by Tawny Weber
With the nearest bakery in the next town, places like Millie’s Café did their own baking. Genna eyed the display case. The toasted, almost-black meringue on the lemon pie was sliding to one side like a drunken mushroom cap.
“I’ll pass.” She softened her refusal with a smile. She’d stop by her house on the way back to the office and grab a couple of the turtle brownies she’d made yesterday instead. Maybe she’d take the rest of the tray back to the mayor’s office. Last time she’d brought in treats for the city council meeting, everyone had raved. As they had when she’d baked for the school fundraiser, and her mom’s ladies’ tea. Sometimes Genna felt as if baking were the only area of her life where she was allowed to be free. Creative. To explore and experiment and indulge.
“Genna!”
“What?” Blinking a couple of times, Genna forced her attention back to her lunch companions. Macy was making notes in her wedding planner, but Dina was glaring.
“You aren’t listening.”
“Of course I am. You were saying you had juicy news.”
“I do. And it’s the juiciest. Better than anything you’ve got.”
Dina figured her job at the hairdresser’s should guarantee her the best gossip access, so it tended to drive her crazy that Genna often got better dirt first.
“Is it the news from this morning?” Genna asked.
“What news?”
“That Maury McCaskle ran the red light on Beeker Street because he was yelling at his wife on the cell phone again?”
“Even bigger.”
“That he was yelling at her because he found out about her affair with the pizza-delivery boy?”
“Bigger than that.”
Genna’s eyes rounded in faux shock. “Bigger? The pizza boy is only sixteen. How can you out-gossip that?”
This was what her life had come to, Genna realized with a morose sigh. Gossiping with her friends over a long lunch was the baddest she got to be. She thought of her little pen-pal project and her sigh turned dreamy. Now that was bad. So, so deliciously bad.
As bad as only a bad boy knew how to be.
Images filled her head, so vivid she swore she could reach out and touch them. Taste them. Feel them.
Thankfully, their waitress chose that moment to return with their order.
Whew, baby, it was much too hot in here for February. Even for sunny Southern California. Genna gratefully gulped down half the iced caffeine.
“This isn’t gossip. It’s more like news. Big, juicy exciting news,” Dina said as she dug into her dessert.
Genna grimaced at the sight of the soft, cream-colored crisp. What’d they done? Scooped the leftover oatmeal from breakfast over canned apple pie filling and popped it in the toaster oven? At least they’d drizzled caramel over the vanilla ice cream.
“You just like to say it’s news because gossip sounds so ugly,” Macy said dismissively.
Easily ignoring them, Genna contemplated the many uses for caramel sauce. She’d offered up the sweet treat as a naughty suggestion in one of her letters to Brody. Especially her homemade caramel. Sticky sweet and buttery rich. She’d warm it up first, then drizzle it over her body and invite Brody to lick it up. She’d even let him choose. He could start at her toes and nibble his way up or start at her shoulders and taste his way down.
“When my information has to do with Brody Lane, I’d say it’s news,” Dina snapped.
Genna gave a start, almost spilling her tea. How had Dina peeked into her mind and pulled Brody’s name out? What else had she seen while she was there?
“Brody?” she breathed. Excitement and fear hit her in equal doses, along with a big wave of lust.
“I was doing Irene Lane’s hair this morning. She’s Brody’s gramma, you know.” Dina waited for them all to nod, as if she’d just revealed some juicy tidbit. Since Genna spent every Saturday afternoon with Irene, she was pretty solid on who the woman was. “Do you remember when he ran away? What was he, thirteen? I heard he lived on the streets in L.A., a part of one of the uglier gangs and getting into all kinds of trouble. Four years he was running wild on his own until he was shot in the chest before his dad hauled him home.”
He was fourteen, gone three years and knifed in the belly before his gramma had brought him home after he’d gotten out of the hospital. But Genna didn’t correct Dina as she usually would. Talking about Brody made her nervous.
“I only have a half hour left of my lunch break,” Macy interjected, her expression impatient. “Get to the point or get out of my way so I can refill my drink.”
Dina sniffed, but didn’t move out of the booth. Instead she leaned in toward the center of the table and with her most gleeful expression, whispered, “Brody Lane is coming back to town.”
Genna choked on her tea.
“What? No way.”
Brody, back here? Where she could see him? Touch him? Hear his voice as he said all those words he’d put to paper?
Holy hell, she was in trouble.
“Brody Lane, back in town?” exclaimed their waitress, hurrying over as if proximity would get her more information.
“Yep, he’s coming back in a couple of weeks. Irene said he was injured. Really bad. He was doing something military. He’s army or a marine or something like that.”
“He’s navy,” Genna corrected automatically. “He’s a navy SEAL.”
When three pairs of eyes locked on her, she gave an irritated shrug.
“What, he kept in touch with Joe. They were friends, remember. It’s not like I’m in contact with the guy or anything,” Genna lied. Not waiting for their response, she gave Dina a ferocious frown. “What happened? How was he injured? How bad is it?”
