Wordless (Pink Sofa Secrets Book 1)

by Mel Sterling

  She put her bandaged finger to his lips. "Shh. They frown on that in Recovery."

  "I keep thinking of that horrible pink sofa of Horace's, and what I want to do to you on it."

  "Jack. You just got out of surgery."

  "I just got you to confirm you love me. I want to put a seal on that declaration."

  She smiled. "That's the drugs talking."

  "That's me talking. Lexie...I know it took you by surprise to find out who I am. I swear, I thought you knew."

  "We don't have to do this now. You should rest."

  "Now." He swallowed. "Damn dry mouth."

  "I'll get something for you."

  "I have what I want, right here beside me. Say you'll stay."

  "Until they make me leave."

  "I mean always."

  Now it was her own mouth that was dry, her heart in her throat. This wasn't the time to have this conversation. Jack didn't know what he was saying. "I'm not the one with the wanderlust," she said at last. "I've got a hell of an anchor tied to me. Uncle Horace's house, his store. Not to mention his dratted cat."

  "I want that too. Anchors, I mean. I'm asking a lot, but please just promise me..." His eyes drifted closed, then the lids opened heavily as he fought to keep from being pulled under. "You'll think about it."

  Lexie whispered, "I'm afraid you won't remember this when you wake up tomorrow."

  Jack shook his head slowly, once to the right, then his chin drooped and he slept. Lexie bit her lip, pulled the blanket gently up over his chest, and slipped away. She'd said all that needed to be said, acknowledged her feelings and exposed her deepest fears. The rest would be up to Jack. When he was well again, he'd want to move on. Lexie came with too much baggage for a man who made his living roaming the globe from fire to flood to fight.

  The hospital released Jack in the morning, with Gard swearing blind he'd make sure Jack didn't do anything stupid and yes, he'd bring Jack back the next day to have the wound checked, and yes, he'd keep the stubborn jerk out of the shower until the doc gave a say-so.

  "Take me to the bookstore," Jack said, as Gard buckled him into the seatbelt and arranged the strap where it wouldn't press on his arm or shoulder.

  "Now, the doc said—"

  "I know what the doc said."

  Gard gave him that maddening, white-toothed Georgia boy grin. "I think you'd be smarter to arrive with a flag of truce. A peace-offering. She's still not convinced."

  "All right, then. Take me to The Cup. Gilly will know what to make for Lexie. Then you're going to go away and let me convince the woman I love that I'm not going anywhere because I can't live without her."

  "I don't think even the little gal at The Cup can make a coffee that'll work that kind of magic." Gard started the car.

  At The Cup, Gilly stared at Jack. "You want me to make a coffee so good that Lexie will agree to marry you."

  "Or tea. I'm not picky."

  "I just want a regular coffee," said Gard. "A big one that'll last a while. I'm not allowed to go next door. JT wants to do this alone."

  Gilly snorted, turning back to the espresso machine. "Save me from idiots who order 'regular coffee.'"

  About three minutes later she turned back with a fat cup filled with froth, and a tall mug brimming with something black and oily. Jack eyed the deep, wide bowl on its matching saucer. "It's a mocha breve, extra shot, with caramel and a little cinnamon. If that won't do it, nothing will."

  "Mine?" asked Gard, reaching for the tall mug.

  "Cafe Cubano, extra black and extra sweet."

  "I thought I asked for regular coffee." His grin was perfectly calculated to get under GIlly's skin, and it worked.

  "You're a philistine. You have no idea what's good. Drink it."

  Jack thought of Gard eating instant coffee from a jar with a spoon, and knew he didn't want to be anywhere near if the conversation got that far. He took the saucer in his left hand and carefully carried it to the French door, which he nudged open with his foot. Horace's Books was open for business this morning, Lexie having apparently decided the fine-tuning of books on shelves could be done with customers present.

  Melville came trotting, tail up, mewing. Ben was at the register, reciting an abbreviated version of the events of the past few days. Jack knew they'd be telling the story for weeks. He gave Ben a nod and raised his eyebrows. Ben tilted his head toward the back room.

