Her heart hammered in her too-tight chest. She opened her mouth to ask him for some space, but instead blurted, “I failed the perfect-wife test before, back when I was married.”
…
Married? That certainly put her tattoo in an interesting new context. Michael opened his mouth to say something flip and lighten the mood, but her pale face told him whatever scars he’d accidentally uncovered ran deep. A lame joke about finding the bright side of a failed relationship and tattooing it on her ass wasn’t going to help. Instead he took her hand, led her to the living room sofa, and sat her down. “How about I pour you a drink and you tell me about it?”
She looked up at him with big, anxious eyes and nodded.
“Beer, or…?” He walked to the refrigerator, opened it, and paused for a moment as a whole bunch of girl food stared back at him. Vanilla soy milk, some kind of probiotic yogurt he wouldn’t eat if he was starving, more fresh fruits and veggies than he’d ever seen outside of the produce section of the commissary. A casserole dish covered in tin foil took up almost an entire shelf. Nestled next to the familiar dark green bottles of his favorite beer was a light yellow bottle of Chardonnay. He took the chilled bottle and held it up. “Wine?”
“Wine, please. I didn’t want to toss perfectly good groceries, and you had a ton of room in your fridge, so I brought a few things with me, and I made Mexican lasagna for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”
Mexican lasagna? Sounded like the kind of kitchen-sink recipe his mother would make up to combine random leftovers into a meal. “Of course not. I love Mexican lasagna.” He’d have a bite to be polite and make himself a sandwich later. No need to hurt her feelings. “I don’t have what you’d call a stocked kitchen, but help yourself to anything.” He dug a wineglass from the cupboard and poured her Chardonnay. For himself, he popped open a beer, and carried the drinks back to the sofa. He handed her the wine and sat beside her.
She put her glass on the coffee table and twirled the stem a few times. He got the sense she didn’t know where to start and he understood perfectly. They really didn’t know much about each other. A lot of questions circled his mind, so he latched onto a reasonably easy one and tossed it out.
“Mind if I ask how old you are?”
“I’m twenty-four. And no,” she lifted her glass and gave him a weak smile over the rim, “I wasn’t some starry-eyed teenager when I tied the knot.” She drank deeply and swallowed. “I was twenty-one. Old enough to know what I was doing.”
“And what were you doing?”
“Trying to replace my parents’ miserable marriage with an even more miserable one of my very own, though, obviously, at the time, I believed with all my heart I was doing everything right. Marrying the man of my dreams—someone who drowned me in attention and needed me like nobody else ever had.”
“You loved him.”
“Oh, yeah.” She sipped her wine and twisted her pretty lips into a grimace. “In the blind, idiotic way most people get out of their systems at sixteen or seventeen.” She raised her glass and saluted him. “Here’s to the late bloomer.”
The thought of her head over heels in love with some guy, and hurtling toward disappointment, brought up a whole tangle of emotions he didn’t want to examine too closely. “Late or not, you bloomed spectacularly. What happened?”
“Drew swooped into my world high on prospects and newly signed to an Atlanta Braves farm team. We fell for each other immediately and got married much too quickly.” She shook her head at the memory. “I ignored the whisper in my head saying stuff like, ‘You don’t really know him. This is a whirlwind and you’re letting yourself get swept away,’ because I was so desperate to belong somewhere, to call someone my own and believe he felt the same way about me. Maybe I can blame the desperation on my parents, for dismantling our family while I still needed one, but whatever the cause, I bought in to Drew’s lines completely. My heart drew a picture of us in a cute house with a white-picket fence, two-point-three kids, and a dog. Sadly, I should have listened to my head.”
So Chloe hadn’t always been a free bird. Her ex-husband had turned her into one. “Last time I counted, there were two people in a marriage, so don’t take on all the blame for yours not working and assume you failed the perfect-wife test.”
