by RC Boldt
His hands reach out to frame my face delicately. “I always think of you.” Pressing a kiss to my forehead, he whispers a goodbye before heading down the hall for his appointment with Lucia.
And again, he leaves me with words that seep into my heart. Like arid soil reacts to long-awaited rain, my heart soaks up his words like a soothing balm.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hendy
“Well, ain’t this just the cutest little setup.”
My eyes flick up to see Kane canvassing the interior of our house with a smirk, his thick, muscular arms folded across his chest. “Seems to me someone’s got sweet seduction on their mind, darlin’.”
His eyes take in the sight of me wearing his favorite apron with the saying, Chop it like it’s hot. “Sorry but that apron still looks better on me.” Grinning wide, he raises his eyes to me. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
That wide, shit-eating grin’s killing me. Because he knows full well that I’ve only been interested in one woman from the start. The only woman on my mind nearly from day one, whom I’ve been getting closer to over the past few weeks. The only one who seems to see beneath the surface, who might actually see me for who I am.
The same woman I’ve been dying to bury my cock inside for far too long.
Shooting him a glare that’s lacking in heat, I mutter, “You know who.”
He laughs. “That I do, but I wanted to hear you admit who’s been making you happy as a tick on a fat dog.”
Pausing in placing the silverware on the table, I flash him an amused look. “You and your sayings, man.”
Kane lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “South Texans are better with words.” Flipping him the bird, I go back to setting the table, ignoring his dig at me being from northeastern Texas. Just because I was raised in a more urban environment doesn’t mean I don’t have a way with words.
Grin widening, he adds, “All that flowery shit goes a long way.”
“Clearly.” My tone is dry. “It’s obviously worked wonders on Lucia.”
“That woman…” He breaks off to shake his head, frustration etching his normally jovial features. “She’s like Fort Knox to my charm.”
“She’s making you work for it, huh?” Just to give him shit, I furrow my brows. “You don’t think you’re barking up the wrong tree?”
With a look of frustration, he runs a hand down his face. “Hell, some days I’m not entirely sure, to be honest.”
“Give it time, man.” Moving over to the kitchen, I check on my chicken enchiladas in the oven. It’s one of my favorite dishes my mother used to make.
“Am I invited to this little love picnic you two are planning to have?”
“When you say shit like ‘love picnic,’ that downgrades your cool factor.” Tossing down the oven mitts on the counter, I level a stare on him.
“But don’t you see, darlin’?” His grin widens. “We’re the lone single guys—”
I throw up a hand. “Not true. Doc’s still single.”
Kane makes a face. “He’s a former SEAL sniper. Like anyone’s going to pass muster with him.” Shaking his head, he goes on. “Found out he color coordinates his damn closet, and then the other day, he was mentally calculating the formula to find the momentum of a gun’s recoil.”
I wince. “Jesus.”
At a loss for what to do with myself, I feel antsy as shit, having finished my preparations. Darting my eyes around the place, I scan, hoping to find something I’d somehow forgotten.
“Nervous, huh?”
My eyes clash with Kane’s, and we don’t speak for a moment, holding each other’s stare, until finally…
“Weird Secret Confessions,” we both speak in unison.
“Weird Secret Confessions” is something Kane started when I first moved in with him. He claimed that if we told each other one weird secret, it would help break the ice. Now, we do it when one of us is having a rough day or things aren’t going smoothly.
“I’ll go first.” Kane runs a hand over his jaw, wearing a thoughtful expression. “For some reason, anytime I’m around a person who’s blind, I feel the need to talk louder.” He smirks at me with a shrug. “Backward as hell, but I always do it.”
Shit. I’m scrambling for something decent. “I still hate when the different foods on my plate touch one another.”
Kane gives me one of those looks. “You have got to be kidding me.” With a short laugh, he says, “What are you? Ten?”
“Inches,” I shoot back with a wide grin. He groans, realizing he’d left himself wide open for that reply.