“And why is he coming here?” Macy added, sounding as though Dina had just announced the coming of Satan and his dancing minions.
“I don’t know. All Irene would say was that she wanted her hair set extra tight so it’d hold during her flight to visit Brody in the hospital. She said he’d been hurt in a big mission. That they’re calling him a hero now. After she left, I went on the internet. But I couldn’t find a single bit of news. They are so weird about hiding all that military stuff. Like it’s some big secret or something.”
“Right. Military strategy and national security are such silly reasons to make it harder to share good gossip,” Genna declared with an exaggerated eye roll. “I don’t see why they don’t post mission details and the names of all the Special Forces personnel on a website.”
The brunette huffed, giving Genna an irritated look.
“Why are they calling Brody Lane a hero?” Genna asked, figuring an opening to finish her story would pull her out of her snit. “Does that have something to do with how he got hurt and why he’s hospitalized?”
“It does,” Dina breathed, just as gleeful at sharing the gossip as she was with the attention. “I couldn’t get much out of Irene. Just that Brody was on a rescue mission. It must have been someone really important, too. But something happened and Brody was hurt. Another guy even died. What do you think they were doing? I mean, Irene didn’t even say where it’d happened.”
Dina stopped to take a breath and preen a little because everybody in the room was hanging on her words. Even the waitresses had stopped pretending they weren’t listening. Speculation flew, everything from the last big news story to involve the navy SEALs to people mulling names of navy personnel they might contact to get more inside dirt.
Genna didn’t pay much attention, though. She was too busy trying to quell the miserable nausea churning in her belly at the realization that Brody could have died.
If it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t be in the navy. Wouldn’t be putting his life on the line for his country. His sweet, terrified-to-travel gramma wouldn’t be getting her hair curled uncomfortably tight.
She pressed her lips together, breathing through her nose and trying to focus on something else. Anything else.
Brody healthy and whole. Strong and silent.
Or not so silent when it came to writing.
Letting the words he’d sent her fill her mind, she focused on them until her stomach settled.
Genna stared at the pastry crumble and soggy apples on Dina’s plate as if they were about to sprout wings and fly. Brody Lane. Hot. Oh, yeah. Her blood heated and her mouth went dry. Brody, of the broad shoulders, tight ass and clever way with words. Who knew a guy who barely linked twelve words together at a time could turn her on with just the stroke of his, um, pen?
“If he’s hurt, how’s he coming back here?” Macy asked, interrupting Genna’s hot little mental journey. “You said Irene is flying out there. Where is there?”
“He’s in a military hospital in Virginia. She said she’s gonna convince him to come back here as soon as they release him. How she thinks that’s gonna happen is beyond me, though. Nobody has ever convinced Brody Lane to do anything he didn’t want to.”
“Here? Why here?” Macy said, her fingers pressed to her lips. “Shouldn’t he recover in a hospital or tent or something?”
“You’re so mean,” Dina chided Macy. “Even the president of the United States thinks this guy is a hero, Macy. He might have been a little trouble when he was a teenager, but who wasn’t? He’s been serving his country for ten years. You’d think you could get over judging him by now.”
It was all Genna could do not to roll her eyes. Every one of Dina’s words had been playing to their audience, her way of looking righteous and caring.
Still, the recital had its intended effect. Macy blinked fast, her cheeks pink as everyone frowned. And from the looks on people’s faces, Genna knew word that Brody Lane was a hero was going to be the gossip highlight of the week.
“What’d you mean about the president?” Genna asked quietly, glad that Brody would finally be talked about with respect. Even if it was only in gossipy whispers.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Dina paused, pretending she wasn’t aware that the entire room was holding their breath to hear the rest of her announcement. “The president of the U.S. of A. showed up at the hospital where Brody’s at and pinned him with a Purple Heart. That’s, like, rare according to Irene. She said he offered his personal thanks, and shook Brody’s hand.”
The room exploded as whispers turned to gasps, excited titters to loud exclamations. The president and Brody Lane? Fingers were flying over cell phones, and the few old-timers who didn’t text were calling for their bill.
So much for the gossip being made in whispers.
Genna started to sigh at the ridiculousness of it all, then she caught her breath. Excitement sparked, still having everything to do with Brody, but this time having nothing to do with the image of him naked.
Maybe she could help fan the flames, bring this news to the attention of the right people. People who could make sure Brody got his due. People her father couldn’t intimidate just because he was holding a grudge.
Finally, Bedford would see Brody as a hero. The same hero she’d always thought him to be.
She couldn’t change the past. But maybe this would make up for it a little. And wouldn’t it be fabulous if everyone thinking he was totally awesome helped her father see how great Brody was? That way, if anything did happen between her and Brody, he wouldn’t have such a lousy reaction this time.
She almost laughed aloud at the perfection of her plan.
Not that she was thinking anything was going to happen between her and Brody. Not really. Although those letters could be taken as interest on his part. Or severe horniness, she warned herself, not wanting to get her hopes up too high. It wasn’t like he’d even used her name. He could have been writing to anyone. But he’d sent the letters to her. That might mean something.
