by Kati Wilde
He’s utterly still. “Are you asking me to get a room somewhere?”
A watery laugh bursts out of me. “Oh, god. No. I mean, not this second. The way you look that would definitely be something for the bucket list, but the reason this tire is flat is because I pulled over to take a call from my doctor. And she told me the lump is just a fibroadenoma—a benign mass. So I didn’t even cheat death this time. I just got a good scare. But I need to tell someone how terrified I was, and I’m not going to tell my family…” Jesus. I choke up again, thinking of it.
“Because you don’t want to lay that on them,” he finishes for me and I nod. “You’re all right, though?”
“Yeah. I’m going to have the tumor removed and there will be some scarring. But what’s scarring compared to dying? Nothing. My boobs just won’t be as pretty as they are now.”
His dark brows draw together over those pale, pale eyes. “And you want me to tell you they aren’t perfect to begin with…so it doesn’t seem like such a loss?”
God, that sounds stupid. “Is that stupid?”
He shakes his head. “Show me.”
My breath rushes out. Like him, I’m crouching behind the car, so it’s not as if I’ll be flashing the world. Still, I should be feeling embarrassment or something other than this relief when I curl my fingers around the bottom of my tank and strip it off.
I’m not wearing a bra. I don’t really need one. My body will never be anything near ‘curvy.’
“It’s this one,” I tell him, cupping my left breast and pushing against the lump with my thumb, just beside my hardening nipple. My body thinks I’m playing but I’ve never been more serious. “There’s not much tit here to start with, I know. When the surgery’s done, it’ll probably look like something took a bite out of it.”
Quietly, he takes a long look, his fingers white-knuckling the jack lever. “I won’t lie to you. They’re pretty as hell.” His gaze raises to mine with an intensity that makes me catch my breath. “But I bet they’ll be beautiful when you’re not scared. When you know you’re healthy. That’s when they’ll be perfect. And any man who looks at them and doesn’t see that isn’t worth having.”
Tears sting my eyes again. “Thank you.”
He nods. “You just keep me in mind, sixty or seventy years from now. Whenever you start filling out that bucket list.”
I can’t stop my laugh. “I will.”
Turning back to the jack, he starts pumping the lever. Though I’d love to drag him close and strip his shirt off, too, I drag my tank top over my head instead and watch the play of muscle in his arms. This won’t take him too long.
So there’s not much time left. Something in my chest pinches tight. I don’t want him to go yet. I need to know more about him. “Were you overseas?”
“I was.”
Right now, that probably means Afghanistan or Iraq. “Are you going back?”
“Most likely. After another training cycle.”
“Do you ever worry?” God knows I worry about my brother during his deployments.
He reaches up for the bottle of water and watches me while he takes a swig. “You mean, do I get scared?”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes.” He starts in on the lug nuts again, spinning the wrench until they come off. “But I train and prepare for every contingency I can. I trust that the men on my team will have my back. I stay frosty. I figure anything beyond that is out of my control. And if shit happens, I’ll fight until I can’t.”
“Same here.” When he glances at me, I explain, “Exercising, eating the right foods, and only indulging a little when I’m out with family or friends. Anything else is beyond my control.”
“But you’ll fight the shit that is? Even if you’re scared?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then.” He pulls off the flat and rolls it to the side. “This scare isn’t going to make you stop doing that healthy stuff, is it?”
“No.”
“Good.” The spare goes on and he starts tightening the lug nuts. “You’ll need to take this into a shop, get them properly torqued.”
I’ll take it to Red Erickson, instead—my best friend’s dad. He’ll kick my ass if I pay money at Baxter’s Auto in town, because it’s owned by a Hellfire Rider. That won’t mean anything to Zachary Cooper, though, so I just nod.
“I’m glad you stopped to help,” I tell him.
“I am, too. You’re like breathing fresh air after—” His jaw tightens before he sighs and shakes his head. “What I just came from.”
