Hanna looked at her as if she weren’t firing on all cylinders. “As much as I hate to admit this, Layla does have a point.”
Maybe she had finally lost her mind. Who could blame her after the emotional turmoil she’d been through since returning from Europe? Seriously, what was she waiting for? Or maybe she was avoiding the situation? But that made no sense, not after the way she’d responded that night on the deck with Ford.
“I think we all know you never stopped loving your husband,” Hanna said. “For that reason alone, I don’t understand why you’d wait.”
“No kidding,” Layla added. “The love of your life returns from the dead. What are you waiting for? Take that man to bed and fuck him, for fuck’s sake.”
“God, you’re so crude,” Hanna said with a shake of her head. “Do you even have a filter?”
Layla grinned. “I lost it with my virginity.” She looked directly at Mattie. “So?”
Mattie picked up her wine glass and swirled the contents. “It’s complicated,” she finally said, then took a big gulp of pinot.
Griffen folded her arms and gave Mattie a harsh stare. “Bullshit. You’re afraid.”
“Of what? Ford?” He was the last person on earth she’d ever fear. Losing him again? Absolutely. As long as he was a member of the Armed Forces, she’d have to live with the constant, nagging fear of losing him again. She didn’t like it, but what military spouse did?
“No,” Griffen said, her tone gentling. “You’re afraid of losing yourself again.”
“You might be right about that,” Mattie admitted. “But it isn’t like Ford came home and nothing had changed. I’d remarried. I was invested in Trenton, in starting a life with him. I loved him. I might have chosen to stay with Ford, but that doesn’t mean I can shut off my feelings for Trenton that easily.”
She straightened the stack of generic notecards. A basic thank you for your thoughtful gift kind of note. No long explanation, no intimate details. The kind Trenton would’ve approved. Clean. Unemotional. Not too personal.
Hanna dragged a pita chip through the artichoke dip. “I feel bad for Trenton,” she said. “It’s like he was destined to end up in second place.”
“I never thought of him that way,” Mattie told her. But in the end, that’s exactly where he’d ended up—a distant second.
“Until Ford came home,” Layla said, reminding her of how in those first moments no one else had existed except her and Ford.
Slowly, Mattie nodded her head. “Yeah. There was that.”
Hanna drank more wine. “Nothing will screw up a honeymoon like a dead husband coming back to life.”
“Yeah, that’ll kill the romance.” Griffen said. “For the record, so will teenagers.”
Layla’s lips pulled into a sly grin and a wicked gleam entered her friend’s eyes. “Poor Ford,” she said. “Five years is a long time. Have a heart, Mattie. It’s not a job, it’s an adventure.”
“Oh, no,” Hanna laughed. “You didn’t just say that.”
Mattie grinned. “You’re cut off,” she said to Layla with a laugh. “And I am not having this conversation with you people.”
“Hey, just sayin,’” Layla said. “Consider it your patriotic duty.”
“I think I’ve done more than enough for my country.” Mattie snagged the empty wine bottle from the table and walked into the kitchen. As she stood debating opening a third bottle versus brewing a pot of coffee, she was struck by a deep sense of guilt. She had paid the ultimate price. Not once, but twice. First, with Ford’s demise, then by losing Trenton because of Ford’s return. But really, despite the heartbreak over Trenton, even she had to admit she was one of the lucky ones. Her husband had eventually come home, and in one piece. She didn’t doubt there weren’t emotional scars he’d kept hidden from her. A man didn’t survive that long in the presence of the enemy without acquiring a few.
She flinched when Griffen’s hand settled on her shoulder. “You okay, Stinkerbell?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just spending too much time in my head.” She tossed the empty bottle into the recycle bin. “Maybe Layla has a point.” She went to the wine fridge. Since they’d wiped out her last two bottles of pinot grigio, she withdrew a bottle of moscato.
“You mean that whole take one for Uncle Sam thing?”
