Harvard's Education. Suzanne Brockmann
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see about getting lunch on the table.”
“Why don’t you let me take you out somewhere?”
“And miss the chance to make sure you get at least one home-cooked meal this month? No way.”
“I’ll be in in a sec to help.”
She kissed the top of his head. “You know, you were born with hair. You have exceptionally nice hair. I don’t see why you insist on shaving it all off that way.”
Harvard laughed as she headed inside. “I’ll try to grow it in for Thanksgiving.”
He’d already reserved a few days of leave to spend the holiday at home with his parents.
Home.
It was funny, but he still thought of this place as home. He hadn’t lived here in more than fifteen years, but he’d always considered this house his sanctuary. He could come here any time he needed to, and he could center himself. It was the one place he could come back to that he’d foolishly thought would always remain the same.
The sweet smell of cookies baking in his mother’s kitchen. The scent of his father’s pipe. The fresh ocean air.
It was weird as hell to think that within less than two weeks his home would belong to strangers.
And he would be spending Thanksgiving far from the ocean at his parents’ new house in Arizona.
* * *
“Excuse me, Senior Chief Becker! I’ve been looking for you!”
Harvard turned to find P. J. Richards bearing down on him, eyes shooting fire.
He turned and kept walking. He didn’t need this right now. Damn it, he was tired, he was hungry, he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he’d left here close to forty-eight hours ago, he hadn’t been able to grab more than a combat nap on the flight from Boston to Virginia, and he’d had to stand on the crowded bus back to the base.
On top of the annoying physical inconveniences, there were seven different items that had crash-landed on his desk while he was gone that needed his—and only his—immediate and undivided attention.
It was going to be a solid two hours before he made his way home and reintroduced himself to his bed.
And that was if he was lucky.
P.J. ran to catch up with him. “Did you give the order to restrict my distance for this and yesterday morning’s run to only three miles?”
Harvard kept walking. “Yes, I did.”
She had to keep trotting to match the length of his stride. “Even though the rest of the team was required to go the full seven miles?”
“That’s right.”
“How dare you!”
She was nearly hopping up and down with anger, and Harvard swore and turned to face her. “I don’t have time for this.” He spoke more to himself than to her, but of course, she had no way of knowing that.
“Well, you’re going to have to make time for this.”
Damn, she was pretty. And so thoroughly passionate. But if his luck continued in its current downward spiral, he stood only a blind man’s chance in a firing range of ever getting a taste of that passion any way other than her hurling angry words—or maybe even knives—in his direction.
“I’m sorry if my very existence is an inconvenience,” she continued hotly, “but—”
“My order was standard procedure,” he told her tightly.
She wasn’t listening. “I will file a formal complaint if this coddling continues, if I am not treated completely the same as—”
“This coddling is by the book for any FInCOM agent who has received an injury sufficient to send him—or her—to the hospital.”
She blinked at him. “What did you say?”
Well, what do you know? She was listening. “According to the rule book set up for this training session, if a fink goes to the hospital, said fink gets lighter physical training until it’s determined that he—or she—is up to speed. Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Richards, but you were treated no differently than anyone else would have been.”
The sun was setting, streaking the sky with red-orange clouds, giving the entire base a romantic, fairy-tale look. Everything was softer, warmer, bathed in diffused pink light. Back home in Hingham, it would have been the perfect kind of summer evening for a long, lazy walk to the local ice-cream stand, flirting all the way with his sister’s friends, strutting his seventeen-year-old stuff while they gazed at him adoringly.
The woman in front of him was gazing at him, but it sure as hell wasn’t adoringly. In fact, she was looking at him as if he were trying to sell her a dehumidifier in the desert. “Rule book?”
Harvard glanced in the direction of his office, wishing he was there so he could, in turn, soon go home. “No doubt one of your bosses was afraid that Alpha Squad was going to hurt you and keep on hurting you. There’s a list of ground rules for this training session.”
“I wasn’t shown any rule book.”
Harvard snorted, his patience flat-out gone. He started walking again, leaving her behind. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m making all this up.”
“You can’t blame me for being wary!” P.J. hurried to keep pace. “As far as I know, there’s never been this kind of a rule book before. Why should FInCOM start now?”
“No doubt someone heard about BUD/S Hell Week—about the sleep deprivation and strenuous endurance tests that SEALs undergo at the end of phase-one training. I bet they were afraid we’d do something similar to the finks with this counterterrorist deal. And they were right. We would have, if we could. Because in real life, terrorists don’t pay too much attention to time-out signals.”
P.J. was back to glaring at him, full power. “I’ll have you know that I find ‘fink’ to be an offensive term.”
“It’s a nickname. A single syllable versus four. Easier to say.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like it.”
“There’s not much you do like, is there?” Including him. Maybe especially him. Harvard pushed open the door to the Quonset hut that housed Alpha Squad’s temporary offices. “My father’s going to be fine. I’m sure you were dying to know.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry I didn’t ask!”
His mistake was turning to look at her.
She looked stricken. She looked completely, thoroughly horrified, all her anger instantly vanished. He almost felt bad for her—and he didn’t want to feel bad for her. He didn’t want to feel bad for anyone, especially not himself.
He’d been off balance since he’d gotten that phone call from Joe Cat telling him about his father’s heart attack. His entire personal life had been turned on its side. His parents were succumbing to age and his home was no longer going to be his home.
And then here came P. J. Richards, getting in his face, making all kinds of accusations, reminding him how much easier this entire assignment would be were it not for her female presence.
“Please forgive me—I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I was rude not to have asked earlier. Is he really going to be all right?”
As Harvard gazed into P.J.’s bottomless dark eyes, he knew he was fooling himself. He hadn’t been off balance since that phone call came in about his father. Damn, he’d been off balance from the moment this tiny little woman had stepped out of the FInCOM van and into his life. He’d liked her looks and her passion right from the start, and her ability to face up to her mistakes made him like her even more.
“Yeah,” he told her. “He should