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actually, I've already asked him out."
"Hey now! That's awfully progressive of you."
I thumped her with my fingers. "We're going to the fundraiser tonight."
Coby's pinched expression worried me. "Um& what about your dad?"
My eyes widened, and I nearly fell off the loveseat. In the heat of the moment, I had forgotten all
about my parents attending the fundraiser. "Shit."
"Yeah. Won't you all be sitting at the same table?"
"Yes." I cringed at the thought of poor Finn having to sit near my dad who had threatened to
have him arrested and thrown in jail for saving me.
"Well, I mean, he has to meet the family eventually," Coby said, searching for a positive spin.
"You may as well do it in public."
"Why?"
"Your dad can't punch him at a fundraiser. There's too much publicity."
I laughed. "Fair point."
"You know," Coby resumed munching on her breakfast, "if the fundraiser goes well, you should
invite him to the quinceañera."
"You think?" I had been considering that all night. "It's not too early to do a big family thing like
that?"
She shrugged. "He can say no if he's not comfortable. If he goes, he can sit with me in the back
of the church while you do all the ceremony stuff up front."
"Maybe," I said uncertainly. Not wanting to dwell on the uncertain state of my love life, I
reached for the box and handed it to her. "Here."
She took it from me with some suspicion. "What's this?"
"It's a gift."
"What? Like a birthday gift for my dead dad?"
"No." I rolled my eyes. "Nothing so morbid. It's something I thought you would like for
remembering him."
Her curiosity clearly piqued, Coby untied the ribbon and opened the box. I heard her intake of
breath when she discovered the one-of-a-kind comic book inside. She carefully retrieved it from the
box and ran her fingers across the glossy front. Grinning, she turned the pages to see the drawings
inside. She looked at me with watery eyes. "How?"
"You have all those pictures in your bedroom, and you've told me the stories about him a
million times. I came up with a story of my own, a happy one."
Coby reached the final page. She scanned the pages and ended on the final drawing. She traced
her finger over the image of a younger version of her running into her father's outstretched arms.
"Home," she said, repeating the caption. Lifting her teary eyes, she smiled at me. "Thank you."
Gulping down the emotion that threatened to make me start crying, I nodded simply. "You're
welcome."
She stared at the last page. "Sometimes I wish I could tell you how much your friendship has
meant to me. Words just aren't enough."
"They are." I leaned forward and took her hand. We're like sisters so I don t need her to say the
words. Smiling at her, I read the answer on her face. "I know."
* * *
Growling at his reflection in the mirror, Finn struggled with the stupid bowtie that refused to
come together neatly. He swore loudly and ripped it free for the tenth time. He was wrapping it
around his neck and seriously thinking of strangling himself with it when a shadow fell over him.
Glancing at the mirror, he spotted Connall Munro standing in the open doorway of the
bathroom. He had arrived earlier that afternoon, dog tired after a series of flights from the war-torn
hell of Sudan where he had been on one of his high-paid mercenary jobs. His weariness had been
replaced with an amused expression that contorted his badly scarred face.
A giant who stood a full foot taller than Finn, the imposing Scotsman had been blasted by the
same IED that had nearly killed him. It hadn't been a US convoy that he and his spotter had hitched a
ride with after completing their mission. It had been one of their allies who had picked them up to cart
them to safety.
An SAS Captain, Conn and his small team had also been hitchhikers on that ill-fated convoy.
Over their many deployments to Afghanistan, the two men had worked together a handful of times.
Finn had been glad to see the abrasive brute when he had hopped onto that truck. It was a comforting
feeling to have capable men at his sides.
Conn had lost four good men in the blasts and firefight. Even with half his face burned off, the
Scottish beast had fought like a warrior and had refused help until every badly injured man had been
treated and evacuated. It was Conn's trauma dressings and hastily improvised tourniquets that had
saved Finn's life.
"Jesus," Conn growled and stalked into the small bathroom. He jerked the strip of fabric from
Finn's hand. "Give me that. I'm sick and tired of listening to your moaning. Now turn around."
Finn did as instructed and stared at the snarling wolf image stretched across the T-shirt
covering Conn's broad chest. "I thought you were sleeping."
"Fucking hard to do that when it sounds like you're wrestling a bear in here, mate."
"Sorry."
"Learn to tie your own bowtie so you don't have to be sorry next time." In true Conn fashion, he
ignored the apology and spouted off advice instead. His scarred hands made surprisingly quick work
of the delicate procedure. "Cross, up and loop. Double over. Loop. Double over again. Poke through
the loop. Tug. Adjust. Done."
Finn marveled at Conn's speed. He turned around and inspected the elegant handiwork of such a
deadly man. "Where did you learn this?"
"Parents put me in one of those posh schools," he grumbled. "Some things you never forget."
"Well, thanks, man. I appreciate it."
Conn waved his hand and left the bathroom. Finn gave himself one final glance to make sure his
waistcoat covered his suspenders and the pleats of his cummerbund were flat before following Conn.
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