Page 19 of Saved from Deception

That gave me pause—all the people I would have used as my references now think I’m a performer in the porn industry—but Leo told me he’d take care of it, and I believe him.

So I wouldn’t say my life is going great; it’s definitely still in shambles. But it’s better than it was before Rylan and Leo arrived. Even though I know they’re here for a job, it’s still a heck of a lot better than sitting in my apartment alone, the walls closing in, the siren call of my laptop urging me to Google my name just one more time.

When Rylan found me in the kitchen at three A.M. the other night, after I’d spent an hour discovering new photos of myself online, he gave me a kind but stern look and asked, “Were you Googling again?”

“Yes,” I admitted, flushing a little. There’s no point in lying to him. He’s like a mind reader or something; he always knows if I’m telling the truth. Not that I want to be dishonest with him, but sometimes a little white lie is necessary.

Or so I thought. But when I told Rylan I thought his eggs were good the first time he cooked breakfast for us, his eyebrows jumped to his hairline. “Really, Charlie?” His eyes turned a piercing green. “You thought they were good?”

Then Leo laughed his butt off when I said they were actually terrible. But Rylan laughed too, dumped the offending eggs in the garbage, and started all over again.

I helped him the next time around, and they were great. Just saying.

“Hey, you ready to play?”

Rylan comes into the living room, grinning, the faint aroma of pine from his body wash drifting toward me, his hair still damp from the shower. In his hand is the newest Call of Duty game, which was delivered earlier today. His eyes are bright and crinkled up at the corners and his enthusiasm is written all over his face—he looks like a kid on Christmas morning.

Gone is the man who glowered at my neighbor this morning, putting his arm around me protectively and biting out, “Don’t speak to her if you know what’s good for you.”

This Rylan is kind and easygoing and funny. He’s sarcastic and likes to poke fun at Leo—not that Leo doesn’t give it right back to him, in his own quiet way. And this Rylan is sweet and thoughtful, always seeming to realize when I’m feeling extra down and coming up with some way to distract me.

“I’m ready.” I scoot over on the couch to make room for him. “And I got some snacks”—I tilt my head toward the platter of cheese and crackers on the coffee table—“if you think they won’t interfere with the game.”

My lips are already pulling up as I say it. I know Rylan’s perspective on eating while playing—only between games, never during—but I like to see his reaction.

Sinking onto the couch next to me, he gives me a somber look, but his lips are twitching. “Eat while we’re playing? And the new Call of Duty, no less? It’ll ruin our concentration.”

“Of course.” I nod seriously, my own lips trying to pull up. “I’ll just get rid of all this.” I reach for the platter, starting to stand up. “Or maybe I should see if Leo wants it once he’s done FaceTiming with Georgia…”

“Oh, no.” Smiling now, Rylan places his palm on my stomach and gently pushes me back down to my seat. “These are our snacks. I’m not sharing with him.”

When he takes his hand away a moment later, the spot where he touched feels cold and empty.

Because that’s something else I’ve discovered about Rylan. Every time he touches me, my body bursts into a flurry of reactions. My stomach fluttering, skin tingling, heat blossoming in my chest. I’m trying to ignore it, but my traitorous body doesn’t want to listen to my head.

Rylan pops a piece of cheese in his mouth and messes with the controller for a minute, setting up our profiles. Then he hands me the other controller and winks at me. “Okay. Are you ready for this?”

“Bring it on.” I flash him a confident smile, but we both know I’m all talk.

Like I told Rylan earlier, I’ve played first-person shooters before, even had an old Call of Duty game myself. But based on the times we’ve played it together, Rylan is much better than I am. Not that I mind, because I can kick his butt in Grand Theft Auto.

Even though he insists he’s just letting me win.

Half an hour later, we both set our controllers down for a break. As Rylan stacks cheese and pepperoni on a cracker, I look at him with my eyebrows raised. “Are you sure you aren’t secretly a developer for this game?”

His teeth flash white. “I swear. But you weren’t too shabby out there, either.”

“I was okay, but you were incredible.” And then a thought slams into me, a real duh moment. “But you were a Green Beret. So I guess… you would use some of the same strategies?”

I didn’t know much about Green Berets before, but once I found out that Blade and Arrow was made up of all former Green Berets, I spent some time researching them. So I know Rylan and his teammates were part of an elite Special Forces team, highly trained, working on dangerous missions overseas. But as for the details of what they did over there, I don’t know, and I haven’t asked.

He’s quiet for a few seconds, long enough for me to worry that I asked an inappropriate question. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.”

“No, it’s fine.” Rylan gives me a reassuring smile. “I was just thinking. But yes, some of them.”

“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?” I’m desperately curious to learn about this side of Rylan.

Snagging another slice of pepperoni, Rylan lifts his chin at me—something I’ve noticed him doing a lot with Leo. “Fire away.”

---