Brooke glanced at the building across the parking lot, noting all the people walking in and out, some sitting on brick planters that lined the sidewalk. A nervous flutter tickled her insides. “Do you, uh,” she looked back at Shane, who’d walked around to the front passenger door and was in the process of slipping into his army green sweat jacket, “think anyone will, uh,” she looked back at the building, “recognize me?” Granted they were in New Jersey, but probably not that far from the New York border.
“Overreact much? Why would people this far from your home recognize you?”
“My story, complete with my picture, made at least one morning television news show in New York.”
Shane swung around. “What?”
The memory unsettled her, so she crossed her arms over her midsection in an attempt to keep herself under control. “Aside from the public interest generated when a teacher is accused of inappropriate sexual relations with a student, my father is running for governor. It’s a close race. Election Day is a few weeks away. Anything having to do with either candidate makes the news.”
“Your father is running for governor? Of New York State?”
She nodded.
“Jeez.” He shook his head. “Might have been nice if you’d mentioned the governor part.”
It most certainly would have. Only then she probably would have scared him away. Men in politics and those seeking to improve their social status wanted to date her for access to her dad’s connections, while regular guys thought her untouchable or didn’t want the hassle and scrutiny of dating a powerful politician’s daughter.
That’s part of what made her relationship with Shane so special: that they’d gotten to know each other in private, without the pressure of her family obligations—and her family in general—without media attention. He was her chance for a meaningful relationship with a regular guy outside of politics.
“Shit.”
Exactly.
“If I’d known I’d never have asked you to go in there alone to get me coffee.”
“Thank you for that. But if coffee will put you in a better mood I’ll happily get you a cup.” If she kept her head down and didn’t make eye contact with anyone she’d probably be fine.
“No guarantees,” he said, with what may have been a hint of humor. “Not to worry. There’s a thermos in the backseat. It should still be hot.” He took off in the direction of a picnic table, in full sun, on a patch of grass. “There’s a bag of snacks there, too,” he called over his shoulder. “Would you mind grabbing both?”
Brooke did as asked then walked over to where he stood with his left heel up on the bench seat, his leg straight out in front of him, doing some stretches. So as not to interrupt him, she emptied the bag, setting out two sandwiches, a small bag of green grapes, a large plastic-wrapped wedge of coffee cake, napkins, two bottles of water, and a few foil-wrapped chocolate kisses.
“She’s been doing that since we were kids.” Shane put his foot flat, bent his knee, and lunged forward. “Always puts kisses in our lunches.”
How sweet. Brooke’s mom couldn’t be bothered to make her children’s lunches. She did, however, take the time to instruct Marial, their housekeeper/cook, to provide only healthy, low-calorie options for the Ellstein girls. “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels,” her mom would say. Or her other favorite, “Brain cells come and brain cells go, but fat cells live forever.” Bottom line, in her mother’s opinion, nothing mattered more than a woman’s physical appearance, though her decorum came in a close second.
Brooke sat down on the bench opposite Shane and watched him. He stood with both feet flat on the grass, raised his arms over his head, and arched his back. Holy cow, the man was beautiful in a strong, very appealing, why-don’t-you-take-your-jacket-and-shirt-off-while-you-do-that sort of way. She wondered if he had tattoos on his torso, too.
“You’re staring, again,” he noted, sitting down across from her with his leg stretched out along the seat.
“Do you have tattoos anywhere else on your body?” she asked, aiming for nonchalant.
He handed her a sandwich. “It’s turkey. Eat.”
“You’re not going to answer my question?”
He unwrapped his turkey on wheat bread and shoved half of a half into his mouth in response. Fine. Brooke spread a napkin on her lap and one on the table in front of her and began to eat, too.
Shane didn’t seem inclined to fill the silence, so she did. “Are you feeling better now that you’ve stretched?”
“I’m fine.”
So curt. Not at all like the Shane she’d gotten to know. But she was a pro at small talk. “Are you still attending physical therapy?”