“I blamed Izzy the other night for passing gas when it was me.”
“Dude.” He casts me a look. “Like I didn’t know that.”
Glancing down to where Izzy’s lying a few feet away, lazily watching us, he smiles at her. “Sweet girl like you could never be gross like that, could you, darlin’?” He pauses, still using his sweet talk on my dog. “Nooo. Say no, Uncle Kane, I wouldn’t do that.”
Of course, at that moment, Izzy makes some funny grumbling sound and hides her face in her paws.
“That’s my girl, right there.” I grin at Kane, proudly. “She knows who her daddy is.”
“Now, Izzy.” He pouts. “You’re just gonna dismiss me like that?”
She raises her head and glances over at me as if to say, “Is this fool for real?” before walking over to the new doggy door we had installed for her. The door slides up, sensor-activated by the small microchip in her collar, allowing her to come and go from the house as she needs.
In this case, it’s to get away from “Uncle Kane.” I laugh to myself, glancing over at Kane with a smug smile.
“Women,” he mutters, shaking his head.
Poor Kane. Don’t think he’s experienced a female he couldn’t charm. With Lucia, and now Izzy, the guy probably thinks he’s losing his mojo.
“Man. Not much lovin’ these days, huh? Striking out with all the ladies lately?” I wink at Kane to add more fuel to the fire.
Crossing his arms, he has a mischievous glint to his stare. “Want me to stick around and help chaperone you and your lovely doctor?” My expression says it all because he tosses his head back with a laugh. “Then you need to watch your mouth, darlin’.”
Walking down the hall to his bedroom, he disappears for a moment. Emerging with his hard guitar case, he scoops up his keys from atop the corner of the kitchen counter. His expression is more somber than I expect when he stops a few feet away from me.
“Heading out to catch a mid-week dinner over at Momma K’s and then over Doc’s to hang out. Might have a jam session with him.” Eyeing me pointedly, he adds, “Which reminds me. It’d be nice if you came to a family dinner night, you know.”
One Sunday a month, Momma K, Foster’s mother, designates a family dinner night—one where everyone gathers at her house and she cooks a boatload of one of her Italian specialties. She’s a wonderful woman, no doubt about it, but I can’t manage the thought of attending one of those dinners.
I haven’t seen her since I’ve been back, and as ashamed as I am to admit it, I can’t bring myself to visit her. Maybe it’s stupid and makes no sense, but I can go out in public and deal with the stares and gawking from strangers, but if I attended a dinner night at Momma K’s and the group of friends—“family”—did that, it’d fucking destroy me.
“One of these days, it’d be nice if you tagged along.” When I don’t respond, he goes on with, “You need to decide to come out of hiding at some point.” His words set me on edge because while I reluctantly admit their accuracy, I sure as hell don’t appreciate the fact that someone recognizes I haven’t shown up. That I’m hiding out.
The truth is I’ve become Mr. Avoidance to the fullest extent because I don’t want to witness the look on their—or anyone else’s—faces. Because I don’t want to see anyone full of sympathy. Or worry. Or the worst one.
Pity.
“And don’t get me started on the calls you’v
e been ignoring from Heath.”
Fuck. I should have known Kane would pick up on that. Damn it.
I’ve been fielding calls from Heath Mitchum. Don’t get me wrong; he’s a great guy—I’m not debating that fact. The former SEAL had served and qualified for medical retirement eight years after being shot up—literally—so horribly in Iraq, he required a medivac and was resuscitated multiple times on the way to the nearest hospital.
Almost fifty surgeries later, many wouldn’t know what he’s been through by looking at him today. Sure, he has some obvious scarring, and his nose does appear a bit rougher looking than the average man, but considering he’d had to undergo numerous reconstructive surgeries to rebuild the side of his face, it is pretty damn impressive.
Heath wants me to be a spokesperson for his foundation—the very foundation which donated modified clothing to me while I recuperated in the hospital. While it would be employment, I would have to share my story.