“God, when you put it that way,” Mattie said with a laugh. “No, about Ford. He’s kept his distance since I ended things with Trenton. He’s been patient, and that’s not like him. When Ford wants something, he goes after it. Always has.” She looked at her sister. “Do you think maybe he’s avoiding me?”
Griffen opened the refrigerator and looked inside. “Maybe he’s just keeping his word and respecting your need to mourn.” She pulled out the bottle of orange juice before she went to the cabinet for a glass. “But that’s a question you’ll have to ask him.”
Mattie knew her sister was right. The problem was, she wasn’t sure she was ready to have that particular conversation. Ford was her husband and she loved him, but they hadn’t yet rediscovered that sense of intimacy between them. Maybe it was time.
“Let’s wrap this up, Grayson,” Layla called from the dining room. “We’re wasting a good buzz here.”
Mattie opened the wine and followed her sister back into the dining room. “Heaven forbid,” she said as she refilled their glasses. “We can’t have anyone getting sober.”
* * *
Before the sun crested the horizon early on Sunday morning, Ford pulled his shiny and new, silver Dodge Ram pickup into the driveway and killed the engine. In the past thirty-six hours, he’d been lucky if he’d slept six, and he was grateful to be home after the weekend spent on base. With his training, he should’ve been able to go another thirty-six easy. As much as he hated to admit it, he was dragging ass and out of shape due to his years in captivity. But damn if he wasn’t enjoying the last of the adrenaline-fueled buzz brought on by the intensity of the mission they’d tracked.
He loved the feeling and missed the rush of being on the ground, in the thick of the action and calling the shots. But that was no longer his job. He’d made a promise to Mattie, so today he’d find satisfaction in knowing they’d won one against the bad guys. In the end, all that had mattered was the members of the SEAL team they’d been tracking had not only extracted the package, but they’d been picked up by the crew of the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan and were underway to a fresh rendezvous point. Who exactly that package was, or the location of the next point of contact, was above his pay grade. His job was to oversee his crew who monitored the ground team’s progress, and to provide valuable intelligence to the support team waiting to recover the extraction team.
Mission accomplished.
God help me, it’s not enough.
He shut down that train of thought and left the truck parked in the driveway. He hadn’t been stateside all that long, and had been on the job less than ten days. There was bound to be a period of adjustment. While he understood it took time to re-acclimate, both at work and home, it didn’t lessen his level of frustration.
At this hour, Mattie would probably still be sleeping, so he quietly let himself into the house and disengaged the alarm. He’d love nothing more than to take a hot shower, slip into the warmth of his wife’s bed and make love to her as the sun rose, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He’d promised her patience, that he’d wait until she was ready. The truth wasn’t quite as black and white. While he was so ready he was close to exploding, a part of him also hesitated. There were things he needed to tell Mattie, about his time in the hands of the enemy. He needed to prepare her so when she witnessed what they’d done to him, she could handle it. Since he wasn’t exactly anxious to have that particular conversation with her, keeping his distance wasn’t only for her benefit.
Coming home hadn’t been all that easy. In the past couple of weeks, he’d discovered other landmines he hadn’t realized needed navigating. For one, he’d had to learn how to be a parent. No
t being there through Phoebe’s infancy and toddler years, he hadn’t had the opportunity to grow into the role like other fathers, but instead was learning on the fly how to parent an intelligent, inquisitive and damned precocious five-year-old.
His daughter wasn’t his only adjustment. Just learning how to be home again took effort. He’d forgotten the pitfalls of small town life. The gossip, the speculation, those who meant well, but weren’t sure what to say to him. He’d run into a couple of guys he’d gone to high school with and had met up with them for a beer. They’d had a few laughs, but in all honesty, he’d rather spend his down time with his family, getting to know his daughter and reconnecting with his wife.
Without turning on the light, he dropped his keys in the glass bowl on the accent table in the foyer. Mattie called the pale turquoise, three-drawer chest, shabby-chic. He called it old and needing a decent coat of paint.
