In the Likely Event, page 1
PRAISE FOR REBECCA YARROS
“A gifted storyteller.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Rebecca Yarros writes words that are pure, sweet, sizzling poetry.”
—Tessa Bailey, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“Readers will be wowed.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review), on The Things We Leave Unfinished
“A haunting, heartbreaking, and ultimately inspirational love story.”
—In Touch Weekly, on The Last Letter
“Thanks to Yarros’s beautiful, immersive writing, readers will feel every deep heartbreak and each moment of uplifting love.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review), on The Last Letter
“Rebecca never disappoints—she’s an automatic one-click for me!”
—Jen McLaughlin, New York Times bestselling author
OTHER TITLES BY REBECCA YARROS
Stand-Alone Titles
Fourth Wing
The Things We Leave Unfinished
The Last Letter
Great and Precious Things
Muses and Melodies (part of the Hush Note series, written with Sarina Bowen and Devney Perry)
A Little Too Close (part of the Madigan Mountain series, written with Sarina Bowen and Devney Perry)
Flight & Glory
Full Measures
Eyes Turned Skyward
Beyond What Is Given
Hallowed Ground
The Reality of Everything
Legacy
Point of Origin
Ignite
Reason to Believe
The Renegades
Wilder
Nova
Rebel
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2023 by Rebecca Yarros
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662511554 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781662511561 (digital)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
Cover image: © Angela Lumsden / Stocksy United; © Dacian Groza / Stocksy United
To my sister, Kate.
I’d go to war for you.
Love you, mean it.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE NATHANIEL
CHAPTER TWO IZZY
CHAPTER THREE NATHANIEL
CHAPTER FOUR IZZY
CHAPTER FIVE IZZY
CHAPTER SIX NATHANIEL
CHAPTER SEVEN NATHANIEL
CHAPTER EIGHT IZZY
CHAPTER NINE IZZY
CHAPTER TEN NATHANIEL
CHAPTER ELEVEN NATHANIEL
CHAPTER TWELVE IZZY
CHAPTER THIRTEEN IZZY
CHAPTER FOURTEEN IZZY
CHAPTER FIFTEEN IZZY
CHAPTER SIXTEEN NATHANIEL
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN NATHANIEL
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN IZZY
CHAPTER NINETEEN IZZY
CHAPTER TWENTY NATHANIEL
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE IZZY
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO IZZY
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE NATHANIEL
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR IZZY
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE IZZY
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX NATHANIEL
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN NATHANIEL
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT IZZY
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE IZZY
CHAPTER THIRTY NATHANIEL
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE IZZY
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO NATHANIEL
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE IZZY
EPILOGUE NATHANIEL
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
NATHANIEL
Kabul, Afghanistan
August 2021
This was not the Maldives.
I closed my eyes and tipped my head back toward the blistering afternoon sun. With the breeze, I could almost pretend the moisture racing down my neck, soaking into my collar, was water from a recent swim instead of my own sweat. Almost.
Instead, I stood on the tarmac in Kabul, wondering how the hell my boots weren’t melting into the concrete at this temperature. Maybe missing my trip was karma paying me back for going without her.
“You’re supposed to be on leave,” a familiar voice said from my right.
“Shhh. I am. See?” I opened one eye just enough to glimpse Torres standing beside me, his thick brow shaded by his multicam cap.
“See what? You standing on the flight line with your head thrown back like you’re in a Coppertone commercial?”
The corners of my mouth quirked upward. “It’s not the flight line. It’s a little bungalow over the water in the Maldives. Can’t you hear the waves?”
The rhythmic beat of distant rotors filled the air.
“I hear you losing your mind,” he muttered. “Looks like they’re here.”
Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and searched the horizon for an aircraft on final approach, spotting the plane within seconds.
Here we go again. As much as I used to love the action that came with my job, I had to admit that it was getting old. Peace sounded so much better than constant war.
“How the hell did you let yourself get roped into this, anyway? I thought Jenkins was on this assignment,” Torres asked.
“Jenkins went down with some kind of virus last night, and I didn’t want to ask Ward to skip his leave. He has kids.” I shifted the shoulder strap of my rifle as the C-130 touched down on the runway. “Now I’m on babysitting duty for Senator Lauren’s aide.”
“Well, I’m with you, like always.”
“I appreciate that.”
My best friend hadn’t left my side since Special Forces selection. Hell, even before that.
“Hopefully by next week, Jenkins will be on the mend and I’ll be on my way to the Maldives before the actual senators get here.” I could almost taste those fruity umbrella drinks right now—oh wait, that was the metallic tang of jet fuel. Right.
“You know, most guys I know use their leave time to go home and see their families.” Torres looked back at the rest of the team as they strode our way, straightening their patchless ACUs, like it was possible to unfuck their uniforms after four months in country.