  Good. They could have privacy. Jack nodded and went slowly to the back. He still felt a little shaky; apparently getting shot was not as easy as it looked in the movies. Body shock was a new experience for him. He stopped close enough to the back door to let the knuckles of his right hand, arm still in a strapped-down sling, tap on the wood.

  Lexie opened it, her blue eyes wide and clear, a smaller bandage on her forehead, wearing one of her trademark skirts. Jack's heart turned over at her slow, hopeful smile. This was what he wanted to see every day for the rest of his life. The world could wait. Maybe they'd share it, someday, or maybe they wouldn't; maybe all the world they needed was right here in Camden, in a dusty bookshop smelling of paper and leather and good dark wood, with the fragrance of coffee wafting in.

  "For me?" Lexie asked, when he inched the saucer toward her, suddenly mute.

  He nodded and found his tongue. "Marry me, Lexie."

  It wasn't what he'd meant to say. He'd rehearsed the words plenty that morning, while he took a sponge bath in the hospital room's tiny bathroom sink, but they were gone, and all he could think to say was his deepest wish. He was still unshaven, wearing clothes Gard had brought him from home. He looked like hell and he knew it, but he couldn't wait any longer, he had to know.

  "W—what?" Her sudden twitch slopped coffee over the side of the cup. Her gaze went over his shoulder, and he knew she must be watching Ben, who could not have helped hearing Jack's words.

  "Will you marry me? I'd get down on one knee, but I might not get back up—"

  "Oh, my God." She clutched at his waist and pulled him into the back room, shutting the door firmly. She put the saucer down on the shipping table and stood there, her arms wrapped around her middle, still guarding herself. "You're not serious, are you?"

  "Serious as a gunshot wound."

  The joke fell more than flat; it made her eyes fill with tears. "Jack, you can't possibly want to marry me. It's the—the trauma, or the drugs, talking…"

  "It's my heart. For once." He took a step toward her. Her arms loosened the slightest bit.

  "Marriage."

  He nodded.

  Her mouth crimped in that way she had when she was thinking hard.

  "Jack, I come with a lot of baggage. The investigation is still open, though I did talk with Agent Kastner this morning, and things seem a whole lot brighter. They're looking for hacked banking information, stuff that has to have come from someone with access to more sophisticated technology than I use. I'm an accountant—was an accountant. But I'm no hacker. Q has already admitted I wasn't involved."

  He nodded again. Took another step.

  "I can't just grab my bags and go somewhere. I have to plan. You understand."

  He nodded again. Eased closer. Her arms drifted to her sides, where her hands twisted in the fabric of her skirt. That skirt, tantalizing, teasing.

  "If we were to marry, I couldn't go with you to these places, at least, not always."

  He nodded, waiting.

  "I mean…I couldn't go to a war zone. I could maybe chase a tornado. A small one." She bit her lip. "And there's the bookstore. Ben won't always be here to take care of it, I'll have to find someone else to help out. Train them. Melville—I promised Horace the cat would always have a home here at the store."

  Still he waited. His heart was racing.

  "Are you…are you sure, Jack? Because if I say yes—"

  "Say yes." He took another step, and now he was in touching distance.

  "I won't ever unsay it."

  "Say yes, Alexia Worth."

  She flushed.
"Don't call me Alexia."

  "Say yes." He fitted his left hand to her waist and tugged her toward the sofa, shuffling till he felt it at the backs of his calves. "I'm a feeble, wounded man. Don't keep me in suspense."

  Her gasp, as he tumbled them both to the cushions, was gratifying, as was her position, squirming on his lap. Her kiss, when it came, was sweet and slow, delicious and wondrous.

  Sometimes, there were no words.

  Sometimes, no words were needed.

  Read on for an excerpt of Shots in the Dark, the next installment in the Pink Sofa Secrets series! Copyright © 2016 Mel Sterling. All rights reserved. Coming in 2017.

