by Kendall Ryan
“Define crazy.” I pushed my hair off my face and flopped down on the couch. Quitting my job on a whim and not telling my sister I was leaving until I was already gone? Yeah, it was a touch insane.
“Damn it, Lacey. We were raised by a drill sergeant of a father, and you never once stepped out of line. Then shit went down with Troy, and now you’re gone. What am I supposed to think?”
Letting out a heavy sigh, I considered telling Brynn exactly where I was and what I was up to. Then I quickly decided against it. The less she knows, the better off she’ll be.
“I’ve met someone.” I didn’t mean to blurt it, but there it was, hanging in the silence between us.
“Ah. So that’s what’s been taking up all your time.” Her tone turned light, playfully mocking.
Regret churned inside me. Part of me wanted to confide in my sister, you know, for when all of this went tits-up and I needed someone to fall back on. But what would I say? Oh yes, he’s tall, dark, handsome, and he has a live-in lover. No, that wouldn’t fly.
“Well, that was . . . fast,” Brynn said.
As soon as the words left her mouth, I felt them like a sting across my cheek.
“Sorry,” she added after a long pause. “That was probably harsh.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, forcing a lighthearted tone. “I have to go. We’ll talk soon.” I tapped End on my phone’s screen.
Somehow I doubted Brynn would understand my new life in Texas, my job at the animal shelter, and certainly not my motivation for a relationship with a sexy-as-sin ex-SEAL. But how could I expect anyone else to understand it when I didn’t understand myself?
Rising from the couch, I tossed my phone onto the mountain of purple silk throw pillows I’d collected. Lavender. Violet. Lilac. Plum.
I felt restless and edgy, but didn’t know what to do about it.
Sometimes I let myself think about Troy. Allowed my mind to drift back to happier times. The way he’d play with my hair and tell me I was his girl. Our Friday-night tradition that went without saying. Baking homemade pizzas that my unreliable oven always burned on the edges, then scrambling onto the couch, because whoever got the remote first controlled which movie we’d watch.
We had a quiet and comfortable relationship until things went and turned insane. And now here I was, running from a past I didn’t even understand.
Then I remembered something my father told me a long time ago. If it scares you, run straight toward it.
I should trust my instincts right now, should let myself pursue the one thing that felt good in my life at the moment. It was already hard to imagine calling off this thing I’d started with Nolan.
As I stood at the front window with my hands on my hips, my mind replayed this afternoon. Nolan’s stolen kisses. The presence of Daniella looming in the background. His friend, Greyson, who watched us as if we were his own personal soap opera, just waiting for the drama to unfold.
Was I insane? It seemed that way. But I couldn’t deny my attraction to Nolan. The big, broad man inspired feelings deep down inside that I’d never expected. Of course, he was handsome, six foot four, muscled from head to toe . . . but it was more than that. There was a depth to him, something that I could feel when he looked into my eyes. Like he was just waiting for someone to understand him, to peel back his layers and accept the man he was. And I wanted to be the one to explore his depths.
After my ordeal with Troy, the last thing I was looking for was another messy entanglement. I was here to keep my head down, start fresh, and find a path where I’d be safe and happy. And instead, after being here for less than a week, my life was already turning complicated.
I sighed as my gaze wandered over toward the parking lot. Something prickled against my spine, making my posture straighten as awareness zinged inside me.
That white car . . . it was familiar. It had been parked in the same spot all day. I’d seen it when I walked down to Nolan’s for the game more than four hours ago. There had been a man sitting in the driver’s seat then, which didn’t seem all that strange at the time, but he was still there. Watching. Waiting.
The room chilled and feelings of panic slammed into me. Stumbling back from the window, I grabbed my phone, double-checked the locks on the front door, and retreated to my bedroom.
Locked behind my bedroom door, I fired off a text to Nolan. My growing feelings aside, this was about staying alive. I needed him, much more than he needed me. My plan was going to work. It had to.
