"But . . . we spilled-"
"No 'buts', buddy." Hank maintained eye contact. "If I'm ever not sure about something, I don't make a promise." Her boys didn't know what to expect. Promises broken. Cruelty inflicted. His stomach roiled, remembering Tommy's hair-trigger terror. He suspected punishment had been all-too-familiar to them. Tommy didn't know what to believe. Likely, from anyone. But, definitely not from him—an adult male.
Still not looking at Annie, he forced a smile. "I'll bet on a night as pretty as this, there'll probably be an ice cream truck there."
Tommy shot a glance at his brother. "We could get popsicles."
When Jason nodded, thumb in his mouth, Tommy finally relaxed his stance. "Okay, I'll be right back."
Watching him run to the drink station, Hank released a ragged sigh. "Jase? Come here, little man." Annie had turned her head, likely blinking back tears. Likely worried about him. Likely beating herself up. He waited for Jason to scoot across the booth. "You okay, bud?"
When Jason nodded, he scooped him up in his arms and planted a kiss on his forehead. He'd never needed the touch of another human being more than he did just then. When Tommy returned, he pulled the little boy in for a hug. "C'mon guys, lets mop up this chocolate river and then we'll head to the park."
"Wouldn't it be cool if rivers were chocolate?"
Tommy's innocent smile made him want to weep. As though he hadn't just been completely terrified of—him. As though the situation was so damned normal—as though he were used to it. Still in his arms, Jason nodded, his tangle of brown curls brushing his neck. "Chocolate fish."
"Chocolate turtles." Tommy laid a pile of napkins on the spill. Annie took over from there, quickly mopping up the evidence.
Finally meeting his gaze, her eyes were laden with sadness. Instinct told him to wait. All the questions wanting to explode from him. All the answers he wanted to demand—to learn about her ex—so he could find him. Hunt him down. Rectify a horrifying wrong—once and for all. Instead, he forced a smile he definitely wasn't feeling. Anger—even if on their behalf, would likely make it worse for her. And the last thing in the world he wanted was to make life more difficult for Annie when she was already trying so damned hard.
"You ready, sweet?" Hank stared at her, his memories tumbling into place. Skittish. Wary. Fearful. What in holy hell had the bastard done to them?
She released a steadying breath. "I think we can go now."
SURPRISINGLY, THE DRIVE to the park was not as fraught as Annie had imagined only ten minutes earlier . . . when her son had blurted out their dark, horrifying family secret to Hank. Blurted out the shame that still haunted her over the abuse her sons witnessed. Though Henry hadn't said anything . . . and likely wouldn't in front of the boys, his concern for her . . . seemed to vibrate through the interior of his truck. She glanced down at his hand resting on hers. It was time. To confess some of what they'd gone through—if only so he'd learn exactly what he'd inadvertently taken on. He deserved to know what her life was really like—so he could make his own decisions going forward.
She was relieved Tommy was able to set aside the trauma over spilled milk so quickly. That was different. An improvement. The longer we go without seeing Phil- The better likelihood he'd forget the terrible memories—though his fear of being hurt again clearly remained. Her thoughts troubled, Annie scanned the side mirror again. Searching. Though she hadn't seen Phil in ten weeks . . . his presence was always with her. In the damage he'd wrought on the last little rental house she'd moved them into. Her small sense of accomplishment—destroyed after only ten days. In their need to flee. To another shelter. Though New Beginnings had turned out to be a godsend, it was because of Phil they were forced to live there. She felt his presence—in the waiting. For him to strike again. He's always in control—instead of me.
"How long can we stay at the park?"
"How about . . . until o' dark hundred?" Henry's smiling gaze met her son's in the rearview mirror.
Glancing over her shoulder at the boys, her neck muscles protested. Though she ached nearly everywhere, Annie smiled at the memory of her first class with Candace. Though her friend from the shelter seemed to be an expert with a vicious-looking baton, Annie and the other women had settled for baseball bats that Sharon had unearthed in the storage room. Since none of the woman had money to buy Candace's weapon of choice, she'd adjusted their lesson for the extra weight of the bat. Annie had swung it so many times, she doubted she'd be able to pick up a coffee cup the next morning.
