and sweaty and hardly able to sit still. I was listening to him breathe during the movie and I totally thought he was about to have a heart attack.”

Blair’s eyes went wide. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Then after the movie he lost his temper with Mariah, which I’ve never seen before. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen Cole lose his temper, ever. Not in twenty-five years.”

“Really? God, Griffin loses his temper daily at something or other.”

“But Griffin has always been a hothead. Cole’s always been the cool hand, the level head.”

“Hm.” Blair sipped her iced tea. “Those symptoms you described almost sound like a panic attack. Does he ever have those?”

“I don’t know. Not that he’s told me.” I thought for a moment. “He kind of prides himself on his control, you know? On keeping calm in a crisis. Maybe it’s his police training.”

“Makes sense.” She thought for a moment. “So maybe the occasional broody silence or temper tantrum is just part of his personality that he hides from everyone else, especially on the job. Maybe showing it to you means he feels close to you. It could be a good thing.”

“Maybe. And anyway, once he walked me home, everything was fine. Better than fine.”

“Sounds like it.”

The server returned with our lunches, and I eyeballed Blair’s sandwich and fries with envy. Not that there was anything wrong with my salad, but . . .

“Would you like half my sandwich?” she asked.

“No.” Sitting up taller, I picked up my fork. “The salad is fine. I really do want to eat better.”

“Good for you.”

“And I’m feeling really strong today. Really good about myself.”

“I love that.”

“I mean, it’s still hard for me to believe I’m the one he wants, but—”

“Stop.” Blair pinned me with a look. “He wants you.”

“He wants me.” I couldn’t help smiling.

“So let’s have a toast.” Blair picked up a French fry and raised it.

Plucking one from her plate, I lifted it to hers. “To happily ever after.”

“Yes,” she said. “Amor vincit omnia.”

“What does that mean?”

She smiled. “Love conquers all.”

Twenty-Seven

Cole

During Monday’s shift, I responded to the kind of call that every police officer dreads.

An infant, just a few weeks old, had stopped breathing.

When I pulled up to the house, a woman I assumed was the mother came running out with the baby in her arms.

“She’s not breathing! She’s not breathing!” she screamed over and over again. “Help me!”

Nothing is worse than a situation where a child is in danger, but my training kicked in and I remained calm, even as my own heart was firing like a machine gun.

“Okay, let me have the baby. Let me have her.” I took the infant from the hysterical mother and assessed her quickly. The baby’s color was okay, and she was blinking at me. Her huge eyes were dark and trusting.

But she wasn’t breathing.

While continuing to soothe the frantic mother by speaking calmly, I checked the baby’s mouth and airway but saw nothing obstructing it. Then I rotated her to face down on my forearm and delivered three blows to the upper middle portion of her back. A few seconds later, she started to cry.

Part of me wanted to fall to my knees in relief, but I remained upright and stoic, holding the baby against my chest as I radioed back that the baby was breathing and crying, and the EMT had arrived.

Afterward, I wrapped up the call like it was any other, accepting hugs from the grateful mother, handshakes from neighbors who’d come out to see what the trouble was, and claps on the back from colleagues at the station. I finished my shift as if nothing was amiss.

Then I went home and had a full-on panic attack, alone in my room.

What if I hadn’t gotten there in time? Or worse, what if I’d been unable to save the baby? What if I’d been too late, or so panicked I’d forgotten my training, or simply hadn’t been able to clear the obstruction? That innocent little life would have been gone on my watch.

My watch.

It was the perfect example of why you couldn’t trust the universe or God or anyone else to protect you. You were on your own. Anything and anyone could be taken from you inside a minute.

An accident. A mistake. A lightning strike. An error in judgment. A split second. A wrong choice.

There were so many ways fate could turn on you, no matter how smart or careful or good you tried to be.

After pulling myself together, I changed out of my uniform and went downstairs.

The episode with the baby had made the evening news, and footage from my cruiser’s dash cam had been released to the media. By the time I made it downstairs for supper, the phone had started ringing—townspeople calling to praise and congratulate me.

My mother was beside herself, beaming with pride, scolding me for not saying anything sooner. “Cole Mitchell! You walked right by me at the stove and went upstairs to change without telling me what you did!”

“Sorry, Mom,” I muttered. “I needed a minute.”

My daughter was impressed too, hugging me hard, playing the video online again and again. “Wow, Daddy! Can I bring you in for Show and Tell?”

“Uh, no.”

Cheyenne came rushing in the back door, practically knocking me off my feet the way she hurtled herself at me. “Why didn’t you say anything, you big jerk?” she cried. “You’re a hero!”

“I’m not. I was just doing my job,” I told her as she sobbed on my shoulder.

That night, the soundtrack of my nightmare included the sound of a child gasping for air.

I yelled so loud, I woke my mother.

The following day, baskets of fruit and plates of cookies showed up at the police department, and I fielded phone calls from reporters who wanted to interview me. My boss had to essentially give me the day off just to keep up, but he said he was glad to do it.