stage right, holding her leather-bound, embossed graduation certificate in both hands.
Her father reached her first. He yelled, “Cadet Brixton, report for inspection,” in a drill-sergeant voice before capturing her in his massive arms, lifting her off her feet, and spinning her around the same way he’d done since she was a toddler.
“Dad, stop.” Maybe the Brick didn’t care about making a scene in front of her classmates, instructors, and future employer—they were all underlings to him—but in a room that was already September-in-the-South hot, her cheeks burned as he reduced her from accomplished professional to Daddy’s little officer with one outsize gesture of affection. Swain was somewhere nearby, no doubt enjoying the show.
“Noah, you’re embarrassing her,” her mother scolded in a no less embarrassing effort to rescue her grown-ass, heretofore badass daughter from the grip of paternal pride.
Thankfully, her father set her on her feet. “What’s she got to be embarrassed about?” he questioned while she straightened her uniform. Lifting the leather-bound diploma from her hand, he flipped it open and pointed at the certificate inside. “First in her class! Damn near number one in every category.”
And, oh, there it was…the faintest whisper of where she’d fallen short. Despite her promise to herself not to give him the time of day, her gaze sought out the person who had bested her in just under half their classes. Marcus Swain was nowhere to be seen. He’d been onstage with the rest of the class to accept his honors, but now he’d poofed. Had family and friends already whisked him away? She hadn’t noticed him responding from the stage to anyone in the audience, but then again, when it came to Swain, she made a point of ignoring as much as possible.
Chief Buchanan stepped up to congratulate her and introduce his striking wife, Ginny. The attractive redhead with sharp green eyes and an easy smile also happened to be the mayor of Bluelick, as well as the owner of a local beauty salon. That pretty much covered things as far as introductions went, since before trading a career as a Navy SEAL for a leadership role in the Bluelick PD, Buchanan had served under her father. After a round of non-optional graduation photos with her family, they headed out for the equally non-optional graduation lunch.
As they made their way across the parking lot, she finally spotted Swain. He leaned against the driver’s side of the stripped, lifted black Bronco he’d habitually parked right beside her white Prius in the resident hall parking lot. Who else would drive such an impractical monument to testosterone, fuel inefficiency, and pointless off-roading capabilities?
She hated that kind of thing, almost as much as she hated the way her breath became a little harder to catch when taking in the sight of him in his dark blue dress uniform. In front of him stood an attractive couple who might have stepped out of a Tommy Bahama ad. Clothes, hair, tans, and the glint of sun sparkling off jewelry—everything about them suggested the kind of relaxed wealth that turned life into a permanent vacation.
They were too far away for her to hear actual conversation, but the body language spoke volumes. The man leaned in to give Swain a one-armed hug—one Swain endured with uncharacteristic stiffness—and then turned and presented the woman. She smiled, said something brief, and offered a hand, which he took in the most perfunctory of shakes. The man spoke again, extending an arm enthusiastically toward a silver Tesla Model X parked across the lot. Still talking, he aimed a key fob at the vehicle and popped the locks. The back doors slowly opened from above, so it looked like a giant, gleaming bird of prey. The man put one arm around the woman’s shoulders and gestured for Swain to come along. Swain settled back against his ride, folded his arms across his chest, and shook his head. In the process, he caught sight of her. He froze for a moment, then unhooked the reflective sunglasses dangling from his shirt pocket and slid them on.
She’d never realized how effectively a single, brusque shake of a head could convey absolute refusal. The set of his jaw only underscored the message. But despite being much closer, the man didn’t seem to pick up on it. He just kept talking. Talking and grinning. A familiar grin. Familiar enough to snap things into place for Eden.
The man was obviously a Swain. Probably Marc’s father, although he didn’t look old enough to