the answer.
…
“Is it true?” Scarlett asked as she flung her coat over a chair in the kitchen more than a month later.
“Nice to see you, too, dear,” Jameson answered with a smile as he flipped the potatoes in the pan.
“I’m being serious.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
He had half a mind to tell the potatoes to go to hell and eat his wife for dinner instead, but the narrowing of her eyes gave him pause. It wasn’t just another rumor she was questioning. She knew. He muttered a curse. Damn, news traveled fast.
“Can I take that as a yes?” she questioned, her eyes sparked with so much anger, he half expected to see flames shoot out of them at any moment.
He moved the potatoes off the burner, then faced his beautiful, furious wife. “Kiss me first.”
“I beg your pardon?” She arched a brow.
He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her close, savoring the feel of her body against his. They’d been married five months. Five incredibly happy, almost normal months—if there was such a thing in the middle of a war—and everything was about to change. Everything but the way he felt about her.
He loved Scarlett more than he had the day he married her. She was thoughtful, strong, smart as a whip, and when he put his hands on her, they both went up in flames. But this…this he’d been desperately clinging to this new normal they’d carved out for themselves.
“Kiss me,” he ordered again, lowering his face. “I’ve barely seen you in the last few days. We haven’t eaten dinner together for a week because of our schedules. Love me first.”
“I love you always.” Her eyes softened, and she brought her lips to his, kissing him gently.
His heart jolted, just like it did every time. He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, but kept himself in check. He wasn’t trying to distract her with sex—not that she’d fall for it anyway. One more moment—that was all he needed.
He pulled back gently, lifting his head so he could see her eyes. “We’re being reposted to Martlesham-Heath.”
Those crystal-blue eyes he loved flared with disbelief. “But that’s…”
“Eleven group,” he finished for her. “We’re operational. They need us there.” Where the majority of the action took place. He cradled her face in his hands and fought the rending sensation in his heart—it was too similar to the one he’d felt back at Middle Wallop when they’d been forced to part. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Mary told me Howard said you were being reposted, but…” She shook her head, coming alive, and backed out of his grasp, leaving him holding air.
Damn it, Howard.
“Scarlett, honey—”
“We’ll ‘figure it out?’” She gripped the back of the kitchen chair and took a deep breath. “When?”
“A matter of weeks,” he answered, lowering his arms.
“No, when did you find out?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Just this morning.” He mentally cursed Howard for telling Mary before he’d even seen Scarlett. “I know it’s complicated, but I looked into married quarters on station before my flight—”
“What?” Her voice rose, which was as good as a Mayday when it came to her temper. The woman barely—if ever—lost that calm, collected cool of hers.
“I know it’s a jump to assume you’d be willing to ask for another transfer, especially with Constance…” Barely breathing. His sister-in-law had become a veritable ghost since losing Edward, and there was no chance Scarlett would leave her, no guarantee, either, that Constance would want to go. “Anyway, housing is full, so we’d have to live off-station like we are now, but I can start looking for digs.”
“Willing to ask for another transfer,” Scarlett repeated, her eyes catching fire. “What makes you think I can transfer there, Jameson? There’s not…I can’t…” She rubbed the bridge of her nose.
She couldn’t tell him because her job required more clearance than his. Of course he knew what she did—he wasn’t born yesterday—but that didn’t mean she came home and divulged where the other filter rooms were, or the radar stations. Too much knowledge was dangerous for a pilot who could easily crash into enemy hands. And sure, it was fine to know where she currently worked; sector operations were— Holy shit, that’s it. “There’s no sector operations at Martlesham,” he guessed quietly.
She shook her head in answer. “What Constance and I do, the training involved…” She met his gaze, and the pain he saw there dug its claws into his soul. “Command isn’t exactly going to let us go become drivers or mechanics. We