Lacey: Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night?
Chapter Six
Nolan
The next afternoon, I was watching TV with Sutton draped over my lap like a drooling sandbag. Neither of us paid any real attention to the evening news, but both of us were enjoying our lazy Sunday. I’d learned not to take life’s small pleasures for granted.
When my phone dinged on the end table, I reached over, jostling Sutton and prompting a peeved grunt. It was a text from Lacey: Can we do dinner at 7:30 instead of 6? Sorry for short notice; shitstorm at work today.
Wondering if she meant that literally, given that she worked at an animal shelter, I texted her back: I can come over in five minutes and lend a hand.
Her apartment was just a short drive down the road. Food definitely wasn’t what I craved most right now, but I decided not to say that. At least, not via text. Some things were better said in person, and even better murmured into a woman’s ear.
Her reply came almost immediately: That’s okay. Please don’t go out of your way.
I rolled my eyes, knowing how these Southern rituals of polite refusal worked. I typed out the next step in the dance: No worries. I want to help out.
As I hit Send, I realized that I actually meant it. Cooking wasn’t an interest of mine, but making dinner with Lacey actually sounded fun. Although I’d probably have to hold a gun to her head to get her to accept my offer.
About five minutes later, she responded: Well, if you really insist . . .
“Huh. That was easy,” I said to Sutton. She still hadn’t been able to bring herself to say yes, but I’d expected a full-blown etiquette arms race.
The bulldog just stared back at me mournfully.
“Sorry, buddy.”
She probably wouldn’t mind if I brought him along—she seemed to love the little gasbag almost as much as I did, and said gasbag loved table scraps. But I wanted some uninterrupted time with Lacey tonight. So I nudged Sutton to the floor, ignoring his grumbles of protest, and coaxed him into my bedroom with a treat.
Then I made the short trip over to her apartment complex and knocked on the door. She answered in cutoff jean shorts and a forest-green T-shirt with a howling wolf on it. Her feet were bare, showing pearly pink toenails, and her long brown hair was corralled in a loose, messy braid. Except for her bright eyes, she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed—and it made me want to roll her right back in.
“Hey, there.” Her smile was a little sheepish. “I told you not to come yet . . . it’s going to be super boring. The pot roast has to cook for three hours.”
She must have just come home from work, washed off what little makeup she wore, and put on her house clothes. Had she wanted to change into a nicer outfit for me? To open the door looking prim and polished, with dinner already on the table? That shyness was kind of cute. But she didn’t need to try to impress me. She had my full and undivided attention without even trying.
I shook my head, smiling back. “I don’t mind hanging out for a while. I’ve got nothing better to do today.” And I could think of worse ways to spend an afternoon. Lacey looked adorable, her hair mussed and her cheeks flushed in the Texas heat.
“In that case,” Lacey’s smile turned crooked, “I’ll have to put you to work.”
I followed her into the kitchen. Her place was small, but tidy, with cute feminine touches. She slid a chef’s knife from her knife block, handed it to me, and pulled a small mesh bag of white onions out of the
fridge.
“Can you cut all these into big chunks for me?”
“Sure, I’d be happy to.”
I pulled the cutting board close and started on the pile of onions.
As I chopped onions and peeled garlic cloves, she washed and quartered the carrots, potatoes, and celery. This atmosphere felt different from when Daniella and I did household chores together. Preparing ingredients with Lacey felt warmer somehow. Something simmered between us, just beneath the surface.
I’d never understood the appeal of domesticity. It always sounded soul-crushingly boring. But in this moment, I could maybe see why my married coworkers talked so fondly about coming home. Seeing their wives’ familiar, affectionate smiles after a long day, giving them a hello kiss, helping them keep house.
When I finished my share of the vegetables, I noticed Lacey still working on hers. And there were tears streaming down her cheeks. What the hell?
“Did the onions get to you?”
She shook her head, quickly wiping her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I thought I’d be fine once I got home.”