He turned to head toward the kitchen and tripped over a cardboard box. He put his arm out to steady himself and knocked a tower of boxes to the floor. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “What the hell?”
He flipped on the overhead light, bathing the foyer in a dull glow. Along both sides of the half-wall separating the formal living room from the foyer, were two rows deep of cardboard boxes stacked three to four high, all packaged for shipping.
“Ford?” Mattie called quietly from the hallway. “Are you okay?”
He righted the boxes he’d knocked over. “I’m fine,” he answered as she rounded the corner. “What’s all this?”
“Wedding gifts,” she said. “I thought it was time I return them.”
He looked to the living room and into the dining room where the unopened wedding gifts had been taunting him, reminding him his wife had briefly belonged to another. To say he was relieved they would soon be history was an understatement. “You did all this yourself?”
“Oh, no. I had help.” She bent to retrieve a stray package, and his eyes landed on her curvy backside, barely covered in a pair of blue pajama shorts. He eyed her legs, lightly tanned and shapely, and his imagination took off like a jet catapulted from the deck of an aircraft carrier. He tried not to swallow his tongue at the sight of all that exposed skin. Smooth, sleek, and he’d been dying to touch her.
His patience was seriously starting to wear thin.
“Griffen, Hanna and Layla stayed over Friday night and we knocked it out. I bribed them with food and a few bottles of wine.”
She smiled as she looked at him, but her eyes held a hint of sadness that irritated him. Logically, he understood her pain. She was putting to rest a part of her life and it hurt her. He got it. Regardless of how much he wanted to understand, it didn’t stop the sharp claws of irrational jealously from ripping apart his gut.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. That he would’ve helped? Of course he would have helped her, but he probably wouldn’t have liked it, no matter how much alcohol was involved. “I don’t have to report until noon tomorrow, so I’ll take them to the post office for you.”
“Not necessary. The shipping company is picking them up.” She took off toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”
He followed her, his gaze trapped by the sway of her hips and the length of her legs. The urge to cup her rear in his hands had his fingers itching, and his dick swelling.
“I can make you breakfast or heat some leftovers. I made stuffed shells Friday night.”
His stomach growled on cue. “I was just gonna shower and hit the rack for a few.” A cold shower, apparently.
“It’s no trouble.” She started pulling containers from the fridge. Her top inched up, showing off more skin.
He swallowed. Hard.
“Do you want a salad?”
He wanted her. Warm and naked and beneath him. “I don’t want a salad.” The words came out rough, fueled by his mounting frustration. Damn it.
“Okay, then.” She looked at him and frowned, then started tucking leftovers back into the fridge. “Bacon and scrambled eggs work for you?”
He didn’t want breakfast, he wanted his wife. He wanted to push her up against the wall, surround her with his heat and make her forget everything but him. Make her want no one else but him. Make her forget Trenton Avery ever existed.
When he didn’t answer, she looked at him again, her gaze curious. He stared at her, needing her, craving her touch. It’d been five years since he’d made love to his wife. Five, long, tortuous years.
“Ford? Is everything all right?”
“Fine. Everything’s fine.” He dragged his hand down his face. “It’s been a rough thirty-six hours, is all.”
Her tentative smile held a hint of sympathy, making him feel like an ass. He was tired, but he was more tired of the awkwardness. When would enough be enough?
“Why don’t you shower, and I’ll make you some breakfast,” she suggested. “I don’t need to be at Dad’s until three today.” She glanced at the clock. “You can sleep late and meet me there around five-thirty if you need to.”
“I’ll be fine after a few hours.” He hated that she was being so thoughtful, so fucking polite. He didn’t want polite, he wanted real.
She pulled a cast iron pan from the cabinet and started placing bacon into the cold skillet. “I won’t be long,” he said and took off for the guest bath.
A few minutes later he stood beneath the hot spray of the shower, head bent forward, the water raining down as he attempted to wash away the tension coiling tightly inside him. Slowly, the stress drained from his body, and with it, the last of the adrenaline-fueled buzz of excitement. He lifted his head and the stinging spray pelted his face.
