by Sara Arden
“So then why are you here? If you think fate made a mistake?” Andrew asked.
“The girl I made a promise to? I told her I’d come home. I was pretty pissed at her for demanding that promise from me. When the nurse asked her if there was anything she should tell me because they were sure I was dying, she said to remind me of my promise. And I never break my promises. So I came back.”
“And she saw you on a Saturday morning, didn’t she?” Andrew asked.
He nodded. Glad that the man had filled that part in for him. He didn’t want to share their intimacies. Didn’t want to expose what was between them to others just as broken as he was. “She did, and even though she asked me to come, she’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” Andrew asked.
“I decided that maybe I shouldn’t be arguing with fate. I want to live. And what I’ve got right now isn’t living.” Warmth unfurled in his chest. It felt good to say these things. To put the words out in the world.
“You were in Mosul,” Bobby said, something like wonder in his voice.
Jack nodded. “A lot of us were.”
“No, it was you. You’re the reason I came home. What are the chances, man?” Bobby got up out of the chair and came over and clapped him on the back. “I...used to blame you for saving us. Kind of like you blaming fate. Then I met my wife and I knew why I’d been saved. To be with her.”
The itchy feeling was back. Jack didn’t like being praised for killing, even though it was something else he was good at. “Glad you made it home.”
Bile rose in his throat. This was what he’d saved him for? Nights spent drowning in rum because he thought he’d end up back in that hell? Death might’ve been kinder.
Andrew keyed to his distress instantly. “Do you want to tell us about Mosul, Jack?”
“I was captured and then I wasn’t.” He didn’t want to talk about it.
“Okay, Jack. That’s a good start. Maybe another time, when you’re ready.”
He’d thought his trauma was from losing his leg, but in that moment, he knew he’d been using it as a crutch. Ah, the fucking irony, there. Killing was his job, but he’d lost himself in Mosul—after the torture.
Jack chewed on that for the rest of the meeting. He didn’t hear much else that was said, but at his last cookie, slowly chewing it until it disintegrated in his mouth, it reminded him that he’d made it home from Mosul.
That all the guys in this room had come home, even if they’d left pieces of their soul over in the desert.
He reminded himself that didn’t matter, that whatever he’d left over there could stay. They could keep it. They’d paid for it in blood, too. There was more than ash, more than this. There was Betsy, there was bacon...
“Jack?” Andrew’s voice came from somewhere far away.
He looked up and was snapped back into the present. All the chairs were empty and the purple Sweet Thing box was gone. “Sorry. I was lost for a minute.”
“Yes, you were.” Andrew nodded. “You did a brave thing today, coming, sharing. I hope you come back.”
“It’s worse than I thought it would be, but it’s better, too.”
“A lot of guys say that. If you’re interested in supplementing with private therapy, I have a practice.” Andrew handed him a card. “I give this card to everyone. It has my cell number on it and I answer it 24/7. You can always call me. Even if you’re not my patient.”
“Thanks.” Jack stuffed the card in his pocket.
“I really do hope you decide to talk about what happened. We’ve all heard what it was like from Bobby’s point of view. I think it would be good for him and the rest of the group to see how it affected you.”
“What do you mean?” Jack’s skin got tighter, if that was possible. He felt as if one more word would be the thing that sliced him open and spilled his guts all over the floor.
“He’s made you superhuman in his memory and why he thought of himself as a failure for so long. He was sure that the man who’d done those things couldn’t possibly have to deal with any fear, or pain.”
“That day I didn’t. I turned it off. That wasn’t something to be admired,” Jack confessed.
“Many of my patients say that, too. Now you just have to learn there is no shame in surviving.”
Jack nodded. “Maybe I can try next week.”
“You know we meet tomorrow, too?”
“I have plans tomorrow.”
“With the girl you made your promise to?”
“That’s the one.”
“Will she be sending any more cookies? I didn’t get one.” Andrew grinned.
“I’m sure she will. She hands out what doesn’t sell over the weekend here on Monday mornings.”
“She sounds like an angel.”
“She is.” Jack was uncomfortable talking about her now. He didn’t know how things stood between them, what he wanted and what was just a pie-in-the-sky dream that got him through the night.
“Okay, then. Until next week.” Andrew walked him to the door. “Don’t forget, if you need me, call. Day or night.”
“Thanks.” Jack walked out into the evening, the air just a bit chilly and the stars just beginning to peek out from their cloudy nests.
He was so conflicted, his wounds raw again, but he didn’t feel as if he’d been picking at a scab. It felt purposeful. Like resurfacing a wound so it could heal. If that was really what would happen here, he was ready to put in the work.