“Yes.” He finished off one half of his sandwich and started on the other.
Okay. So he wasn’t going to make this easy. “Have you been to the movies since you’ve been home?”
“No.”
Probably not her most well-thought-out inquiry, considering his condition. “I bet it’s good to be eating your mom’s home cooking again.”
“Yeah.” He lifted his eye to meet hers. “Stop trying so hard.”
“Trying so hard at what?”
“Making conversation. It’s not necessary.”
“So you’d rather we sit here in silence?”
“Yeah. I’m fine with silence. I like silence. One more difference between us, apparently.”
Brooke looked at her sandwich but had no appetite for it. Why was he being so difficult? “I’m glad you called me when you did. I found out your unit is scheduled to return in three weeks. I’d planned to drive down to Fort Bragg to welcome you home.” A twelve-hour drive at least.
He had no reaction to the news.
She removed a grape from its stem and placed it into her mouth. “I’ve watched hours of YouTube videos of soldiers coming home. I imagined you standing at attention with all the other soldiers during the welcome-home ceremony.” While she’d be waiting anxiously in the stands, looking her best, aching to hold him and be held by him. “You’d be released from formation. Our eyes would meet. You’d hurry over, take me in your arms—”
“My tattooed arms?”
“Well, I didn’t know they were tattooed at the time. Now that I do, yes, your tattooed arms, and you’d—”
“I’d what?” Shane asked, challenging her.
Brooke refused to let him make a mockery of dreams that’d become so special to her. “Never mind.”
“No, I want to know. I’d take you into my arms and what? Kiss you? Sweep you off your feet? Proclaim my undying love for you?”
Yes to all of the above. But she’d never admit it to him, not when he was in such an antagonistic mood. She pushed aside the sandwich and reached for another grape.
He took a sip of water then said, “When I thought about the possibility of you showing up to welcome me home at the end of my tour, you want to know how I imagined it?”
Good manners dictated she lift her head to give him her full attention, but his surly tone made her not want to. As always, good manners prevailed.
He leaned in close. “I imagined dragging you outside and nailing you in the backseat of whatever vehicle you picked me up in, because I couldn’t wait to get inside you. Then driving you to the nearest motel where I’d fuck you against the wall and in the shower—”
“Stop,” Brooke said, standing up. “There’s no need for you to be crass.”
“Oh, crass is it? I apologize for being crass. But maybe it’s time you see a guy like me isn’t right for a woman like you.”
“A guy like you?”
“Yeah, a guy with no money and no connections and no couth. A guy with lots of tattoos and a vocabulary that’ll singe your precious eardrums. Not quite what you’d imagined for your Mr. Perfect, am I? Certainly not suitable to date the next governor of New York’s daughter.”
“You think I’m a snob? That I base my opinion of a person on the way they look or how much money they have?”
“In y
our letters you’d throw around name brands all the time. Not a new pocketbook, a Gucci clutch. Not new shoes but adorable so-and-so flats.”
Her life wasn’t all that exciting. Sometimes she’d had a tough time coming up with stuff to write about.
Shane went on. “We couldn’t be more different. You’re all about style and trends. I’m army green, tan, and camo. And the only brand I identify with is Budweiser.” He balled up his sandwich wrapping. “We couldn’t be more different. Or more wrong for each other. So stop being so nice. Stop trying so hard. You’re wasting your energy.”
She climbed over the bench. “I don’t know what I’ve done to make you so unpleasant.” He was the one who’d lost track of her pictures, although she could hardly blame him for how it happened. “You came to me; I didn’t ask for your help. You invited me to your parents’ home. You insisted on driving even though you were obviously in pain.”