His family. That sucks ass. Everyone should have a family as awesome as mine. My mom, my dad, Aaron. I don’t ever need fresh air when I’m with them.
“I’ll put that away,” I tell him when he reaches for the flat. “My trunk is messy. I’d rather leave you with a good impression.”
He grabs the tire anyway. “It’ll take more than a mess to knock you from the top of my list.”
Of new favorite people. God, that feels good. Smiling, I pop the trunk and open it with a flourish. “Behold the frightening disarray.”
“I’ve seen messier,” he says and makes a nest for the wheel in my extra blanket. “Stanford?”
Apparently he spotted my crimson hoodie. “Yes.”
“So you’re smart, too.”
Too? Smart in addition to what? But I don’t suppose it matters. He said that as if he actually admires smarts in a woman, then he looks at me like he admires me, too, but I’m thinking that I must be the stupidest idiot in the world because I’m about to let him ride away.
“Listen,” I tell him and start digging through my trunk. Finding paper in a notebook is easy but I need a pen or a marker or an eyeliner. “I don’t know how far you’re going or if you’re coming back this way, but I’ll give you my number and—”
“Don’t.” His abrupt reply stops me cold.
I blink and step back, startled by the sudden change. Everything about him that had been nice and easygoing just turned hard and rough, as if I’d tripped across the edge in him I’d seen earlier. But I don’t see anything in that sculpted profile to tell me what set him off. He’s not looking at me. His eyes are closed, and he stands rigidly, one raised hand clenched on the edge of the trunk lid as if he’s about to slam it.
But he doesn’t. Instead the strong muscles of his throat work before he says, “No name, no number.”
I nod, though it stings a little, because if he didn’t want that info there are ways to get rid of it without snapping at me. Like tossing my number into the trash a mile down the road. I’d never know.
With that face, he’s probably accustomed to getting numbers. And throwing them away.
God, and I hope he doesn’t glance at me now, because I can feel the heat in my cheeks. He probably does get a ton of numbers. Maybe that’s why he reacted like that. I mean, sure, someone tossing their digits at him is probably flattering, at first. Maybe after years of it, though, that kind of thing is just really fucking annoying.
Now I’m embarrassed—and pissed off, because I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I didn’t do anything wrong. But my face catches fire and I quickly move past him, heading for the jack. Going down on my heels, I wrestle the collapsed jack into its vinyl pouch and slide the lug wrench in beside it.
When I get to my feet, he’s still standing behind my car, and I can feel his pale blue gaze on my face. Keeping my expression blank, I do my best not to look up at him when I toss the jack into the trunk.
There. All done.
I wipe my palms against the sides of my shorts to get rid of any extra sweat and dirt, then stick out my hand.
“I guess the no-number and no-name thing means I won’t get a chance to thank you with a real drink,” I say, as if that’s all I intended to do after giving him my number, which makes me such a liar. But better a liar than a googly-eyed idiot. “So thanks for your help, and stay safe over there, and have a nice life after that.”
His big hand closes over mine.
Broad, callused palms; lean, strong fingers. I know I’ll dream of them gliding over my skin later. I won’t be able to help it. Zachary Cooper is probably going to feature in my every sexual fantasy for years.
Then a low, liquid burn fills me when, instead of shaking my hand, he gently pulls me closer.
My gaze flies up. Focused on my mouth, his eyes are so pale, so blue, like the glare of the winter sun through glacial ice. He’s not dragging me. The pull on my hand is so subtle I could easily get away. He’s letting me decide whether to come nearer.
Of course I will. I’m on a new road. I refuse to look back on today with regret, and I would regret not taking this step.
So I do.
God, he’s tall. Or I’m short. I’m standing completely in his shadow, trying not to tremble when he lets go of my hand and cups my cheek in his palm, his heated gaze locked to mine.
His thumb slides over my bottom lip, a simple motion that stirs a torrent of desire inside me. “I’ll take this as my thank you.”
My mouth. Oh, yes.