Heath’s organizing another speaking tour, and he’s gathering a handful of his other spokespersons, other wounded veterans who will visit various cities all over the United States—including veteran’s hospitals and rehabilitation centers—and sharing their experiences, sharing the importance of teamwork, of perseverance, and of never giving up when times are tough.
While that all sounds great, I don’t know that I’m brave enough. Brave enough to open up and leave myself bare, completely exposed to others—to their opinions of that night, to their judgment.
As my lips part to spout off a cutting remark, the timer dings on the oven, alerting me to the fact that the enchiladas should be ready. Talk about saved by the bell.
Grabbing the oven mitts and busying myself with the careful removal of the hot casserole dish, I hear Kane mutter, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Expecting him to head out the door, I set the dish on the stovetop to cool a bit. Once I turn to replace the oven mitts in one of the drawers, I find Kane still watching me.
“You got nothing?” He cocks an eyebrow at me.
I shake my head.
His aquamarine eyes peer at me. “Remember what I said. Own it. Like the phoenix.” With a firm nod, he quietly exits the house, locking the door behind him.
With a sigh, I lean my forearms on the kitchen counter, staring sightlessly ahead. “Easier said than done,” I murmur in the silence. “Easier said than done.”
Chapter Thirty
Presley
“Lucia, I am not wearing that!”
This has gone on for the better part of forty-five minutes. Lucia pushes some outfit on me, and I promptly veto it.
“But this is sexy.” She pouts, gesturing to the fancy black dress she pulled from the recesses of my closet. “You can’t go over there dressed like you just got off work.” With a look of disgust at my closet, she mutters, “I swear most of the clothes in here belong to Mrs. Doubtfire.”
With my hands on my hips, I give her a look. “I’m going over to watch the latest Jeopardy episode. It’s not like we’re going to a fancy ball.”
Lucia smiles wide, winking suggestively. “Maybe you’re going to be dealing with more than one ball, eh?”
“Stop it.” My warning does nothing but make her grin widen.
Reaching for my favorite pair of jeans, I pull them from my dresser drawer. “I’m going to wear these with a cute top, I think.” Tapping my index finger to my lip in thought, I peruse my closet’s offerings. Just as I’m about to reach for one, Lucia’s arm darts out to snag a hanger holding a blue, satiny looking sleeveless top.
“This is the one.” She holds it up to me. “It will bring out your eyes.”
It is one of my favorites, so I concede. Sliding on my jeans and fastening them beneath my simple, knee-length robe, I slide it off, tossing it onto my bed, and gently pull my top down over my black lace bra.
Smoothing it down, I glance at Lucia. “What do you think?”
Her lips make a moue as she inspects me. “What do I think? I think, chica, that you will be the dinner entree”—she waves a hand to encompass my outfit—“looking like that.”
Scoffing, I walk over to the adjoining bathroom to finish my makeup. “What are you doing tonight?” I ask as I carefully apply a coat of mascara to my lashes.
“Dinner with the familia.” Her tone sounds dull as she says this, and I instantly know what she’s not saying.
He’ll be there. The man she’s expected to marry.
The thing about Lucia’s family is that, yes, they’re warm and welcoming and everything I wish I had in parents—in a family—but they are stuck behind the times. They still believe in arranging suitors for their daughter to eventually marry. Regardless of whether true love is present.
And in Lucia’s case, true love is most definitely not present.
“I’ll be expecting a full report tomorrow,” she sing-songs, waving at me before leaving.
Laughing softly at her, I finish up before walking out and grabbing my keys and small purse from the end of my kitchen counter.
* * *
Just as I’ve pulled into Hendy’s driveway, my cell phone rings. Displaying the name of the one person I’ve been dreading talking to.
My mother.
“Hel—”
“What is this about you and Dylan breaking off your engagement?” She doesn’t even let me finish the greeting, just starts right in.