“Well, most guys don’t have my family.” I shrugged. Mom had been gone for five years, and the only reason I’d willingly see my father would be to bury him.
The rest of the team reached us, falling into a line as we faced the aircraft. Graham took the spot on my other side. “Want me driving?”
“Yep,” I answered. I’d already selected the guys I wanted with me until Jenkins got back. Parker and Elston were waiting at the embassy.
“Is everyone here?” Major Webb asked as he reached us, scratching his chin.
“Holy shit! I can’t remember the last time I saw your actual face.” Graham grinned at our commander, his bright smile contrasting with his deep-brown skin.
Webb muttered something about politicians as the plane taxied to the directions of the air traffic controllers.
There were certain perks to being the elite of Special Forces. The informal camaraderie and not having to shave were definitely two of them. Getting screwed out of leave to play security detail to the advance party of some legislators wasn’t. I’d spent an hour this morning familiarizing myself with Greg Newcastle’s file. My assignment was the thirty-three-year-old deputy chief of staff to Senator Lauren, and he had the polished look of a guy who’d gone straight from Harvard Law to the Hill. The group of them were coming on what they called a “fact-finding” mission so they could report back on how the US withdrawal was going. I somehow doubted they were going to be happy with what they found.
“Just to refresh . . . ,” Webb said, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket and glancing at the designated security team leads. “Maroon, your team has Baker out of Congressman Garcia’s office,” he began, using our designated for-public-use names for this mission. “Gold, you’re on Turner from Congressman Murphy. White, you’re on Holt out of Senator Liu’s office. Green, you’re responsible for Astor out of Senator Lauren’s office—”
“I was given Greg Newcastle’s file,” I interrupted.
Webb glanced down at the paper. “Looks like they made a change last minute. You have Astor now. Mission is still the same. That’s the office focusing on the southern provinces. The one working on bringing the girls’ chess team to the States.”
Astor. My stomach jumped into my throat. There was no way. None.
“Relax,” Torres whispered. “It’s a common last name.”
Right. Besides, the last time I’d heard from her, she was working at some firm in New York, but that was three years ago.
The rain had soaked through my coat—
I clamped down on my reckless thoughts as the plane parked in front of us, guided by the ground crew. Heat radiated off the tarmac in shimmering waves, distorting my vision as the rear door lowered and the pilots powered down the engines.
My brows lifted. The guy can’t get off the ramp by himself and thought it would be a good idea to come tour Afghanistan?
“Are you serious?” Kellman—or Sergeant White for this mission—scoffed. “Please tell me that’s not my guy.”
“Here we go,” Torres muttered at my side.
I blew out a long breath as I counted to ten, hoping patience would miraculously appear by the time I reached zero. It didn’t. This was a waste of our time.
The airmen were all smiles as they walked toward us, obscuring their followers from view. Of course they were happy. They were here to drop off the suits. I highly doubted they’d still be all grins if they were the ones who had to escort clueless, self-important civilians to a bunch of FOBs like they were tourist destinations and not active combat zones.
Major Webb moved forward, and the airmen guided the politicians to the front of their little herd. There were six in all—
My heart. Fucking. Stopped.
I slow-blinked once, then twice as the heat shimmer dissipated with a gust of wind. There was no mistaking that honey-gold hair or that million-dollar smile. I would have bet my life there were deep-brown eyes framed by thick lashes behind those oversize sunglasses. My hands flexed, like they could still feel the curves of her body all these years later.
It was her.
“You okay?” Torres asked under his breath. “You look like you’re about to puke up your breakfast.”
No, I wasn’t okay. I was about as far away from okay as New York was from Afghanistan. I couldn’t even form words. Ten years had passed since we’d met on a very different tarmac, and the sight of her still left me speechless.
She offered her right hand to Webb to shake and shifted the strap of a familiar army-green cargo backpack higher on her shoulder with her left. She still had that thing? Sunlight caught those fingers and reflected back brighter than a signal mirror.
What. The. Hell. My heart stuttered back to life, pounding in denial so hard the thing hurt.
The only woman I’d ever loved was here—in a damned war zone—and she was wearing another man’s ring. She was going to be another man’s wife. I didn’t even know the bastard and I already hated him, already knew he wasn’t good enough for her. Not that I was either. That had always been the problem between us.
She turned toward me, her smile faltering as her mouth slackened. Her fingers trembled as she shoved her sunglasses up to the top of her head, revealing a set of wide brown eyes that looked as stunned as I felt.
A vise tightened around my chest.
In my peripherals, Webb worked his way down the line, introducing the politicians to their security details, and coming our way like a nuclear countdown as we stared at each other. A dozen feet, maybe less, separated us, and the distance was somehow simultaneously too far and way too close.
She walked forward and flinched, then captured her hair in a fist as the wind gusted, blasting every surface with sand and dirt, including the white blouse she’d rolled up her forearms. What the hell was she doing here? She didn’t belong here. She belonged in a cushy corner office where nothing could touch her . . . especially me.
