True to You (A Love Happens Novel Book 3)

by Jodi Watters

  Liv frowned. “So, he kicked you out? You were seventeen. And his son!”

  “I was leaving to join the Army anyway. Enlisted a little sooner than planned, is all.” And he was done talking about Marshall. “Hope doesn’t know the truth. She never will.”

  “I understand,” she whispered. “My humble hero.” Her acceptance lightened the darkness inside him. “Why did you keep this bottled up? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t want your pity, Liv. I turned out just fine. So did Hope, which is a minor miracle. Now that Beck’s got her under safekeeping, I can breathe a little easier on that front.”

  “Oh, his eyes,” she gushed, tapping her chest, “those things give me the shivers.” He growled his displeasure, and she laughed, hugging him. “You’re so easy to tease. I have more man than I could ever want right here in my arms.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Plus, I kinda like you. I’m kinda glad I married you. And when I hear these stories about you dashing around saving people, well…” Leaning back, she winked. “That just makes me hot for you.”

  “Good to know. Too bad I can’t tell you about the time I thwarted an assassination on the President.”

  She laughed like he was joking. “I’ve always admired her. Hope has more guts than most people.”

  “More guts than good sense. But she’s got Beck wrapped around her finger, and that’s a sight I never thought I’d see. He keeps her reeled in pretty tightly in return. I’m happy about that much.”

  Liv’s smile was sappy. “They’re in love. The bright and shiny, this-is-gonna-last-forever-no-matter-what-happens kind of love.”

  He searched her face. “I know that kind of love, Liv. We had it.”

  “Then real life got in the way.”

  “No, then tragedy got in the way. The Unit and the vineyard got in the way.” He laid a finger under her chin. “We got in the way.”

  “Maybe this will help. Sharing our secrets.” Face softening, she threaded her fingers through his. “I think what you did was justified. I think it was commendable.”

  “I think it could’ve gotten me a life sentence at San Quentin, and it’s not something I wanna talk about ever again. It’s not something Marshall’s gonna let go of anytime soon, either. There’s still mud to be slung over this.”

  She shrugged, underestimating Marshall’s need for vengeance, but she straddled his lap and he let the topic drop.

  Cupping his cheeks, she stared into his eyes. “I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry I went to the vineyard. I’m sorry I hurt you.” Giving him a clinging kiss, she pulled back a fraction. “I will always choose you, Ash. Always. I’m gonna resign first thing tomorrow.”

  “No, you’re not. I won’t be the overbearing husband who makes you give up your dreams.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Just be aware, okay? I don’t trust him.”

  “You trust me, though, don’t you?”

  “You. Not him.”

  “Well, I can handle anything he throws at me. Just today, I walked out of an important meeting with him because I got a very romantic text from my husband.” Walking her fingers down the center of his chest, she nibbled his ear. “I had to pop into his office and show my appreciation.”

  “Jesus, was that just today? How long have we been sitting in this room?” He looked at the clock, surprised only a half dozen hours had passed since she’d blown both him and his mind.

  “We’ve been through the wringer tonight, haven’t we? But look at us now. All clean and ready for our fresh start.”

  “Are we? Is this what we’re doing? Putting everything behind us and starting over?”

  “I think so. If you still want to?”

  Like he wanted his next breath. “Yeah, Livvy. I want to.”

  “I can’t believe we wasted so much time. I spent it hating, and you spent it—”

  “Waiting,” he filled in, hugging her. “I didn’t know what to do with myself. It was either load my handgun and end it all or guzzle so much tequila I’d drink myself into an alcohol-induced coma. I knew you’d give the order to pull the plug, so it was all the same to me. Instead, I waited. In the beginning, after The Unit, I damn near went crazy waiting. I needed something to occupy my mind.”

  “What’d you do?”

  He pictured their imaginary table, with everything on it.

  “I assembled my daughter’s crib.”

  That took a moment to sink in, but once it did, her surprised gaze flew to the closed door leading to the second bedroom. If she’d laid a hand on that knob since returning home, he didn’t know it.