Remembering her text from earlier, I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Tough day at work?”
She smiled sadly. “Something like that.”
“You can talk to me.”
I wasn’t even sure why I said it; what had started between us as instant physical attraction and carefree fun was quickly turning into something more serious. Normally that would be enough to send me running, but right now, all I wanted was comfort her. Hold her tight. Make her pain go away.
“They put down Charlie today,” she said haltingly as a fresh wave of tears filled her eyes.
“Who’s Charlie?”
“An old basset hound. He was so sweet . . . I loved him. B-but he was in kidney failure, and they didn’t want him to suffer anymore.” She buried her face in her hands as quiet sobs shook her shoulders.
I stood awkwardly for a moment. If there was one thing I was clueless about, it was crying women. Daniella wasn’t the emotional type, I had no sisters, and my mom was one tough cookie. The one and only time I’d seen her cry was at my dad’s funeral.
Then realization struck. That’s exactly what this was, but without the casket or flowers. Lacey had lost someone she cared about today. Before I knew it, I had pulled her to my chest, shushing her cries and telling her all about the last person I’d lost: my old teammate, Marcus Sutton, who my new best friend was named after.
As I spoke, the memories rushed back.
Watching my mom become a shadow of her former self after losing her other half hadn’t put me on the fast track to commitment. The spunky, book-club attending, wine-swilling, foul-mouthed woman I’d grown up loving because she was so different from my friends’ soccer moms had been replaced by a hollowed-out shell who wandered the house with a vacant look in her eyes.
Mom tended to her garden. Watched the evening news. Occasionally brought over a pan of lasagna for Daniella and me to share. Just went through the motions of life. She put on a brave face, but that kind of loss wasn’t something that healed. And while I loved her as much as ever, I hated the situation we were in.
Lacey’s sobs subsided as she listened to my story. I wasn’t even sure why I was telling her all this. I just needed to fill the silence, needed to occupy her with something other than her own sorrow.
“Shortly after I lost my dad, I flew back to Fallujah. I’d been there only a few days when a car bomb was detonated near our post, sending shrapnel flying in every direction.”
Lacey pulled back from her spot at my chest to listen. She could tell that this was the clincher of my story, the freshest and deepest wound.
“Marcus Sutton had a new wife at home, a house with a white picket fence, and way too much on the line. I held his head in my lap and felt his blood oozing through my uniform pants.” My voice shook, and I took a deep breath to compose myself.
What I didn’t tell Lacey was that that was it for me. As the light faded in Sutton’s eyes, a single tear streamed down my cheek. All I could think of was Marcus’s bride waiting at home, just like Mom still waited for Dad. Her heart might have kept on beating, but she’d become a ghost right along with him. I couldn’t even imagine the heartbreak that Finley Sutton was in for. I knew that torment would last for years to come. So right then and there I’d vowed fuck love. It got you nowhere but broken. No fucking thank you.
Lacey stepped back and wiped her eyes a final time. “I’m sorry for breaking down like that. I know losing a dog is nothing like losing a best friend, and especially in such a tragic way.” Her eyes met mine, and I could see that she felt my pain.
“Please don’t apologize. I’m glad I’m here with you tonight.”
Letting out a sigh, she nodded. “Me too.”
“We’ll have a good meal, and you can tell me more about Charlie if you want,” I offered.
She smiled sadly. “No, really, I’m okay. It’s just going to be weird walking in tomorrow and seeing his bed empty. I think this is just hitting me hard because I’m homesick. I’m feeling extra emotional.”
“Trust me, I understand loss more than anyone. You can talk to me about it if it helps.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Deciding that the best thing to do was to keep us occupied, I found the butter, greased the Dutch oven standing on the stove, and switched on the heat so it would be ready to sauté. I turned around to grab the onions and saw Lacey watching me.
“What?” I grinned as I poured the onions into the pot. They smoked with a satisfying hiss as they touched the hot butter. “Surprised to see a man cook?”