"Where's that on the clock?"
Her thoughts scattering, she caught her son's confused expression. "It's not on the clock we use, honey." They were sitting up, in matching car seats, scanning the scenery on the way to the park. She bit her lip. Where on earth had Henry found car seats?
"Mommy, how come we didn't learn that one?"
"O' dark hundred is army-guy talk," Hank explained, pausing for their squeals of excitement—over anything related to the stories he'd told the boys.
"We can talk like army guys?" Tommy nudged his brother. "Maybe he'll let us jump outta a plane, too."
Annie shuddered. "That's . . . not going to happen."
"O' dark hundred," Tommy repeated. "Is that suppertime?"
"It's right before it gets dark," he explained as he found a parking space. "So, this time of year, it's around seven-thirty."
"What other times are there?" Tommy waited for Hank to unbuckle the strap on his car seat. "What time is breakfast?"
"That's around o' seven hundred." Reaching around him, Hank grabbed a folded blanket from between the car seats. "Lunch is o'twelve hundred."
"And supper?"
"O' eighteen hundred." He lifted him from the truck. "And your bedtime is-" He glanced at Annie.
"O' twenty hundred." She glanced at Tommy as she unstrapped Jason. "On our clock, that's eight o'clock, after your bath."
"And story time," Jason piped up.
Hank was observing Tommy's puzzled expression. "How many hours in one whole day?"
"Twenty-four?"
"Very good." He ruffled his hair. "So—each day, the clock goes around twice, right?"
Tommy's eyes reflected confusion. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you have six o'clock two times a day, right? Once in the morning when you get up to go to school and once at night when you eat dinner."
"Uh-huh."
"So, in the army, you always want to make sure you're talking about the same time. Like . . . what if I was on a mission and the Major said we were meeting at six o'clock . . . which one is he talking about? Breakfast or dinner?" He let Tommy think about it. "What if I showed up at the wrong time? What if I slept through my mission?"
Tommy laughed. "The plane could take off without you." He glanced at Jason. "He wouldn't get to jump out."
Annie shivered. "I don't like thinking about Mr. Hank jumping out of planes," she protested, until Henry's hand at her back sent a delicious shiver sliding through her.
"My army clock just keeps going," he explained. "Instead of stopping at twelve and starting over, army guys just keep going. Thirteen, fourteen . . . all the way to twenty-four."
Tommy stared at him, then glanced at his fingers as he counted in his head. "So, supper is like . . . eighteen o'clock?"
Hank grinned. "Close enough." He pointed across the field to the mulched playground area. "Who's going to be first down that slide?"
Her son took off running. Turning back, he waved to Jason. "C'mon." Always a few steps behind his older brother, he glanced back at Annie before breaking into a run.
"Henry . . ." Her brief pleasure faltered at the knowledge that—it was time. To tell him everything. To learn whether the most wonderful, thoughtful man she'd ever met . . . was about to say "your life is way too complicated". Hell—she couldn't even blame him. Why pick her? A single mom to two sweet, loving handfuls. With an ex intent on ruining her life. Despair swamping her, Annie hated for it all to end. Yet, she only had
herself to blame. She could've told him sooner. "I'm sorry I didn't-"
"Sshh, sweet." He brushed his mouth over hers, before stopping to stare at her. Cupping her face in his hands, his rough, callused fingers stroked her cheeks. "We'll talk later."
When they parted from the quick kiss, he tucked her hand in his as they headed for the playground. They arrived only two minutes after the boys, greeted by their plaintive cries for pushes on the swings.
Handing her the blanket he'd carried from the truck, he smiled. "Why don't you sit? I've got this round."
Thirty minutes and two purple popsicles later, all the boys flopped down on the blanket she'd spread on the grass at the edge of the playground. From there, they could keep a close eye on the boys if (when) they decided to dart back for another round.