“Oh, I don’t take all the blame. Drew gets his fair share, but I know I don’t come across as June Cleaver. I overheard a couple of his coaches talking shortly after the marriage. One said something like maybe having a wife and a stable home life would help Drew settle down and focus on his game. The other one—an older guy—said, ‘Nah,’” she dropped her voice to a gruff growl. “‘Girl like her wouldn’t know a stable home life if it bit her in the ass. She’s not going to be able to keep him on his leash, much less keep his head on his game.’”
He took a pull from his beer to buy himself a second to get his temper in check. “Shitty thing to say, especially considering it wasn’t your job to keep their player’s head on the game.”
She tipped her head to one side and lifted her hair off her neck. “My job or not, turns out the old guy was right. Had I taken things a little slower, I would have realized Drew loves shiny, new things, and that’s what I was to him. Unfortunately, after about six months I no longer qualified as shiny or new. The convenient thing about playing ball, for Drew, was that every away game brought out a selection of shiny, new things for him to sample.”
“He sampled?” Correction, not her ex-husband, her asshole ex-husband.
“Like a kid in an ice-cream parlor, and being the dumbass I am, I overlooked the clues for a long time, because I couldn’t bear to let go of my happy-ever-after fantasy. Heck, I might still be sitting in Memphis overlooking the obvious if one of his shiny new things hadn’t called and informed me she was pregnant with Drew’s shiny, new baby.” She took a large sip of wine and swallowed before continuing. “I confronted him. He confirmed the information. I filed for divorce, registered with Helping Hands, and got on with my life.”
Her flippant tone didn’t completely conceal the depth of the wound. She’d trusted and been paid back with betrayal. Of course that hurt. He resisted the urge to gather her up in his arms and promise he’d never let anyone hurt her again. First, because she wasn’t his to protect, and next, because he had the funny feeling any protective instincts he displayed would be met with a complete and total freak-out on her end. Hell, it freaked him out too. She was a temporary decoration in his life, not a permanent fixture, and he wasn’t looking for more complications. Their situation was already complicated enough. Getting back into the cockpit required all his focus. He needed to remember that. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too, but my point in bringing this up is, his coaches knew from the start I wasn’t perfect-wife material.”
“He wasn’t perfect-husband material.”
“No, he wasn’t, but they weren’t talking about him. They sensed something about me. A lack of”—she rubbed her thumb over her fingertips, searching for the word—“I don’t know what exactly, but you sensed it, too, the night we met. Don’t deny it. When you looked at me, you didn’t think, ‘There’s someone to take home to Mom.’”
“Chloe, that’s not fair. The night we met you were handcuffed to your bed, wearing two scraps of black lace, yelling your head off for someone to rescue you. As memories go, meeting you ranks right up there in my hall of fame, but no, I was not thinking, ‘Here’s a girl who walks the straight and narrow—’”
He shouldn’t have admitted anything, because she didn’t let him finish. “Don’t you think your commanding officer and his lovely wife are going to sense the same thing?”
“No.” He reached over and took her hand. Her free-spirited nature, her courage to embrace her wild side, made her Chloe—unique, chaotic, spontaneous, constantly surprising Chloe. Yes, he appreciated discipline, order and control, and maybe their diametrically opposite approaches to life meant they mixed about as well as whiskey and a piña colada, but h
e couldn’t stand to let her consider her personality a failing. “They’re going to wonder what a beautiful, vivacious woman like you is doing with a big, cynical marine like me.”
Her fingers curled around his and hung on. “This is a bad risk, Michael. The colonel and his wife will want to hear our Grandkid Story, and ours is hopelessly warped. There’s no making it sound smooth and pretty.”
“Our Grandkid Story?”
“Yes, our Grandkid Story—what we tell our grandkids when they ask how grandma and grandpa met. Here’s ours in a nutshell: Grandpa had to rescue grandma when she handcuffed herself to her bed, then grandma got fired for trying to give grandpa a happy-ending massage, then grandpa and grandma moved in together and pretended to be engaged so grandma wouldn’t be homeless and grandpa wouldn’t get drummed out of the Corps.”
