Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            “Liza was discharged from the army about that same time, wasn’t she?”

            “She was. She got home on Christmas Day. It was like . . . I don’t know . . . almost fate that we ended up in the same place after only seeing each other on Skype all those years.”

            Rafe looked away for a few seconds. When he looked back, his expression was tentative. “You and Liza . . . Were you ever—”

            “No,” Tom interrupted. “No. She was seventeen, for God’s sake.”

            “Well, then she was,” Rafe allowed. “She’s certainly not seventeen now.”

            Tom found himself taking a mental step back. “I was with Tory.”

            “But Tory’s gone,” Rafe said gently. “Liza’s right here.”

            He knew that. Goddammit, he knew that.

            Tom slid from the stool and grabbed the plate of untouched cheese. He slammed a few drawers before finding the plastic wrap and covering the plate. After shoving it into the fridge, he felt calm enough to face Rafe. “It’s only been a year,” he said stiffly. Actually, fourteen months, nineteen days, and two hours. Our baby would have been seven months old by now. “So no. Whatever you’re suggesting . . . no.”

            Rafe sighed. “I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

            “Yeah, you should have. I think Mercy might be wanting to get home.”

            Rafe closed his notebook. “I can take a hint, Tom. We can compare more notes later.”

            “Eden notes.”

            “That too,” Rafe murmured. “I’ll see you later.” He started for the door, then turned. “Life is short, Tom. If you find someone who makes you happy, don’t let society tell you how long is ‘proper’ to wait. That someone may move on, and then you’ll be alone.”

            Tom didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could. He watched Rafe leave, then reached for the beer he’d set aside. It was warm now. He really wanted to throw the bottle against the wall, but curbed his temper.

            His father would have thrown the bottle. Rob Winters. Not Max Hunter. Never Max.

            Eyes burning, he reached into one of the cabinets for the bottle of Jack he kept for company. He’d never been much of a drinker, because Winters had been a vicious drunk. But tonight he needed a little something to settle his nerves.

            He poured himself two fingers’ worth and tossed it back, wincing at the burn. Then he picked up his phone and hit the first number on his speed dial. It was answered on the first ring.

            “Tom? Hey, honey. How are you?”

            Tom’s throat burned, but not from the whiskey. He blinked back the tears and drew a huge breath. “Hey, Mom. I’m doing okay. I just called to see how everyone is back home.”

            His mother was quiet. “We’re fine, sweetheart. The kids are in bed and I’m making coffee.”

            Tom winced at the time. “I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot about the time zones.” It was two hours later in Chicago.

            “Silly boy. I always have time to talk to you.” He heard the clink of mugs and the hiss of the coffee maker and pictured her in her kitchen, all smiles and love and . . . home. “How is Liza?”

            He hesitated for just a heartbeat. “She’s okay.”

            His mother’s hesitation was five heartbeats. “That’s good. Give me a minute, I’m taking my coffee into the living room.” He heard the quiet creak of the rocking chair where she loved to sit and read and wished he could go home. Just for a few hours. “Okay. Tell me everything.”

            Oh no. He wasn’t telling her anything. “I’ve been busy at work, and you know I can’t talk about that. Tell me how everyone is doing there. Is Gracie still mooning after that boy?” His younger sister was nine years old and currently in love with a boy in her class.

            His mother’s chuckle was soothing. “Oh, that’s a story and a half. How long do you have?”

            “As much time as you’ll give me.”