I knew I shouldn’t have answered. I knew it. But noooo. I didn’t listen to that internal voice nearly wailing in alarm, telling me I needed to send my mother’s call to voice mail.
Damn it.
Before I can even form a response, she rushes on, and I’m starting to wonder how she gets all these words out without taking an audible breath.
“And what is this about you being seen downtown holding hands with another man, Presley?” The way she spits out the words “holding hands” makes it sound as if we were doing something X-rated in public or something. Then again, that’s my mother and her strict, old school Southern Baptist upbringing. Thou shall not lie, steal, covet thy neighbor’s wife, or dance in public with a man.
“Holding hands?” I gasp in faux disgust. “What? I would never do something like that. What kind of troglodyte do you take me for, Mother?”
Thank goodness no one had witnessed my lovely puking display. That much I’m grateful for. God only knows what my mother would have to say about that.
There’s a brief pause then, “Are you using sarcasm again, Presley?” I can practically see her turning up her nose at me as she speaks. “You know that isn’t very ladylike.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the front door to the house open, and Hendy stepping out. I give him a little wave to let him know I’m okay, and as my mother drones on and on about how I should rethink the choice to end my relationship with Dylan because he’s “such a nice, respectable young man”—gag—I allow my eyes to take in the sight of the man waiting for me.
God, he’s something else. So imposing, yet I know firsthand how tender and gentle he can be. Wearing a pair of dark khaki cargo shorts and a blue, short-sleeved collared polo with his usual ball cap pulled low, he stands at the top of the stairs. I notice a flash of movement near his legs and realize Izzy has come out to sit beside him. She tips her head to the side, looking at me as if to ask, “Why aren’t you coming up?”
And that’s what makes me snap out of it.
“Mom, I have to go. I have dinner plans. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait! What do you mean you have dinner plans? With that man you were with?” The way she says the word “man” makes it sound like I’m having dinner with Lucifer himself and considering having his babies in order to take over the world, spreading sin and evil everywhere.
Instead of a man words can’t truly encompass because he’s that amazing.
“Love you! Talk to you soon!” I rush my words out and hurriedly press the button to end the call. With a sigh of relief, I turn my phone’s ringer to
silent and slide it back into my small purse.
Getting out of my car, I press the button twice before the alarm beeps and slip my keys inside my purse, walking up the steps to where Hendy and Izzy await.
“You can do this Presley. Easy.” I mutter under my breath, attempting a quick pep talk. “Easy like Sunday morning.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Hendy
“Apparently, Lionel Ritchie’s joining us tonight. Welcome.”
Those uniquely beautiful colored eyes fly up to mine, appearing startled before recovering slightly. Finally reaching the top step, she draws to a stop before me. “You know Lionel Ritchie, huh?”
“Of course.” I grin. “Now, did I fantasize about someone singing ‘Suddenly’ while creating a clay sculpture of my face?” Giving a quick shake of my head, I say, “Not so much.”
She laughs, the sound of it wrapping around me. “Well, there go my plans for tonight.”
She steps closer, and I catch her essence—the trademark scent of her shampoo or bodywash. It’s nothing fruity or heavy on the fragrance; it’s simple. Clean and fresh.
“May I come in?”
Shit. She’s been standing here waiting on my dumb ass while I muse about her smell.
Her scent, for God’s sake. Maybe it’s a good thing I haven’t been around women and haven’t tried this whole hanging out thing because I clearly suck at it. Royally.
“I mean”—she tilts her head to the side, eyes shining with humor—“we could stay out here and bask in everything.”
“Bask in everything?” I’m confused.
“It’s been approximately four weeks, and we’ve been hanging out, watching Jeopardy together most nights.”
“Yes,” I draw out the word slowly, unsure of where she’s going with this.
“Well, this sexual tension thing?” She pauses. “It’s pretty top-notch.”
“Really.” I have to fight a smile. Hard.