“Sounds a hell of a lot more interesting than, ‘Grandma and grandpa met on Match,’ don’t you think?”
“What I’m trying to highlight here is that our real story has some…problems. I don’t want to embarrass you or set you back. What if I slip up and say or do something to tip the Hardings off that things aren’t what we’ve led them to believe?”
“You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because they’re not looking to trip us up. They’re curious, that’s all. They may ask a few questions, but those are easy to anticipate and prepare for, right?”
“You think?” She eyed him warily.
“Yes. Trust me,” he got up, grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge, and refilled her glass, “you’re stressing about this way too much. The questions are predictable. As for the answers, aim for ninety-nine percent truth, one percent bullshit.”
“You make this sound like a game.”
“Think of it as a game.” He raised his beer bottle. “In fact, for tonight, let’s make it a game. For every question one of us gets right, the other has to drink.” She’d be relaxed in no time. “Five right answers in a row, and I text my CO and tell him we’ll be there.”
“Fine. How’d we meet?”
“Easy.” He shot her a grin. “Applying my truth-to-bullshit formula, I’d say we were neighbors, and I got to know you when you needed help opening something. Drink.”
She narrowed her eyes but took a sip of her wine. “Okay, bull-shitter, what was our first date?”
“You invited me over for a beer, to say ‘Thanks.’ The rest is history. Drink again.”
She swallowed and then sent him a look full of challenge. “Where was I born?”
“Texas.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Are you psychic?”
“Drink.” While she obeyed, he explained, “You mentioned it last night at the Stars & Bars…right before you fell off the porch and threw up.”
She covered her face with her hands and groaned. “Oh, Lord, I’d been trying to block that out. How can you possibly want to been seen in public with me—the girl who threw up in front of the Stars & Bars?”
“If I limited my associates to people who hadn’t thrown up at the Stars & Bars, I’d be a pretty lonely guy.” He shrugged. “Around a military base, nights like last night kind of go with the territory.”
She peeked at him from over her hands. “Do I have to drink for that answer?”
He raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. “No. But it counts as number five. Looks like we’ve got plans for tomorrow night.”
She took a large gulp of wine. “You’re moving too fast. We’re not done with our game. What’s my favorite color?”
“They’re not going to ask that.”
“Favorite color is something a fiancé would know.”
“Fine.” The yellow underwear popped into his mind. “I’ll go out on a limb and say yellow.”
“Drink.” She tapped her wineglass to his empty beer bottle. “It’s a trick question. I love so many colors I couldn’t possibly choose a favorite.”
“All right, cheater.” He took her glass and drank deeply, not so much because he liked Chardonnay, but because he didn’t want her waking up with a headache tomorrow. “What’s my favorite color?”
Her eyes raked him up and down, but, considering he wore camouflage pants and a plain white T-shirt, he figured his outfit offered precious few clues. She scanned his apartment and took in a couple of framed photographs one of his copilots took of the Hindu Kush Mountains at sunrise, bathed in shades of blue and white. “Blue?”
“Just lately, I’ve found myself partial to gray.”
“Gray?” She frowned, obviously disappointed. “Dull, not-quite-black, not-quite-white gray?”
“Sure.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared at her. “I never really appreciated all the amazing nuances of gray until I saw your eyes. When you’re amused, they sparkle like polished silver. When you’re upset, they go dark and opaque, like thunderheads stacked along the horizon of a winter sky. And my personal favorite,” he lifted the wineglass from her fingers and took a swallow, all the while watching her pulse flutter at the base of her throat, “when you’re turned on, those eyes of yours go soft and smoky.”
The gray eyes in question stared at him. She blinked slowly. “Wow…that’s pretty good bullshit.”
The scary part was his response involved none whatsoever. He forced a smile. “You think?”
She nodded.
“Awesome.” He handed her back her empty wineglass and pulled out his phone. “You heat up the lasagna. I’m going to text the colonel and tell him we’ll see them tomorrow night.”
