Page 22 of Dear John

When I married Isla…I was beginning to wonder if that was a real possibility. It felt like every time I turned around, there wassomething standing in our way. And once again, the senator was getting involved, which was never a good thing.

I sighed, scratching my scalp as prickles shivered down my spine. All of this felt wrong. Yes, we could do it. Things would be hard for all involved, but it was a very real possibility. But what would that do to everyone? To pick up our lives and leave…it felt wrong. This was our home.

I will not abandon it.

I smiled as I remembered the lines from the movie I loved so much as a kid.

“Something funny?” Eli grumbled.

I quickly wiped the smile from my face and stared at my team. They were my family, and while I knew they would go along with anything I decided to do, could I really ask this of them?

“I need to think about this.”

“Yeah, you think about this,” Eli retorted. “Think of spending weeks in and out with this smelly son-of-a-bitch.”

“Hey, I am not smelly,” Red snapped. “Why are you picking on me so much all of a sudden?”

“You’re an easy target,” Eli shrugged.

I sat back in the booth and stared at my beer, thinking of all we would be missing out on if I took this job. Then I remembered the look on Cash’s face when he walked through the door after Rafe had been killed—after he’d been forced to shoot him. Pain like that would eat at him for the rest of his life. But sacrificing everyone for his revenge mission wouldn’t make anything better. What happened when everyone involved was dead? Would that be enough for him?

Would OPS be enough for him?

9

ISLA

The picket lineoutside the grocery store was growing by the day. I couldn’t help but smile as I thought of Fox protesting the placement of Funyuns on the store shelves. He was so…quirky.

“What’s that smile for?” Riley asked. “We’re at the grocery store. What could possibly be so funny?”

“Fox,” I chuckled, shaking my head. “I was just wondering what he’s protesting now.”

“You know what I would protest?” she asked as we walked through the glass doors.

“The sale of alcohol on Sundays.”

She gave me the stink-eye. “Why would anyone protest that? Seriously, people need wine all days of the week, especially on Sundays when you know the next day you have to go back to work.”

“You work from home.”

“So do you,” she retorted. “What’s your point?”

“That since you work from home, you don’t technically go anywhere.”

“Oh, so because I work from a nice, cushy chair, I’m not really working?”

“Hey, I’m in the same boat as you,” I snapped. “Don’t judge.”

“You’re judging, not me. Mr. Judgy McJudgerson!”

“Ooh, good one,” I shot back, steering the cart away from her. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, but I ignored it. There were no ghosts waiting to jump out at me at the grocery store.

But even Riley felt it. Her eyes scanned the aisles just as often as mine did, which was about every five seconds.

“Come on,” I muttered, trying to get us both to move. “There’s no one here.”

“Right,” she nodded. “We’re perfectly fine. There are no psychos hiding out in the bread aisle.”

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