  Not moving, her heartbeat visible in her neck, he saw the moment his brave, beautiful wife made up her mind.

  No sound came from the room once she opened the door and entered, her bare feet quiet on the pink area rug—a rug that served as his bed for several nights after retirement.

  He’d switched to the sofa in his office when a pink rug in an empty nursery became too harrowing for a former operator in the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta to endure.

  The Unit trained him to withstand all forms of torture while in captivity, including dry runs just to make sure. Still standing and not talking, those tests left him bloodied and bruised thanks to a CIA spook with mad skills. But no amount of torture in an abandoned warehouse in Bumfuck, Egypt had been as agonizing as what he’d experienced in that pink bedroom in San Diego, California.

  Moving without thought, he joined her but didn’t enter. Leaning against the door jamb, he folded his arms and accepted a fate worse than death.

  The inability to protect his wife from harm, be it mental or physical.

  Her back to him, he saw her shudder with the force of her reaction, gaze zeroed in on the crib. She slid her hand along the railing, touching the polished wood with reverence, her fingertips tracing the slats down to velvety soft bedding, a blanket folded at one end.

  When she turned to find him in the doorway, it wasn’t anguish that greeted him. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her hands trembled, but she was smiling.

  “You did this?”

  When he nodded, she made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. Turning, she took in the nursery as if seeing it for the first time, even though she’d had it all but completed days before the baby died.

  The walls, painted rose petal pink and buffed so smooth, they looked like fine suede. Felt like it, too. The matching dresser and changing table, small and delicate, making him feel like a giant inside a doll house. The cushioned rocking chair, buttery soft and so comfortable, it would put both baby and parent right to sleep.

  And the crib. Found on the floor in a box so compact, it couldn’t possibly hold eighty pieces and parts that after forty-two simple steps, would be a safe, warm place for his baby to sleep. But sure enough, after a few hours of assembly—and several shots of tequila and choice curse words he’d learned from a thrice divorced Drill Sergeant—he’d stood before it.

  Costing more than his first car, the Cadillac of cribs lived up to its hype.

  She was a beauty, even though he’d been unable to get the sheets, printed a pink desert camouflage pattern, to fit the corners of the mattress just right. Or arrange the oddly shaped crib skirt with ruffles exactly how Liv would want it. Or place the stuffed teddy bear wearing a stupid yellow raincoat and a jaunty hat in the right spot.

  “I can’t believe you did all this,” she murmured, rolling her lips.

  “It’s silly, I know. Ridiculous,” he added, stuffing his hands into his pockets and stepping into the room. “I think I got the blankets wrong. There were a bunch stacked on the dresser. I wasn’t sure how many you wanted to use, but I thought she’d get too hot with more than one.” Choking on a nonsensical laugh, he stared at the ceiling, blowing out a deep breath. “God, this is fucking morbid. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe we should box everything up.”

  “No,” she said sharply. “I mean, it’s morbid, y
eah. But it’s perfect, too, and I—”

  Swallowing, she cupped his cheek, a silent show of gratitude.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed mutely.

  He didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

  “I don’t wanna box it up. Soon, but not yet.” Her touch gone before he was ready, she wandered the room. “This is amazing, Ash.” She stared at the crib again. “It’s perfect. And you were right. She would’ve been hot with more than one blanket.”

  “And you were wrong when you said I didn’t want her. I wanted you, and her, and me. That family in the suburbs. I wanted to take my daughter to kindergarten next year.” Turning away, he picked up a picture book from the dresser, flipping through stiff pages depicting zoo animals, composing himself. “First, I’d planned to go in under the cover of darkness and install hidden surveillance throughout the school so I could monitor her treatment. But then again, I’d also planned for her to have a brown belt by the age of five, just in case some little asshole stole her pudding cup in the lunch room, and I was twenty minutes out.”

  “What, no bodyguard?” She lifted her shoulders in question. “Every kindergarten girl needs one, in case a classmate shakes her down for crayons.”