“Ms. Astor, meet—” Webb started.
“Nathaniel Phelan,” she finished, scanning my face like she might never see it again, like she was cataloging every change, every scar I’d acquired in the last three years.
“Izzy.” It was all I could manage with that billion-carat rock flashing at me from her hand like a warning beacon. Who the hell had she said yes to?
“You two know each other?” Webb’s eyebrows rose as he glanced between us.
“Yes,” I said.
“Not anymore,” she answered simultaneously.
Shit.
“Okay?” Webb shuffled his gaze again, noting the awkward moment for what it was. “Is this going to be a problem?”
Yes. A giant problem. A million unspoken words blasted the air between us, as thick and relentless as the sand coming across the flight line.
“Look, I can reassign—” Webb started.
“No,” I snapped. There was zero chance in hell I was risking her safety with anyone else. She was stuck with me, whether or not she liked it.
Webb blinked, the only sign of surprise he’d ever give, and glanced at Izzy. “Ms. Astor?”
“It will be fine. Please don’t trouble yourself,” she responded with an easy, polished, fake-ass smile that sent chills down my spine.
“Okay then,” Webb said slowly, then pivoted toward me and mouthed good luck before moving on.
Izzy and I stared at each other as every emotion I’d fought to bury over the last three years clawed its way to the surface, ripping open scabs that had never quite healed to scars. Go figure we’d meet again like this. We’d always had a habit of colliding at the worst times and in the most inconvenient places. It was almost fitting that it was a battlefield this go-round.
“I thought you were in New York,” I finally managed to say, my voice coming out like it had been scraped over the pavement a dozen times. Where no one is actively trying to blow you up.
“Yeah?” She arched a brow and hefted the slipping pack up to her shoulder. “Funny, because I thought you were dead. Guess we were both wrong.”
CHAPTER TWO
IZZY
Saint Louis
November 2011
“Fifteen A. Fifteen A,” I muttered, scanning the seat numbers as I muddled my way down the crowded aisle of the commuter plane, my carry-on slipping through my clammy hands with every step. Spotting my row, I sighed in relief that the overhead compartment was still empty, then cursed as I realized A was a window seat.
My stomach twisted into a knot. Had I really booked myself by the window? Where I could see every potential disaster coming our way?
Hold up. There was already a guy sitting in the window seat, his head down, only the Saint Louis Blues emblem visible on his hat. Maybe I’d read my ticket wrong.
I made it to my row, stood on my tiptoes, and shoved my carry-on up as far as my arms would extend, aiming for the overhead bin. It made contact with the edge, but the only prayer I had of getting it all the way in was to climb on the seat . . . or grow another six inches.
My hands slipped, and the bright-purple suitcase plummeted toward my face. Before I had time to gasp, a massive hand caught my unruly luggage, stopping it a few inches from my nose.
Holy crap.
“That was close,” a deep voice noted from behind my carry-on. “How about I help you with that?”
“Yes, please,” I answered, scrambling to adjust my hold.
I saw the Blues hat first as the guy somehow managed to twist his body, rise fully to his feet, step into the aisle, and balance my suitcase all in one smooth motion. Impressive.
“Here we go.” He slid the carry-on into the overhead with ease.
“Thanks. I was pretty sure it was going to take me out there for a second.” I smiled, turning my head slightly to look up—and up—at him.
Whuh. He was . . . hot. Like, pull-the-fire-alarm, jaw-dropping levels of hotness. A fine layer of dark scruff covered a square jawline. Even the cut and the purplish bruise that split the right half of his lower lip didn’t detract from his face, because his eyes . . . wow. Just . . . wow. Those crystalline baby blues stole every word out of my head.
And now I was staring, and not the cute, flirty glances Serena would have given him while shamelessly asking for his number and inevitably getting it. No, this was open-mouthed awkward staring that I couldn’t seem to stop.
Close your mouth.
Nope, still staring. Staring. Staring.
“Me too,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
I blinked. “Me too,” what? “I’m sorry?”
His brow knit in confusion. “Me too,” he repeated. “I thought that thing was going to smash you in the face.”
“Right.” I tucked my hair behind my ears, only to remember that I’d pulled it up into a messy bun and therefore had no hair to tuck, which just continued my awkward streak. Awesome. And now my face was on fire, which meant I’d probably turned ten shades of red.
He slid back into his seat, and I realized our exchange had blocked the rest of the flight from boarding.
“Sorry,” I muttered to the next passenger, and ducked into fifteen B. “Funny thing, I could have sworn my ticket said I was in the window.” I lifted the strap of my purse over my head, then unzipped my jacket and wiggled the least amount possible to get out of the thing. At this rate, I’d probably jab Blue Eyes with my elbow and make an even bigger ass of myself.