  Gilly slipped out of her seat in the back row of chairs. Once out of sight in an aisle of nonfiction, she smoothed down the short black bombazine skirt over its black net crinolines. Then she checked all the buttons on her thrift store black georgette blouse—the pesky things kept coming out of the holes—touched her hair to make sure it was still stiff and standing out the way it should, and went to start dipping up champagne punch. The blouse's long sleeves, along with her bright blue tights, covered the bulk of Gilly's current collection of body art. If she looked hard enough, she could see vague outlines through the thin georgette, but for the most part her opinions and political leanings weren't on display or open for discussion. This was Lexie's and Jack's day, and she wanted to honor that.

  The plastic champagne flutes had little blue "Lexie and Jack" ribbons tied around their stems. Jack and Lexie were disgustingly perfect together, every bit as sweetly cloying as a vanilla cappuccino with caramel drizzle.

  There was a burst of applause. The kiss must be over and the happy couple headed down the short aisle. Gilly looked up and saw Lexie on Jack's arm, beaming, her dark curls in their usual soft coils, but now there were tiny blue blossoms twined in them. She was always cute, but today there was a difference, a beatific peacefulness that tipped her into beauty.

  Gilly looked down at the champagne punch, her mouth tightening at the sudden sting of emotional tears in her eyes. Her eyeliner was good, but tears always made her mascara clumpy. Foolish of her to be so affected.

  "You got the catbird seat."

  Gilly lifted her head and found Gard standing beside her. She frowned at him, not comprehending.

  "I mean, you have something to do. You don't have to mingle and glad-hand with strangers."

  Gilly shrugged. "It's what I do. I'm good at it." She set down a flute and reached for another, dipping up a full ladle at the same time.

  Gard shifted his weight from his artificial leg, joggling his knee as if it had grown stiff or sore while he stood as best man. She had to reach past him to set down another filled flute. "If you're going to stand there getting in my way, make yourself useful. Either hand me glasses, or float a couple blueberries in each as I set them down. We need to keep about a half dozen glasses ahead of the crowd, and make people feel welcome."

  "I am yours to command, darlin'," Gard said. His hands were swift and sure, handing her glasses, receiving filled ones, and in between, spooning berries into the golden fizz without making a mess.

  "Charm the guests, not me," Gilly muttered.

  "Yes ma'am."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the grooves of a smile framing his mouth. He was still a jerk, in his high-and-tight haircut. What color was his hair, anyway? This short, it was hard to tell, though his brows and lashes were a glinting, sandy brown. He was all one color, like he'd been left in the sun too long, and had both browned and faded. All of him was hazel. He was the color of camouflage uniforms, desert sand. He smelled clean and soapy, with a touch of citrus in there somewhere. Aftershave, probably. His sharp jaw was clean and smooth, but she was close enough she could see the texture of his skin and the density of his beard, which looked like it would be heavy if he didn't keep it scraped away. In a way, it was too bad he'd shaved. She liked looking at men who were a little rough around the edges, especially when that rough look was contrasted with a sharp suit.

  "You're what, ex-Marine?"

  "Former Marine," he corrected. He reached out to turn a tiny pleated paper doily to a more precise angle, to match its mates. Each doily held a book-shaped cookie with blue lettering that matched the personalized ribbons on the flutes. "Ex-Marine would imply a dishonorable discharge."

  She'd touched a nerve, and hadn't meant to, even though he was clearly a creature of The Man, belonging to The System. "Sorry. I'm not hep to the lingo, I guess."

  "No military men in your family? What kind of cookies are these?" Gard handed over flutes of champagne and offered cookies to the first guests—poets, Gilly thought, from the open mics. They looked familiar. "Here you go, ma'am, sir. We'll be toasting the happy couple in a little while."

  She bent down to find the decorated cake knife, stored under the table, in a box the caterer had hidden behind the floor-length blue tablecloth. "Gingersnap, I think. At least, that's what they smell like to me. Rock hard, so they'll take the icing details well. Nope, no jarheads in my family." She couldn't imagine Pop in the military. Punch a clock, give someone an honest day's work? Not Pop. The grifting life was a philosophy as well as an occupation. She was relieved to have all that behind her. "Hey, shouldn't you be in the receiving line? Ben is."

  Gard's hazel eyes cut to the left, near the store's cash register, where Lexie and Jack, with Ben standing a step or two away, were greeting guests. "Probably. But it's better over here. I don't know these people. They do."