"I haven't been honest with you," she confessed when they were finally alone. The boys had scampered off to investigate a puddle where two worms were floating—a safe, fifteen feet away. Far enough so they wouldn't be heard, but not so far she couldn't get to them if- She shivered. You're distracted enough. She didn't need to add Phil to the equation. "I—I wanted to tell you-"
"Before you start-" He reached for her hand. "Can I go first?"
Heart pounding, she nodded, wondering what would happen next. Maybe he'd tell her dinner had been fun, but, he was no longer interested. Here's where he tells you he's not into 'complicated'. "Okay."
"I'm Hank," he said conversationally. "I was married for nineteen years to my beautiful wife, Gayle." His voice low and intimate, he kept his gaze on her. Unwavering. "She passed away four years ago. Since then, I basically haven't looked at another woman." He hesitated. "Until I met you."
She startled, unsure what to expect. His clasp on her hand tightened.
"So, before you tell me anything, I'd like you to know that spending time with you and the boys has made me happy—and I haven't felt happy in four years." He shrugged. "I never expected I could feel that way again. So, you can tell me everything or you can tell me nothing. We're gonna take this slow," he acknowledged. "But, whatever you tell me won't change how much I like you." He nodded to the swing set where the boys had wandered. "And those incredible boys."
"I don't think you realize-"
"Not one thing," he said, ignoring her interruption. The warmth in his eyes sent goosebumps shivering over her skin. "Nothing you tell me will change that."
Heart pounding in her ears, Annie stared at him. How was it possible he was real? Yet, he sat there on a picnic blanket smiling at her . . . after possibly the worst dinner he could have ever experienced. She released a ragged breath. "O-okay."
His sexy smile was encouraging. "So, Annie . . . why don't you tell me about yourself?"
She dropped her gaze, afraid of what she would read in his eyes. "Not many men are interested in a woman who's been-"
Hank leaned back on his elbows, his gaze sharp, first on the boys, as he located them. Then returning to her. "Why don't you start at the beginning," he suggested gently.
Tears leaking from her eyes, she blinked them back. "I'm not sure how much I can get through."
"As much as you want," he reminded. "I'm honored if you wanted to confide in me." He pushed up to a sitting position.
"I want you to know all of it-" She shook her head. "Maybe not all," she corrected. "Because it's awful. But, I don't want you to think I don't trust you."
"Then, just tell me a little," he encouraged. When she glanced up, he smiled. "The boys are right there . . . first two swings."
Warmth flooding her chest, she smiled. "Thank you. I don't want to get distracted-"
"I know, love." He kept his gaze on the boys. "How long were you married?"
"Seven years," she began. "I was twenty-eight. My mother was married five times." She shook her head. "I was cocky—convinced I could do a better job than she had. That I would give my children a stable home life. With one father, instead of the revolving door I experienced growing up." Instead, she'd provided the definition of unstable. She'd delivered them into hell.
She paused to locate the boys, nervous about keeping them in sight. "In hindsight, I realized the qualities that should have been red flags . . . were things I made excuses for. I dismissed them as not that important—even though underneath, I knew I should have paid better attention."
"Based on what knowledge, sweet?" His quiet voice intruded on her restless thoughts. "You trusted a man to be decent."
"I-" She glanced up. "I should have known-"
His compassionate eyes suggested he disagreed. "So, what happened?"
"Before the boys, his abuse was . . . verbal. Focused on me." Her brain shifting to protective mode, Annie felt her emotions begin to shut down, like prison doors slamming behind the guard, each echo reverberating after the last. Getting through the story was difficult, but she'd learned through therapy how to tell it. "He would berate me. You know—how stupid I was. How I did everything wrong. How every problem he ever faced was my fault."
And then it had gotten worse. "The . . . beatings started when I was pregnant with Tommy." Her voice suddenly hoarse, she swallowed around the dryness. "I t-tried to leave then but, he threatened my mother."