In that instant, he was back in the desert, tied to a hard plank of wood, tipped back at a downward angle. The ropes were bound so tight, they dug into his flesh with every breath he took. There, under the ruthless heat of the Middle Eastern sun they’d kept him blindfolded and attempted to simulate a drowning experience in an effort to force him to reveal secrets. With no food or water to sustain him, they’d left him to bake. His skin blistered and burned, but he’d refused to give them any information. Then they’d start the waterboarding all over again.
He’d laughed in their faces and endured their torturous games, remaining rebellious and defiant until the day he’d escaped with LeCuvier. God knew, they’d tried their damnedest. They’d beaten him, starved him and tortured him relentlessly. They’d threatened him with death, and when that hadn’t worked, they’d murdered others in his place. Still, he’d hardened himself to their tactics. He’d endured, refusing to let the bastards break him.
He turned his back to the water and let it beat against his scarred flesh. The ability to compartmentalize had kept him sane, and he used that skill now to systematically shut down the memories, one by one. Awake, he easily conquered them, locking them down whenever they’d crept into his consciousness. Asleep, he wasn’t quite so lucky. He hadn’t had a night’s sleep without nightmares since he’d gained his freedom.
His finished his shower, wrapped his towel around his waist, then picked up after himself before he opened the bathroom door and nearly collided with his wife. Steam wafted around them, pouring out the opened bathroom door into the hallway.
Mattie faced him, her hand poised to knock. “I...” Her gaze locked on his chest as she slowly lowered her arm. “Um...” When she finally lifted her eyes to his, her vibrant green eyes darkened. The gentle smile suddenly tugging her lips, eased into a sensual curve that sent his libido into overdrive.
“Did you want something?” he asked, because he sure as hell did. He wanted to kiss her senseless. He wanted her to melt against him, to hold him and never let go, to never think of another man again.
She nodded slowly. “Yeah.” She lifted her hand and carefully settled it on his chest. Her fingers curled against his skin, tangling with the hairs on his chest. She inched closer and lifted her mouth to his. “I want to taste you.”
His heart stopped. “Where’s Phoebe?”
“Still in Galveston with Dad and Lily.”
“Good to know.” He dropped the clothes in his arms at their feet, then pulled her tight against him. All that separated them were a few scraps of cotton and a towel, which would take him a fraction of a second to shed.
His mouth came down hard on hers. She immediately opened to him, sliding her tongue along his in a kiss so sweet and seductive, he nearly fell to his knees.
Her hands slid along his arms, her fingers tightening around his biceps before she reached upward to his shoulders, and toward his back. He wasn’t ready to answer questions about his scars, or the time he’d spent in the hands of the enemy. Eventually, yes, he’d have to talk to her about what had happened, but not now. Not today.
In a diversionary tactic that fed his fantasies, he caught her hands in his and moved quickly, shoving her up against the wall and pressing his body against hers. He laced their fingers together above her head and kissed her deeply, mating his tongue with hers.
She kissed him back. Her breasts rubbed enticingly against his chest, making his dick ache and throb. She made a sexy whimper of sound, an erotic mixture of surprise and passion that fueled his lust.
He disengaged their fingers and clamped his hand around both of her wrists, holding her as his willing captive. With his newly freed hand, he dragged his fingers down the underside of her arm, around the curve of her breast, and slipped it beneath the hem of the thin, cotton camisole. She trembled against him as his fingers inched upward, across her rib cage and finally to cup her breast in his hand. The weight was heavy against his palm as he scraped his thumb over the bead of her nipple.
Her hips flexed and he about came out of his skin. He wanted closer. He wanted skin touching skin. He wanted inside her, riding her, pushing her until it was his name falling from her lips as she came. To remind her that she belonged with him. Belonged to him.
She strained against his hold on her wrists. He let her go and reached for her rear. With a flick of her fingers, the towel was history. “You’re playing with fire,” he said against her lips.
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