“Oh, God. Okay.” She shot up and wiped her palms on her shorts. “Tell them we’re bringing a homemade apple cobbler, and—”
“We are?”
“Yes, that’s my one dessert specialty. And ask if there’s anything else we can bring,” she said as she retreated to the kitchen.
“They invited us, Chlo. I think they’ve got it covered. And you don’t have to put yourself out cooking. I’m going to the gym tomorrow morning with my friend Dane. I’ll stop at the store on my way home and pick up a nice bottle of wine as a hostess gift.”
“It’s polite to offer,” she said as she preheated the oven, “and a homemade dessert says your fiancée is the type of woman who makes the extra effort.” She started looking through cabinets. “Shoot. I have to put together a list of things I’ll need for the cobbler. If you’re stopping by the store anyway, will you pick up some things for me?”
“Sure.” Shit. She was getting all wound up again. He could feel the nerves radiating off her all the way from his safe zone in the living room. He hit send on the text and then pocketed his phone and wandered into the kitchen. He found her bent over, sliding the casserole dish into the oven. Maybe he startled her or maybe drinking games and hot ovens didn’t mix, but she suddenly hissed in a breath, yanked her hand back, and brought her wrist to her mouth. The oven door snapped closed.
“Here.” He put an arm around her waist and pulled her to the sink, then turned on the cold water, stepped behind her, and held her wrist under the spray. She flinched when the cold water hit the burn, which caused her body to jerk against his, which, in turn, caused a predictable reaction from his dick. Talk about making up for lost time. After weeks of dormancy, Chloe showed up, and he’d had a near constant hard-on ever since.
He held her a little tighter. “Hold still. Let the water cool the burn for a few minutes.” With his arms wrapped around her, they both stared down at the side of her wrist, where a red welt from the hot oven rack rose on her skin.
“Stupid,” she said, shaking her head.
Her hair brushed his jaw and a few strands tangled in his five o’clock shadow. He fought a sudden compulsion to bury his face against the back of her neck and just drink her in, scent and sensation. Hey, Romeo, maybe you could do that when she’s not suffering from a second-degree burn?
“An accident,” he corrected, speaking softly while forcing himself to back off, “could happen to anyone.” He tip
ped the hand holding hers and showed her a similar scar on his wrist. “Old college injury—frozen pizza.”
She leaned back until her head rested against his chest. “I’d wondered about the scar. There’s one more question I’ll be able to get right tomorrow night.”
“Hey, do me a favor and don’t worry about tomorrow. We’re going to game the shit out of this thing.” He turned the water off, dug a clean dish towel out of a drawer, and gently dried her hand and arm. Then he grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink and led her to the small dining area just off the kitchen, opposite the living room. She took the seat he held out for her and looked up at him with a you’re-stoned expression.
“C’mon, this is your chance to learn all my secrets. Ask me anything.”
Chapter Ten
Michael’s challenge hung in the air while he leaned over her wrist and wrapped a gauze bandage loosely around her burn.
“Anything?” she repeated, a little disconcerted to find herself the object of healing hands. She took care of people. As a rule, nobody took care of her.
Then again, her rules had gotten screwed up right from the get-go with Michael.
“Anything,” he confirmed, nodding absently as he secured the bandage.
She couldn’t help noticing the overhead lamp highlighted gold strands in his thick, brown hair. “I can’t think of anything.” Totally true. Her mind was too occupied noticing how uncharacteristically careful he was for such a big, tough man. No surprise really. She remembered how he’d rubbed her wrist the night he’d rescued her from the handcuffs.
“How about, ‘When’s my birthday?’” he prompted.
“November twenty-ninth.”
Sharp brown eyes collided with hers. “That’s my birthday.”
“I know. I read it on your chart yesterday.”
He kissed her bandaged wrist so gently her heart threatened to melt, and then he looked up at her and smiled. “With a memory like yours, we’re solid. I was trying to tell you to ask me when is your birthday?”
Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) Page 10