Of course I can’t stop what comes tumbling out of it. “My lips don’t come off,” I tell him, my heart pounding. “And even if you could take them, they won’t travel well.”
His laugh is a deep rumble and, sweet Jesus, his grin—
Is all over mine. He swooped in so fast the heat of his lips stuns me for an instant. Then my brain kicks in or departs altogether, because my astonishment melts into a kiss. There’s too much teeth at first because I’m smiling and he’s smiling, then his fingers push into my hair and I lift up on my toes, my hands braced against the iron wall of his chest.
His mouth softens then, and I want to stay here forever. Right here, with his lips barely parted over mine, his breath so warm, and his tongue just lightly tasting, not devouring but taking over my mouth in little sips that consume my senses faster than a deep kiss ever has.
But I want deeper now. This sweet kiss is tearing open a needy ache centered between my legs. I push closer and love the sound he makes low in his throat, a possessive growl that echoes in the tightening of his grip, as if he’s not ready to let me go.
Then a horn bellows as a semi truck blasts past us on the highway, and he does let me go. His mouth lifts away from mine, and I’m too short to chase him up.
His hand slides from my hair to cradle my jaw in his palm. For a long moment we stare at each other, breath shuddering. His heart beats a rapid rhythm under my palm.
He’s the first to move. His thumb traces the moist curve of my lower lip. His voice is hoarse. “You’re wrong. That will travel well.”
He’s right. I’m going to carry the memory of that kiss with me for a long, long time.
But I don’t understand him at all. “You don’t make any sense,” I tell him. “You don’t want my number and the near-guaranteed hookup that comes with it, but you’ll kiss the hell out of me before you go.”
“I want your number,” he says, but his tone tells me he’s not asking for it. There’s regret there, but unlike me, he apparently would rather have the regret than spend a night in my bed. “The problem is that I will come looking for you.”
I don’t see how that’s a problem. Unless…
A sick knot starts to wind in my gut. “Do you have a wife? A girlfriend?”
The knot unwinds when he shakes his head. Good. I’d rather walk away thinking he’s a decent guy, not a dickhead who kisses other women even though he’s already taken.
Maybe he’s a really decent guy, though. I ask, “Do you not do one-night stands?”
A smile curves his mouth but this time there’s no amusement in it. Just something sad and weary. “I have. But I don’t think any man could settle for just a night with you.”
“Oh, they can,” I reassure him. “There’s a couple of guys at Stanford who could vouch for that. One night with me, then done.”
There’s some amusement in that smile now. “They sound like goddamn fools.”
How in the world is he doing this? I’m being rejected but he’s lifting me up instead of putting me down. Amazing.
“Okay, then.” Though I’d rather continue touching him, I force myself to step away, and keep my voice light. “Even though you’ve broken my heart, you’re still my new favorite person.”
“Good,” he says, as if the opinion of someone he’s walking away from might actually matter.
So this is it, then. The trunk’s still open. I slam it and suddenly I’m feeling awkward again.
“But, really, thank you,” I tell him for the millionth time.
He doesn’t say anything. Just nods, his jaw hard, his gaze all over my face as if he’s getting a good last look in.
Jesus, he needs to go. As soon as an idea gets into my head, I almost always follow it through to the bitter end. That kiss has given me too many ideas—about what I want to do to him, about what I want him to do to me—and I’m about to ask him to reconsider. Because his reasons for not wanting my number appear to boil down to “Gee, I like you so much I might want more than one night” and that’s just stupid.
But I’m also pretty sure he’s going to stick with his original answer and I’ll only end up humiliating myself.
Then it’s out of my hands. Slipping on his sunglasses, he hides those incredible eyes and starts toward his bike.
His gruff “Take care of yourself,” comes a split second before the ring of my cell phone. My mom, I bet, calling in response to my earlier text. And if I don’t answer, she’ll probably call the police next.
“You, too,” I say, as if there isn’t a dull ache forming in my chest.