Jack tried to avoid Fourth Street while he walked. It was a main drag that was dangerously busy. One of the old-timers who worked out at the state prison rode his bicycle to work every day and had been hit four times. Stubborn bastard said it kept him young. He was in his nineties, so maybe there was some truth to that.
Jack disliked walking in this area because it was so congested and more modern, but once the businesses gave way to the old Victorian houses and the places in the road where he could still see the brick, he enjoyed the journey. He found that for as much as he’d longed to be out in the world, for a big life, he liked the quaint downtown area and the small-town charm.
Even if it meant putting up with the town busybody dropping off a casserole he refused to eat every Thursday.
He’d thought that after the meeting, he wouldn’t feel like talking to anyone, that everything would be raw and painful. It was raw, but it was okay. He was glad Betsy had asked him over tonight, because he needed something normal, something good.
The back of Sweet Thing came into view and he realized Betsy had been living above the shop when she wasn’t helping her mother. A small, flowered deck cradled the back entrance and sported a table and chairs with overstuffed pink cushions. He could picture her there in the early mornings with a cup of coffee, her hair in a bun, wearing a crisp white apron as she watched the sun come up.
He made his way up the stairs and knocked.
When she opened the door, her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. All thoughts of his own needs fled.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Whatever it is, it’s not stupid.” He wrapped her in his arms and suddenly, for all of her ferocity and strength, she was small and breakable. Whatever it was, he wanted to fix it for her, take away whatever hurt her and crush it out of existence.
“Would it be cliché of me to ask you to take me to bed?”
“Some things are cliché for a reason. It was a long day for me, too. Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask about group.”
“You don’t have to. I’d rather you didn’t. It’s already touched you enough. You don’t need any more of this.”
“But I want it, Jack. I want to help you, support you. If you can live through it, I’ll survive hearing about
it.”
“No, Bets.” It was just like her to deflect whatever was going on with her and bring the focus back to him. That was just the kind of woman she was.
“Fine.” She sighed. “Is it really okay that we’re just going to bed early like old people? That you walked all the way over here and you’re not even getting sex out of the deal?”
“Betsy, it will be my honor and privilege to listen to you growl like a baby bear all night.”
“Are you suggesting I snore?” She looked indignant.
“I’m not suggesting it. It’s a statement. A fact. An absolute.”
“Oh my God. I’m such a tool. You’re not going to be able to sleep, are you?”
“Probably not, but I’ll try.” He didn’t care about sleep. Jack was right where he wanted to be.
“I understand. Would you rather go back to your house?”
“No, I want to see where you live. What the space is like that’s only yours.”
“Jack, you’re kind of perfect. Do you know that?”
“I should argue with you, but I’m not going to. You’ll figure it out on your own.” He cradled her close again. Jack wasn’t going to even try to sleep. He didn’t want to take the chance that he’d screw this up. This felt too good. The nightmares could take hold of him when he slept, could stamp out everything he’d accomplished. He wanted to hold on to this for a little while longer. Jack knew he couldn’t hold back the tide of dark forever, but just a bit longer would be okay.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BETSY DIDN’T REALIZE how much pink she used in her decor until she saw Jack McConnell sprawled in her bed among the hot pink sheets, the pink-and-black rockabilly duvet... He was all hard, delicious man.
What she liked best was that he didn’t care everything was pink. It could be puce, for all it mattered to him. He just wanted to be beside her.
She wasn’t ready to get up; she wanted to stay in his arms where it was warm and safe. Her bed could be a haven for both of them. Betsy knew he’d planned to stay awake, but at some point during the night, he’d felt safe enough to sleep.
Before they went to bed, she’d taken him on a tour of the loftlike apartment. Shown him where the two keypads were for the alarm systems, given him the numbers and explained in detail, with visual aids, how it worked. She wanted him to feel at home in her space. She still felt like a horrible troll for demanding he come spend the night at her place without even thinking about how trying to sleep in a new place might affect him.
Her alarm went off again after she snoozed it, and she turned it off. If she wanted to open the shop, she’d have to rouse herself from her little hideaway. Jack, too. She didn’t want him to wake up without her and be disoriented.
She stole a few moments to study his sleeping form. She was overwhelmed by emotion, so much so that it choked her and she had to blink away unshed tears. She chided herself for being overwrought and mentally ticked off the days.
Oh yeah, she was in serious PMS-ville.
“Jack?” She brushed her cheek against his and she suddenly found herself flat on her back beneath him.
Only there was no terror or rage in his eyes, just lust. “You wake the sleeping dragon...”
She laughed. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone. I’m headed down to the shop.”
“What if I just keep you in bed with me?”