She blinked, her cheeks turning a little pink. Maybe she’d been staring at me for a different reason. Was she surprised I had a soft side under my thick, war-battered exterior?
“N-not really,” she replied. “I know the military makes you do mess duty and learn some home-ec skills.”
Oh yeah. I remembered that she’d recognized Greyson’s trident tattoo last night. Usually women either had no idea what it meant or instantly dropped their panties.
“How do you know so much about the Navy, anyway? You have a relative who served?”
Lacey tensed. “Yeah, a . . . relative.”
The odd tone to her voice signaled it was clearly a sensitive topic for her. I should probably back off; no point in digging into something she didn’t want to discuss. Especially not with the day she’d had.
To change the subject, I asked, “So where did you learn to cook? Your mom teach you?” I stood back so she could add her brimming bowl of vegetables to the pot.
She shook her head. “No, it was our housekeeper.” She pointed to the steaming pot. “Those only need to sear for a minute. Put them back in the bowl when you see brown.”
“A housekeeper, huh? Was your family well off, then?” I stirred the vegetables in quick, efficient figure-eights.
She forced a little laugh. Her somber expression bothered me more than it should have. “Not really. Dad could have cooked, but he was always working, and Mom . . . wasn’t around.”
Wow, I’m a complete tool. That was twice now I’d stumbled into a sore spot. Usually I was pretty smooth with women, if I did say so myself. My bedpost certainly had enough notches in it.
“Sorry.” I sighed. “That was none of my business.”
She shook her head, and her comforting smile was genuine. “It’s not a big deal. It happened a long time ago.”
Lacey didn’t seem to care how far I’d stuffed my foot into my mouth. And even though I was apparently way off my game today, I realized that I was still having a good time. Being here with her felt so comfortable.
She pulled the raw chuck roast out of the fridge and started sprinkling it with salt, pepper, and spices. Watching her was strangely captivating. But the vegetables were dangerously close to done, so I contented myself with an occasional glance at Lacey’s delicate hands, massaging the seasonings into the glistening roast.
After th
e meat was also seared and set aside, she pulled out a carton of beef broth and a bottle of red Burgundy to deglaze the pot. “I was going to have a glass of this and watch a movie while I waited for dinner.” Raising the bottle, she smiled—invitingly—at me. “What do you think?”
I grinned back. Now, this was a plan I could get behind.
We transferred all the ingredients back into the pot, slid it into the hot oven, and went to the couch with two glasses of red wine. I sat down barely an inch away from Lacey.
“Are you sure you’re doing okay?”
She took a sip of her wine and nodded. “Yes, I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Agreed. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Did you have fun last night?”
“You mean the game, or . . . ?” She leaned a little closer.
I reached out to stroke her cheek and she closed her eyes, sighing almost silently. I set my glass on the coffee table and pressed a chaste kiss to her mouth.
She pulled away slightly, but only to set her glass aside too. “I did have fun,” she said softly, brushing her lips against mine.
There was nothing chaste about my next kiss, and she met me with equal hunger. I knew I should take my time, but fuck, I didn’t want to.
I wrapped my arms around her, flattening our bodies together, pushing her down to squirm under me. She seemed so small like this. I wanted to gather her up, to protect her and pleasure her, and keep her for myself.
It took me a moment to recognize that fleeting spark of possessiveness for what it was. I hadn’t felt that way about a woman for a very long time. Usually I was content to enjoy whoever I was with, and then get the hell out of there when we were done.
Holding Lacey this close, I could feel her breathing hitch slightly whenever I nibbled her lower lip or stroked my tongue around hers. I mapped her mouth for every spot that made her knees tighten around my waist.
Daniella and I never kissed, and I was quickly realizing how much I loved it. It was strangely hot and sweet at the same time. Everything else in my life melted away, leaving only Lacey—her soft curves, soft skin, soft lips, soft sighs.