  “That’s what I hired Grady for. Had him sign a letter of intent when you hit your third trimester. He was still a Green Beret at the time, but I’d heard they make for great protection.”

  She laughed, the lyrical sound filling a room that once held such promise, then abject sadness. And now, a shrine.

  “Don’t mention that to him, though,” he continued, serious as a heart attack. “I might have left nanny off his list of duties. Planned on surprising him with a dual use diaper bag. Wipes in one pocket, weapons in all the others.”

  Sharing a small grin, Liv looked around the room once more.

  “I feel sad,” she finally whispered, hugging the raincoat-wearing bear to her chest.

  “I know, darlin’. I’m sorry. I should’ve put all this in storage—”

  “No, I mean, I feel sad, and that’s good. I don’t feel mad anymore. At least, not so much I wanna zap you with a cattle prod.”

  “Thanks.” He tilted his head. “I think.”

  She pointed at the tiny pink tutu and ballet shoes hanging from a hook on the closet door. “Where’d those come from?”

  Glancing at them, he shrugged. “I ordered them online the day you told me you were pregnant. Rosa was holding them for me until I could give them to her.”

  “Our little ballerina, huh?” Her grin was cheeky.

  “Thought I’d save the AR-15 and face paint for her tenth birthday.”

  She laughed in surprise. “Why wait until ten?”

  “It’s a heavy rifle. She’d have to grow into it to position it accurately.”

  “Now that’s responsible parenting,” she quipped, grabbing his hand and leading him back to the living room, closing the nursery door behind them.

  Pushing him down on the sofa, she stood between his spread knees, uncertainty etching her tear-stained face. “Tell me what you’re doing here, Ash. With the fingernail polish on the table and the house key on the counter?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you. Nothing has changed since you walked out. Same Jeep, same condo, same goddamn everything. The only thing that’s changed is my work address. I can’t move on. I won’t build a new life or start a new family. I won’t find peace until you come back to me. For good.”

  “I’m here now,” she murmured, as if a temporary situation was acceptable. “What about the love messages and the baby’s room? Sharing your deepest secret?”

  “Brutal honesty? I’m giving you a million reasons to stay.”

  The wheels in her head turned, but for the life of him, he couldn’t read her.

  When a genuine smile bloomed on her face, and she lifted her left hand, placing a soft kiss on her emerald-cut diamond, the four-year-old albatross pressing into his chest lifted.

  He could finally breathe again.

  “Brutal honesty?” she asked, skimming the hem of her shirt—his T-shirt—up her creamy bare thighs. “All I needed was one.”

  If he’d shown her that room on day one, it would’ve saved them oodles of time and frustration.

  That room, a modest one hundred and forty-four square feet of cotton candy pink, was the shot she needed to get her priorities straight. To see her anger for what it really was. A crutch. A shield for a spirit broken by something beyond his control. A weapon she yielded when the reality of her drastic action set in.

  That room was truth serum.

  She’d left a man who loved her, that married her, despite her dedication to the father that betrayed him at the tender age of seventeen.

  She’d left a man who did his job, a herculean task that saved countless lives across the globe, but kept him from coming to their unborn daughter’s rescue when she was already beyond salvation.

  She’d left a man who pulled newborn diapers out of the package and placed them on a shelf under a changing table, the stacks so precise, he probably used a straight edge ruler to line them up.

  She’d left a man who hung a bouncing collage of pastel hot air balloons and fluffy white clouds from the ceiling above a brand-new crib, ribbons streaming from the mobile in twisted pink corkscrews.

  That room was a magic rewind button.

  Sweeping his shirt up over her body, she dropped it to the floor and shook out her hair, the blonde strands catching on her damp cheeks—residue from tears, both sad and happy. A blend of goodbye and hello again. A conscience decision to choose faith over doubt. Forward over back. Love over hate.

  Ash’s throat moved, his gaze roaming her from head to toe, snagging on her nipples but stopping at the juncture of her thighs.

  “How did you know to use scissors to make the ribbons curl?”