I head for the passenger door, where the cell phone is lying on the seat beneath the open window. I was right. A call from home.
I answer it with a “Don’t worry, I’m still alive,” and watch Zachary Cooper swing his leg over his bike’s seat. “He wasn’t a serial killer. Or maybe he is, and just prefers to murder blondes, so I was spared.”
He must have heard me. A smile touches his mouth. Good. If he’s never going to see me again, that’s how I want him to go. Smiling.
“That’s great, pipsqueak.” My brother answers instead of my mom, and the dull ache is overwhelmed by a happy rush. “Is Cooper still there?”
“He’s just taking off,” I say and my heart does a happy little dance. “How are you? And how the hell did you and dad get back from the airport so early?”
“I drove. Dad fell asleep and couldn’t see how fast I was going. You need to tell Cooper to follow you home.”
“What? Why?” To thank him? To beat him up?
On his motorcycle, Zachary Cooper frowns at me—and I realize I’m frowning, too, but only because my brother might be crazy. Which, honestly, is something I already knew. But to a stranger, it must look as if I’ve just gotten upsetting news.
“Because I gave him directions but following you will be easier,” Aaron tells me. “Mom said you knew he was staying with us until next week.”
I knew someone might be staying with us—one of the guys in Aaron’s battalion. Someone he’d been deployed with and who was on leave at the same time. But that person wasn’t named Zachary Cooper. “You called him Zed.”
When I say “Zed,” Zachary Cooper goes utterly still. I can’t see his eyes through the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses, but I know he’s staring at me.
“Yeah, because there were two Coopers in our platoon when we went through the Force Recon pipeline, and he was the one whose first name started with Z. So ‘Zed’ stuck.”
Zed for Z? “What are you, Canadian marines?”
“Canada doesn’t have a marine corps, Annie. Give the phone to Cooper.”
Who is off his bike and coming this way. Who has been in combat with my brother. Who will be sleeping in the guest bedroom across the hall from me.
And who didn’t want to know my name.
Holy shit, that’s about to be blown right out of the water. I close my eyes and grip the phone tight. “Okay. But, remembe
r, I didn’t know who he was. So just to warn you—”
“Oh, Jesus help me,” Aaron mutters before I even finish, because he knows me too well.
“—I flashed my boobs at your friend.” Eyes wide, I stick the cell out at arm’s length and try to ignore the groan coming through the phone’s speaker. “My brother would like to talk with you.”
His mouth flattens as he takes the phone. He answers with an abrupt, “Cooper.”
I can’t hear whatever my brother is telling him, so I just wait, with the sun beating down on my back and the cicadas buzzing in the trees.
With a short nod, he finally says, “I’ll do that,” and gives me the cell.
I flip it closed—probably hanging up on Aaron, but so what. I’ll see him again in about twenty minutes and I’m far more interested in what Zachary/Zed has to say.
He leans back against the side of my car and hooks his thumbs into his pockets. Still watching me, and still at an advantage because he’s wearing those sunglasses.
His deep voice is carefully even when he asks, “So you’re Annie.”
“Anna,” I tell him. “Aaron’s the only one who calls me Annie.”
Mostly because I hate it.
Slowly he nods. “I pictured someone younger. Red dress. Curly red hair.”
And that’s exactly the reason why I don’t like the name. It’s also exactly the reason Aaron keeps using it. “I don’t have a Daddy Warbucks.”
There’s his smile again. But it’s guarded now. Maybe uncertain.
Because he kissed his friend’s sister? Or because he really didn’t want to see me again? Or because this is so damn awkward now?
I don’t know. I’m not sure if I want to find out. Whatever happens, there’s still a good chance this is all going to end with me humiliating myself.
With a heavy sigh, I ask, “So you know my name. Should I call you Zachary or Zed?”
“Zach’s good.” His voice is still low, still careful.
“Zach.” I test it out and nod. “Okay. So you’re following me home?”
In an easy movement, he pushes away from the car. “Yes.”