A brief visit.
He had come home.
But he hadn’t called.
She never sent him another letter.
***
Her chest squeezed unbearably tight at the scent, the woodsy vanilla as familiar to her as her own skin. She’d never forgotten how he smelled. Even now, the rich warmth of it rolled over her, carrying her back to more carefree days—breakfast at the football field, late afternoons lying in a tangle, trying to study. Long, wet, tongue-stroking kisses.
Painful cracks spider-webbed across the ancient headstone burying her heart. She’d mourned him and stopped visiting him in her heart a long time ago. The scent dragged the roots of her teenage passion, screaming and clawing, out from under the debris of years.
“Rebecca.” His voice washed over her and she closed her eyes. It can’t be him.
Not now.
She didn’t turn. She couldn’t. She squeezed her eyes shut, closing out the abandoned seventeen-year old girl who’d dared to hope, pray and dream that one day he would reach out to her again. Let her be there.
Instead, the twenty-eight-year old woman shook off a teenage melodramatic gasp and forced her eyes back open, glancing toward the mirror behind the bar. Hooded, hazel eyes met hers and her heart belly flopped, pain smashing through every nerve.
Chapter Two
Luke’s chest hurt, but he braced himself against it. Shock wrinkled the line between her brows, the emotion far more brutal to him than a firefight in Kandahar or Kabul. She didn’t turn to look at him. But her reflection in the mirror didn’t soften. The familiar, flirtatious smile fled from the cool, firm line of her lips. Color drained from the face of the woman who shifted on the bar stool. Movement to his right caught his attention. A man approached, intent on her, but meeting Luke’s iron expression, the would-be interloper diverted to another table.
Satisfied, his attention returned to the girl—no, the woman—gazing at him, pain etching the softness of her lips. The memory of her lips got him through Paris Island. He’d thought about them, about her smile, every single, damn day.
“Hello, Luke.” Her voice poured over him like warm honey.
Life doesn’t always offer second chances….
“May I join you?” He nodded to the stool next to her.
“It’s a free country.” And just like that, she turned her back and the warm honey chilled, hardening over his chest.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He tacked the ma’am on as an afterthought. But the steel wrapped in her velvety voice jabbed his kidneys. Perching on the edge of the stool, he motioned to the bartender. “Two more of whatever the lady is having.”
She watched him from the mirror. Hungriness reflected in the gold flecked, tawny brown eyes, a perfect contrast to the tight jaw and stiff fingers wrapped around her wine glass. She tossed back a third of a glass like a shot of vodka.
A shot of vodka sounded like a great idea. But he needed his wits about him. IEDs laced the battlefield in front of him and patience and procedure and about eighty-five pounds of protective gear weren’t handy. But the trick to survival was to examine what was right in front of him and to react to it. He could do that in the field, he could do that with her. It was what he did best.
After the bartender served the drinks and took his credit card, Luke shifted to sit sideways, intentionally brushing his leg against hers. She didn’t recoil—exactly—but did shift away after a few seconds. Definitely treading in dangerous waters.
“How are you?” Lame, but it beat the first thing that came to mind. Dragging her off the icy perch and kissing her until she became that soft, warm, dewy-eyed girl he remembered wouldn’t go well. He ignored that savage need.
For now.
“I was sorry to hear about your father.” The words brushed over him, smoothing away the long years stretching between them.
“He died exactly as he intended.” Luke had no illusions. Not anymore. His father had been a Marine through and through. After their family loss, he returned to the Corps with a vengeance. He stopped being Dad and simply became Sir. His work in Afghanistan and Iraq saved a lot of lives, but a roadside bomber claimed him. The old man was at peace, hopefully with Luke’s mom and Brianna.
“You didn’t go to the funeral.” Every inflection carefully measured, she cradled the wine glass and avoided looking at him directly, watching via the mirror instead—a distancing technique—the PSYOP guys would love her. The modulated tone and her expression created a cocktail of distance and intimacy that left the listener eager to bridge the empty spaces.
“I was still overseas. I wasn’t aware there was much of a funeral.” Had she gone? Had she gone hoping to see me? He could have returned for the it, but a near miss on a personal assignment left him laid up for six weeks and the doctors wouldn’t let him fly.