Page 35 of Stolen Faith
“We hauled ass and prayed. I lost one engine and flying on only the other one meant we might lose speed, enough that we’d start to spin.”
Dramatic music played in Brennon’s head.
“But I flew her, low as I could. I needed altitude for speed but wanted to be low in case I had to execute an unplanned landing. Command was telling me to put down, and they’d send someone for us, but I wasn’t going to just give up.”
Izabel and Brennon hung on Rowan’s words. For a quiet guy, he was an amazing storyteller.
“I put her down—heavy landing, not a crash—right at sunrise. We all got out, a couple of the guys all but kissing the damn ground. I’m not going to lie, I considered doing the same. We’d had some close calls, but nothing quite like that. So while I’m standing there, trying to keep my pounding heart from breaking through my chest, I looked up. All I could see was the sky, awash in the deepest orange I’d ever seen. It was fucking beautiful.”
Brennon watched as Izabel blinked rapidly, her eyes shiny with tears she couldn’t wipe away.
“Fuck, Rowan,” Brennon whispered.
Rowan’s eyes had been distant as he spoke, drawn back to the conversation by Brennon’s curse. The way his eyes shifted downward, Brennon could tell he hadn’t meant to reveal quite so much of himself.
He wondered if the slipup was due to their dire straits or if he was distracted by pain. Whatever it was, Brennon wanted to hear more. Wanted to learn more.
So he took Rowan off the hot seat.
“Guess me saying that my favorite color is purple because ‘Laker’s fan ’til I die’ sort of lacks the same energy.”
Izabel laughed, while Rowan shook his head as he grinned.
“You write a lot of comedies?” Rowan asked. It was the first time he’d expressed any interest in Brennon’s career.
Progress. “Some. Why?”
Rowan shrugged, hissing softly at the pain that movement sparked. “You’ve got a good sense of humor. I bet you write funny stories.”
He smiled, grateful for the compliment. He was glad for the chance to get to know them better.
He glanced in Izabel’s direction, and the shadow of fear he’d seen in her eyes earlier seemed to have vanished.
“Favorite song?” Izabel asked, and Brennon grinned.
They spent two hours asking silly get-to-know-you questions. The ones they hadn’t asked that first night together at the hotel. Growing more at ease with each other with each answer they gave. They teased Rowan about his favorite food—hot dogs, for God’s sake—and spent the better part of twenty minutes trying to understand exactly what analytical venture capitalist Izabel did for a living. Brennon still didn’t have a clue, but he did let her know he was secure enough in his masculinity that he was very willing to be a kept man.
She laughed, but then correctly called him a liar, saying it sounded like he loved his job.
He and Izabel shared a little bit about their childhoods, though Brennon noticed Rowan wasn’t quite as forthcoming on the more personal stuff since sharing his experience in Syria.
He wasn’t sure if Rowan was holding back for a specific reason or if he was truly just a private person at heart. Brennon wasn’t overly concerned about it. He’d already gotten enough peeks at the man to know that this was someone he could love.
Love.
Brennon hadn’t really considered that emotion before. He’d hoped that when he was called to the altar, he would be married to people he could respect, that he genuinely liked, and, though it might make him shallow as hell, people he was attracted to.
Izabel and Rowan checked all those boxes.
So now he was going to be greedy, going for broke.
Going for love.
* * *
The sun was dipping toward the horizon when Camo Cast, Tweedledee, and Tweedledum returned.
Izabel was hungry, cramped, and she needed to pee.