She collected her garbage then turned to walk away but decided she wasn’t finished yet, so she turned back. “For your information,” she placed both hands on the table and leaned in close just like he’d done a few moments earlier. “I, too, spent a good deal of time thinking about what we’d do together the next time I welcomed you home. While my fantasies didn’t include getting nailed in the backseat of a car or…taken roughly up against a wall, they did include hour after sensual hour of us making love in a proper bed, like two adults who care for one another, not two wild animals meeting a physical need. And my fantasies were very,” she stared into his eye, “very, satisfying.” She stood tall, added, “At least for me,” and turned to carry her trash to the can a few feet away, the short journey nowhere near long enough for her to regulate her breathing or calm her temper.
He’s grieving the loss of his friend, Brooke reminded herself. She drew in a deep breath, held it to the count of three, then exhaled. He’s in pain and obviously still recovering from severe traumatic injuries. He’s angry, justifiably so. He’d provoked her, looking for a fight, trying to push her away. And she’d let him.
Very disappointing considering she typically had much better control over her emotions. She breathed in deeply again, closed her eyes, and blew the air out slowly, feeling herself relax.
Shane needed her understanding, her caring, and her compassion, not her anger.
She noticed a young couple in the parking lot. Around her age, they strolled along, holding hands. The woman tilted her head up to the man and smiled. He cupped her cheek, leaned in, and kissed her. So gently. So sweetly. So lovingly.
Brooke wanted that and had foolishly thought she’d find it with Shane—that someday he’d look at her and kiss her the very same way, which now seemed highly unlikely.
A car drove past, blocking the couple from view. A car she recognized.
Brooke turned away, hoping the driver wouldn’t notice her, but she could almost sense him coming closer.
Chapter Eight
The fucking future governor of New York’s daughter.
You could come home to New Jersey with me. Well that had to have been the worst idea ever. Now, with even more reason to push her away, two hours spent in the close confines of his Jeep had Shane wanting Brooke more than ever, wanting to hold her and inhale her light, enticing scent, wanting to caress her fair skin and kiss her glossy pink lips. In his haste to jump in and offer his help he’d failed to consider the powerful effect she’d had on him the last time they were together.
At least two hours to go, buddy, assuming no traffic. Then Ma would run interference. He’d make himself scarce, avoid her.
But in the meantime…
Shane dug a bottle of ibuprofen from his pocket, dumped a few pills into his palm, and swallowed them down with a gulp of barely-hot-enough coffee. Depriving himself of two things he hungered for with an intensity bordering on desperation—the oblivion of narcotic pain relief and Brooke—had turned him all kinds of ugly.
He’d been an ass. A crass ass. And now he was a crass ass with a boner…hour after sensual hour of us making love …very, very, satisfying.
He tried to imagine Brooke, the way she looked now, Miss Prim and Proper and Totally Put Together, lying in her bed late at night dressed in one of her fancy negligees, knees bent and spread wide, touching herself, writhing and moaning as the pleasure built then losing control during orgasm. He couldn’t do it. You’ll have to witness it for yourself.
God help him.
Brooke stood about ten feet away, her back to him, studying the parking lot, probably looking for a way to escape him. Damned if he could blame her. Her long dark hair blew in the breeze. Her pale pink jacket looked so soft and feminine. The perfectly pleated tan slacks displayed her appealing butt to perfection yet covered the long, slender legs he’d give a month’s wages to see bare, in full light, like in her pictures.
What secrets were her clothes hiding, he wondered, remembering Nate’s parting question for Brooke: “Anything on your body, birthmarks or tattoos hidden from public view, something only someone who’d been intimate with you would be able to identify?”
Her face had gone red. After a quick, embarrassed glance toward Shane and Neve, she’d gone up on her tiptoes and whispered her answer in Nate’s ear. He’d quickly shuttered his look of surprise, but not before Shane had seen it.
His curiosity vanished when the beautiful body he’d been admiring stiffened and Brooke jerked her head away from the parking lot.
Shane went on alert immediately, scanning their surroundings to identify the threat.
A black sedan with tinted windows and New York plates drove slowly in their direction. Shane grabbed his cane and stood, ignoring the pain in his leg, needing to get to Brooke, who seemed frozen in place.