"Annie-" His jaw clenched, his body seemed to bristle like a dog gone on sudden alert. "Baby—if this is too much . . . I can wait. I'm not going anywhere," he vowed. He threaded his fingers through hers, as though needing to reassure himself. Risking a glance at him, she found him laser-focused on her. His expression though, was blank. She tried to imagine someone telling her this story and realized her rock-steady, thoughtful hero was likely in shock. Unable to imagine treating someone that way.
She blew out a steadying breath. "Once I got pregnant with Jason, he basically had me where he wanted me." Her voice sharpened with anger. "Because then-" She forced her gaze away from the sadness in his. The depth of understanding she found there. "He could threaten to hurt the boys."
"What did he do?" His voice rigid, his gaze drifted to the playground, to the swell of laughter. To happy voices in the deepening shadows. Of loving parents. Happy families.
"He isolated me—not that I was terribly close to my mother," she admitted. "But, he used her. He used my friends . . . as weapons."
"What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "I won't hurt them . . . if you stop contacting them. Or—if I handed over my credit cards. Then, it was my phone."
A shudder rippled through him, his eyes bewildered. "Why would he want your credit cards?"
"Abusers gain power from things like controlling money, checking my phone constantly, calling it all the time to see where I was," she listed. "GPS trackers on my car-"
He huffed out a startled breath. "He followed you?"
"He had to know where I was . . . every minute of the day," she explained, unable to contain the shudder coursing through her. The breeze had picked up, making her skin prickle. "Which tends to make it hard to hold down a job when my phone would buzz thirty times a day." Hank shifted closer, strong arms pulling her against him. Annie welcomed his warmth. Embraced the comfort he offered. The completely foreign sense of rightness. Safety.
"Lots of women have it worse," she admitted. "Some abusers install keystroke counters on their computer," she said, her voice dispassionate. "I don't think Phil did that." The warning signs of abuse were ingrained in her now. There was little she could hear and be shocked.
"God, Annie." He swallowed reflexively, his jaw tight. "I hate this. I hate knowing what you've been through. How are you still so-" He glanced down at her. "How are you able to—trust me?"
His anguished whisper made her eyes burn with unshed tears. "You're the first man I've felt sure enough about to take a chance." She burrowed closer to him, grateful for his arms around her. The warmth he provided. "It's hard . . . reliving it."
They sat together, quiet for several moments. Annie shifted in his arms to search for the boys.
"Tommy's climbing the jungle gym," he whispered, pressin
g his lips to her temple. "And Jase is talking to that little blond kid by the swings."
She released a contented sigh, relieved to share her burden. Relieved that a man like Henry had walked into her life. No matter how long it lasted—it was nice. To share the boys with him. To share her worries. If only for a little while.
"He hasn't . . . bothered you at New Beginnings?" He broke the silence, questions still hovering thick in the air around them.
"He hasn't found me there." Yet. Annie tensed, acknowledging the end to a peaceful moment. There was still so much to confess. "I'm actually . . . a nurse."
His hand startled in hers. "You—you can't work as a nurse?"
"Not for the past two years," she admitted the failure, gaining strength in the fact that she was being truthful. "Each time I signed on with a new practice, Phil . . . would show up. Drunk. Angry. Making a scene-"
"They were afraid-" His voice raspy, he grazed her cheek. "Of what he might do—while he was going after you."
"I understand their reasons." Drenched in the understanding in his eyes, her voice grew stronger. "I've lost three nursing jobs in the past two years. So—I stopped looking. I was afraid I'd become unemployable." Her gaze slid away. "Word tends to get around."
"I can't fathom what you've had to endure. You are-" He hesitated. "You're incredibly brave, Annie." His encouraging voice urged her to confide in him.
"I wouldn't call it brave-" She released a ragged sigh. More like a huge failure.
He tipped her chin up. "Brave and strong," he insisted.
"Not so brave," she confessed. Most of the time she was terrified, awaiting the day Phil would return. When his abuse would start again. When she'd be forced to run—leaving everything behind once again. "Before I found the courage to leave, it had gotten to the point where I had to . . . trade."
"Jesus, Annie." His hand tightened convulsively around hers, Hank leveled his gaze at her. "Trade what?"
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