  "Such an iconoclast," Gilly mocked. She handed out champagne and cookies as the guests trickled past.

  "If they want me, they'll let me know." Gard bent down, finding more cookies and doilies stored beneath the table. "Shall I set out some more?"

  "Sure." Gilly reached to refill a guest's flute.

  "So, Gilly. Is that short for something? Gillian? Gilbert?"

  Gilly felt herself go red. There was a break in the flow of guests. She dipped up a flute of punch for herself and took a healthy sip. She loved her name, but it always brought so many questions with it, or people managed to misspell it or pronounce it wrong. "Gilbert's a boy's name."

  "Some families give the first kid the father's name, regardless, even if they have to girly it up a little."

  "Girly it up? What does that even mean, girly it up?"

  Gard held up his hands as though she were pointing a gun at him. "Whoa, I'm just asking. I'm Gardner because my dad was a Gardner, and his dad, and his dad's dad. I'm a four-sticks."

  "Where the heck are you from? I don't understand half of what you say."

  That got a grin out of him, astonishingly white. He handed more flutes across the table. She noticed he had not taken a drink for himself, or nibbled a cookie. Staying focused on the job.

  "I am a Georgia peach, darlin'." He spread a big hand over his midriff and bowed slightly. "The best this country makes. We're gentlemen, all, and dead shots with a squirrel gun."

  "Oh, my God." Gilly turned away, half appalled, half laughing. "You can't be for real."

  "Oh, I'm for real all right. Touch me and see." His hazel-eyed glance was glinting and sly, and despite herself she was charmed, though irritated.

  "In your dreams, jarhead." She watched him setting the Lexie-and-Jack book cookies into the paper frills, and relented. She didn't want to be an asshole at someone else's wedding. "It's short for Gillyflower. That's another name for a carnation, before you ask. They were my mother's favorite flowers. She named me after them. End of story." Sure, it was her mother's favorite flower, but only because gas stations sold half-wilted carnations, and Pop could always sneak a stolen one under his jacket. He'd bring it to her mother, waltz her around their rented room, motel, or whatever squat the three of them were in. Sometimes he'd wear it between his teeth, playing at matador, and let Gilly run at him like a bull, her fingers for horns, catch her, swing her around in the air until she scream-laughed in delight.

  It hadn't all been bad. But Mama was sick a lot, and by t
he time Gilly was four, there were no more carnations, because Mama was in the ground somewhere in Iowa. There was just Gillyflower the namesake, and Pop. Pop couldn't say her name unless he was angry. If he tried while he was drunk, his Adam's apple would bob, his eyes would get wet, and then she'd be alone till he got over his drunk. Sometimes that was an hour, sometimes that was a day.

  Never more than two.

  No, Pop couldn't call her Gillyflower, or even Gilly. He called her "Blossom" instead.

  She took a deep breath. No need to bring Pop into this lovely spring afternoon, ruin a wedding. He was out of the picture, and she'd keep it that way. Instead, she looked down at Gard's feet, where glossy black wingtips showed beneath the tailored and creased cuffs of his suit trousers. "Are those special shoes? I mean, for your prosthetic leg. Or—" She stopped, suddenly realizing how graceless she must seem.

  Gard answered her question with perfect composure, as if he heard it every day. "I'm wearing my dress leg." He grinned, twitching up the cuff of his pants leg so she could see a very leg-shaped leg, encased in a black sock. "It looks just like my real leg. Except it's not hairy. It's even tastefully shaped and shaded to look like it has real muscle. Wanna see?"

  "I didn't mean to be…" Gilly trailed off.

  "I don't mind honest curiosity." His smile was a little gentler than the grin.

  "Next thing you know I'd have been asking to see your stump or something. God." She fished a tray from under the table. "I'm going to take my tacky self off and make a sweep for empty glasses. Can you man the table alone?"

  "Ma'am, I will man this table to the best of my considerable ability. And any time you want to see my stump, you just ask." He bowed again and Gilly shook her head. He was crazy. How he made that statement sound like a come-on, she wasn't sure, but he did. The man was a gigantic, obnoxious flirt.

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