  “Called Rosa.” Voice raspy, his hot stare never wavered from her core, and she clenched in response. “Full disclosure,” he added, gaze fixated, “I had to call her about the sheets, too. I’m skilled in unconventional warfare. I can build a bomb using the contents of your average junk drawer. But hell if I could figure out how to make that bed the way you’d want. I got it as good as I could.”

  A vision of him struggling to put miniature sheets on a bed that no baby would sleep in bombarded her. Tying long pink streamers to clouds and balloons. Calling Rosa for assistance.

  All an attempt to make it perfect for her. For her.

  And it was.

  “It was perfect,” she whispered, then corrected herself. “It is perfect.”

  When their eyes met, she grinned, straddling his muscular thighs and crawling into his lap. Tracing the arch of his brow, she laid her mouth over his, barely touching. “Absolutely perfect.”

  As he clutched the back of her head, his lips crashed onto hers, taking charge of the chaste kiss. It was urgent and needy, as if she might disappear. Tingles shot through her when his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, demanding entry. He groaned when she complied, darting in to lash against hers. Urgency spent, he took his time now, kissing and licking, trailing a rough hand up and down her spine, igniting her arousal with each glide.

  Stopping to trail tiny kisses down the column of her throat, his graveled voice meshed with her breathy pants. The man was a world-record neck kisser.

  “Is it socially acceptable to have a hard-on while talking about baby toys? Because if it isn’t, I’m an outcast.”

  “Mmm, you have a hard-on,” she replied, nipping his earlobe before sitting back on his lap, making a heart with her hands. “I have a heart-on.” Holding it over her chest, she grinned. “Get it?”

  “I get it. And you’re about to get it, too. Hard and fast.” Securing her against him, he stood even as she protested.

  “Wait,” she said, pouting. “This is my show tonight.”

  Strong arms banding around her, he carried her into the master bedroom with no effort whatsoever, dropping her onto the bed.

  “It was your
show this afternoon, darlin’. That’s all the docile you’ll get from me. Four years without you hasn’t made me tame; it’s made me savage. Holding out this long was a mammoth feat.”

  Propping herself on one elbow, she saw the animal he’d become in the last five minutes. Face flushed, lip curled, predatory gleam in those flashing sapphire blues. He tugged on his button-fly and shed the jeans with zero modesty, showing off what he had in store.

  “I’m about to go full caveman on you.” Leaning down, he took her nipple between his teeth and tugged, then licked the sting away. “I might apologize later.” His hand cupped her heat roughly, possessively, thick fingers dipping in to tease the wet folds. “Or I might not.”

  If her responding moan wasn’t clear consent, her words were.

  “You’re Asher Coleson,” she drawled, hips bucking, gasping when those fingers delved deeper. “And Asher Coleson may do as he pleases.”

  “Christ, I love you.” The declaration was garbled as he kissed her, the fusion of their mouths as much a promise of love and commitment as sex and satisfaction. “I wanna fuck you as much as I love you. All the way.”

  Her hands roamed his back, skin pulled tight over taut muscle, feeling every ridge and dip carved from years of hard labor and grueling gym time.

  “Have at it, soldier. The love is mutual.” Inhaling his breath, absorbing his strength, holding his weight above her, she let her love flow. “So is the fucking part.”

  Every inch of his body was familiar, explored by touch and taste numerous times, but the butterflies in her stomach made it feel like the first time. When they were younger and dumber, and full of hopes and dreams no terrible twist of fate could ever crush. Now it felt stronger. Visceral. Their connection far more tenacious than just physical attraction. They were bonded by a life of abundant riches and impoverished despair.

  Surprise filled her when his movements slowed, his frantic passion ebbing into something nearing worship, betraying the erotic promise he’d uttered with such conviction. She’d expected a quick and lusty bang.

  Their mouths parted as he ventured down her body, Olivia spreading hot, nibbling kisses across his collarbone before he moved out of reach. Her toes curled and a whimper fell from her lips when his tongue swirled around her aching nipple, lashing the tight peak before pulling it into his mouth. The pulsing suction matched the throb in her center, and she gripped the back of his head, holding him to her.