He reached her at the same time the car pulled into the parking spot to her left. She stood rigid, her arms crossed over her chest, looking down.
“Don’t worry.” He put his arm around her, used his body to shield her, would do anything to protect her from nosy reporters or whoever else lurked behind the darkened glass. “Come.” He tried to ease her in the direction of his Jeep as the driver’s-side door of the mysterious car opened. But Brooke stood firm.
A middle-aged man, maybe midfifties, with thick red hair got out. Dark gray dress slacks. Fancy shoes. An inch or two under six feet. In decent shape. With a mean-ass look on his face. His black trench coat hung open. He moved the right side to show the sidearm at his hip.
Okay, so not a reporter.
“Let her go,” the man threatened, walking slowly, cautiously, toward them.
Not a chance.
Shane pushed Brooke behind him, let his cane fall to the ground to free up his left hand, hoping like hell his leg didn’t give out. “I’d stop right there and start talking, if I were you,” he threatened right back, prepared to fight, to do whatever he had to, to keep Brooke safe. Damn his eye patch. Damn his glasses. Damn his leg. Damn his piss-poor attitude that had him slacking off at physical therapy.
The man stopped. “Your father wants you home, Brooke.”
An animalistic “Nooooo,” roared through Shane’s mind, accompanied by a primal urge to claim Brooke as his, to grab her and haul her away from anyone intent on trying to take her. Because in that moment, at the thought of losing her, he felt true fear the likes of which he hadn’t felt since waking up to complete darkness in the army medical center in Germany. With both eyes bandaged, unable to move his left leg, his body in excruciating pain, and no memory of what had happened to him. The tube shoved down his throat had made it impossible to ask the rapid-fire questions he’d needed immediate answers to.
After years spent training, strategizing, and fighting, killing and seeing his buddies killed, and witnessing the atrocities of pure evil, he needed Brooke’s softness, sweetness, and compassion to remind him of the good in the world, the reason men and women went to war. He needed her light to fill the darkness of pain and addiction and an altered life with unexpected—unwanted—permanent limitations, if even f
or a few short days.
Helping Brooke, keeping her safe, gave him a purpose—a reason to get up in the morning, to get strong. She made him feel like a man, not a patient. Capable not disabled.
As if sensing the emotions raging inside of him, Brooke placed her small hand on his arm and quietly said, “It’s okay.” Her voice soothing, as she stepped out from behind him. “Shane Develen, I’d like you to meet Aaron Kirchen.” She gestured toward the man. “He’s a family friend.”
“A friend who also handles security for Mr. Ellstein and his wife and daughters,” Aaron clarified with a pointed look at Brooke.
“Why exactly do his daughters need security?” Shane asked, his eye locked on Aaron.
“Because Daddy’s overly cautious.”
“Because,” Aaron stressed, “while in office, Brooke’s father has made necessary yet unpopular decisions. Because he’s a Jewish politician with an eye on the White House who’s been gaining popularity and has some powerful backers. There are people willing to do just about anything to see he does not succeed.”
“I’m not in Albany,” Brooke said. “I live a quiet life.”
“But now you’re news. Reporters will be looking for their next big story. Our political rivals will be looking for a way to use you to discredit your father, which is why he wants you where we can keep an eye on you, not gallivanting around with the virtual stranger who lost track of the picture that instigated this whole mess.” Aaron made a slow perusal of Shane, starting with his scuffed-up boots, shaking his head at the frayed cuffs of his warm-up jacket, and ending on his eye patch.
“He’s not a virtual stranger,” Brooke said. “He’s my friend.”
“Well, he didn’t look very friendly a few minutes ago.” The big man crossed his arms over his chest, looking concerned and protective.
Good. Shane liked knowing Brooke had strong men like Nate and Aaron looking out for her. But now it was his turn.
“After Shane got injured, he never returned to base. Someone stole the picture from his personal belongings.” Brooke jumped to Shane’s defense.
Loving You Is Easy Page 8