“I guess I can’t fight it.” She gave an ultra-put-upon sigh, as if this wasn’t exactly where she wanted to be. “I’ll just have to deny the masses their doughnuts.” For the first time, she’d rather be doing something else than opening her shop. She could stay like this with Jack and not think about the world outside, or the phone call from Marcel and what it meant.
“Hmm. I’m not sure which I want more. Sugar from your shop or sugar from you.”
“You better think very carefully about that answer.”
He laughed and rolled to the side to let her up. “You’re going to give me both later, so I don’t have to choose. I’m spoiled.”
“You are. You have an assignment while I’m gone.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah. I want to hear more about the spying waitress. I expect words on the page when I return.”
“Bossy much?”
“Since when is that new?” She flashed him a grin. “Please? I really want to know what happens to her.”
“Why don’t you write it, then?”
“Because it’s your story. You came up with it. Just write it down.”
“I don’t know how to write.”
“Fine, then be prepared for an oral report.”
Jack smirked. “Now, that I can do.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Heat suffused her cheeks as she thought about him doing just that.
“You remember how you always used to say that your feelings were mixed into your food? I think you should imagine oral-reporting all day and see how it affects your customers.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’ll write you that story if you do the recon.”
“You think you’re smart.” Betsy couldn’t fight the smile that curved her lips. She was definitely intrigued and wanted to read this one now, too.
“Cagey, maybe.”
“Fine. I will.” She licked her lips. “And while you’re up here all by yourself all day, I’m going to be downstairs. Rubbing and kneading dough, stroking it and working it until it’s just right, and thinking about you doing the same thing to me.”
“I need to know what that tastes like.”
“Come down for a treat, then. You can see how it affects the customers, too. Nothing better than firsthand information, right?”
“That’s a deal.”
Betsy kissed him one last time, her lips lingering over his. “See you soon.” She grabbed her apron and went downstairs and into the shop.
It was still dark outside and Betsy was glad for the solitude. She wanted to replay what had happened with Jack over in her head until she was sure she’d committed each nuance and sensation to the forever stone of her memory.
She didn’t know where any of this would take them, but wherever they ended up, she wanted to have the good times outlined in her head more thoroughly than the bad.
Betsy considered Jack’s proposition, to think about all the delicious things she knew he could do to her while she worked the dough. She wondered if it was something as simple as working her pheromones into the dough.
Emotions were chemical reactions, so it made sense that whatever the chef or baker was feeling was transfused into the end product. Another chemical reaction, just like baking.
Donuts were first on the list. She decided to do something a little different today. Instead of the usual batch of glazed, she was going to do glazed, maple-glazed and vanilla-glazed. The vanilla were for Jack, and she was going to call them Better Than Sex donuts.
Her mother had a recipe from an old PTA cookbook called Better Than Sex cake, but Betsy decided she was just going to borrow the name for now.
Of course, she’d only let that slip to a few select patrons. She didn’t dare paste that out on the display case. Someone would have a stroke, she was sure.
Betsy considered Jack while she worked.
His tongue. Most definitely his tongue. He was good with all of his body parts, but if ever there were to be some culinary ode to any body part, it would be that particular thing. He could wound with it, heal with it, tease with it and make her come so hard she saw comets and nebulas. It could be soft, it could be hard, it could be sharp—but it was always what she needed it to be.
His hands were next on the list. There were so strong and broad, but elegant somehow, too. She knew those hands had brought others pain, sorrow and even death. There was no doubt Jack McConn
ell had blood on his hands, but they were gentle tools, too. He used them for building, for protecting, for wringing pleasure from her as he would water from a sponge.
Jack’s eyes could strip her as effectively as his hands, laying her bare and vulnerable with only a glance. His arms were amazing, too. She loved the feel of them wrapped around her....
Betsy meant to catalogue him from his head to his toes, but there was one particular bit of him that demanded her focus. Part of her wanted to take a picture of it and mail it to Marcel to show him that even a woman like her could catch a man like Jack.
No, no. She couldn’t think of Marcel. She was only thinking about good things. Things that made her hot and wet. She focused on Jack, what it was like to cling to his shoulders while he drilled into her.
Betsy didn’t know it was possible for her mouth to go dry and water at the same time. She breathed deep, imagining him there with her, taking her from behind while she worked on the dough.
He was right; she was naughty. She wondered what he’d say if she told him that was what she’d been thinking about. If he wanted to follow through on her fantasy, too. The table was just the right height for him to bend her over it like the most wanton of women.
She remembered the shower with him. Betsy loved the way his corded muscles bulged as he fought for control of himself while she pushed him higher, harder and faster. Betsy shivered thinking of it.
Finally she thought about the first time there in her bedroom when she’d ridden his mouth to completion. His face had looked very much like a glazed donut.