She propped her chin on her fist and gave a wistful sigh.
Maybe.
“Do you guys remember that night we played truth or dare and Brody was the—”
“Did Irene say when she’ll be back with Brody?” Genna interrupted Dina, looking up so fast she slapped herself in the eyes with her own hair. No, no, no. They were not revisiting truth-or-dare night. She’d never told them what’d happened between her and Brody. She’d played it off as if her father had busted them before anything had happened.
Nobody had ever connected that night and Brody’s disappearance, either. Brian Lane had never said a word about his son’s departure and if Irene knew Genna’s part in her grandson’s sudden desire to serve his country, she’d never let on.
Dina blinked a couple of times, clearly not happy to have her juicy gossip flow interrupted. Then, as if she’d just remembered that their little dare was a secret, and one that Genna had paid dearly for with a monthlong restriction, she made a show of dropping the subject.
“Subtle,” Macy murmured, rolling her eyes.
Dina huffed. Then, realizing nobody else was paying them any attention, she shrugged and dug into her dessert.
“Irene said he’s due to be released from the hospital next week. So depending on how long it takes to convince him, anytime between then and never.”
Genna pressed her lips together and stared at the bland blob of dessert Dina was shoveling in, trying to keep her excitement to herself.
A week.
She might see Brody Lane again in a week.
It was going to be so awesome.
* * *
WELL, WASN’T THIS freaking awesome.
One minute his life was rolling along just fine.
The next it totally sucked.
He’d come full circle. Ten years ago he’d been a loser badass with no prospects and a chip on his shoulder. He’d ridden to the top, an elite Special Forces SEAL living a life he loved. And now he was back in his hometown with no prospects, sporting that same chip. He figured it’d take about three days in Bedford before he could claim the loser title again.
His hands fisted around his crutches, Brody glared at the small house, its chipped paint and shutters sagging as if it was as enthusiastic to see him as he was it.
“Brody, sweetie, you sure you want to stay out here? I’ve got plenty of room in the front house. You can stay with me, where I can do a little fussing over you.”
He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be as far from fussing and people and, hell, life if he had his way.
But he couldn’t yell that at his gramma.
Not because manners forbade it or that it was bad form. But because when he’d tried it in the hospital she’d smacked him upside the head, then burst into tears. He hadn’t even felt the smack, but the tears had kicked his ass.
He’d given in to the guilt, and the nagging, and when the doctor ordered him to physical therapy at his home base in Coronado, he’d said he’d stay off-base with his family and come in for PT.
He hadn’t wanted to return. He didn’t want to face his team, to stay on base and pretend he belonged there. That he was still a SEAL.
His leg was jacked up bad. Shrapnel did a nasty number on flesh and muscle. But it’d heal. Unlike Carter.
Dead didn’t heal.
The mission had been deemed a success by their superiors, as they’d achieved their target and rescued not only their target but three other hostages.
The mission has been a failure in the eyes of the team. Because they’d lost one of their own.
The mission had been the end as far as Brody was concerned. The warriors’ creed demanded they leave no man behind. Dead or a
live, they brought out their own.
He’d failed. It didn’t matter that he’d taken a hit; he was trained to ignore injuries. It didn’t matter that he’d had a little girl in his arms at the time of the explosion that’d knocked Carter on his ass. The only thing that mattered was he hadn’t gone back. He hadn’t gotten his teammate out in time.
Forcing aside the churning emotions battling it out in his gut, Brody turned to give his gramma a smile. Well, a shift of his lips. That was about as close as he was getting.
“I’ll be fine here. I’m better on my own for a while.”
For a while. Forever. Either worked for him.
“Now that you’re out of the navy—”
“I’m not out,” he snapped. Then, grinding his teeth to try to chew the rough edges off his tone, he continued, “I’m on convalescent leave.”
Three freaking months of leave before a navy surgeon would reevaluate Brody’s chances of full use of his leg. Twelve weeks to contemplate the end of the career he loved.
Once again, Bedford was akin to purgatory just before he dove into hell. He’d vowed when he left—or was kicked out, to be precise—never to set foot in this lousy town again. So why was he back?
He looked at his gramma and sighed. Why? Guilt. That’s why. When an old woman who was terrified to fly crossed the country to pray at your bedside, you did whatever the hell she wanted.
Guilt, and the simple truth. He had nowhere else to go.
“Don’t you think you’ll convalesce better in the main house? There’s a phone there, television. I can cook for you and make sure you’re okay. These steps, they’re not good for your leg. Or for my arthritis. Wouldn’t you rather be close where I can keep an eye on you?”
Brody’s ears sank into his shoulders.
How many times in his life had Gramma Irene tried to keep an eye on him? So many. Living with his father meant a filthy apartment over a bar, fending for himself from the time he was six onward. As Brian’s drinking got worse, it’d included beatings that had escalated until Brody was old enough to hold his own. But it’d also meant freedom.