Shaking his head, he pulls his lips into a smug smile. “Ellie girl, I’m all man.”
My own grin widens. “Whatever you say.”
He’s quiet for a stretch, just staring at me as the smile onhis face slowly eases—looking at me with a seriousness that wasn’t there before. “One day, I’m going to do it—the house, the library. Whether it’s this place or somewhere else, anything you want.”
“Promise?” I tease, raising an eyebrow to break through the tension that’s joined us.
“Promise,” he replies, looking so determined I can’t help but let out a huff through my smile, even though I think I might cry if he keeps talking like this. “We’ll come back here one day and make it happen. It’ll be like those HGTV shows, but with lots of sex.”
I giggle, grateful he’s pivoting the conversation to something lighter. “You’re such a sap.”
“I’m whatever you want me to be.” He pulls me close, capturing my lips with his, and I lose myself.
CHAPTER 9
Dominic
HAVING LOTS OF SEX
PRESENT
Another night of sleeping like shit. Except this time, it wasn’t Ellie haunting me—it was the nightmare. The same one I’ve had since the shooting.
It always plays out the same way. I step into the convenience store, my eyes locked in on the perp, his back is turned to me. Then he spins around, and I recognize him instantly.
He recognizes me, too.
My gun is raised. So is his.
And he’s just a fucking kid.
I wake up the second my gun goes off.
The sheets are soaked from the sweat coming off my body, and it takes me a few deep breaths before I feel ready to move. I glance at the clock on my nightstand, seeing it reads three in the morning.Fuck me.Flopping back onto my damp pillow, I groan, staring up at the ceiling. My heart is practically banging against my chest, racing so fast it feels like I just worked out.Why won’t this go away?
I went through the mandatory counseling, passed my fit-for-duty eval—this shit should be over. But it’s not.
The counselor suggested I keep seeing a therapist, but for what? Talking about it isn’t going to change anything. It’s not like I’m Adrian, who’s been in the Middle East, in active combat and witnessed things no human should ever have to see. I was in one messy shooting, and somehow, it’s still fucking with me. Not just physically—mentally, too. And that’s the part I can’t stand. The part that makes me feel weak.
Forcing myself I get up out of bed, I slip on a fresh T-shirt, but I don’t make it two feet out of my bedroom before I hear it. Thedrip, drip, dripcoming from the bathroom across the hall, the one right above the kitchen.
Gritting my teeth, I scrub a hand over my face as I head for the bathroom. Fuck this fucking house. The damn faucet has been dripping for days, and I’ve ignored it, thinking I’d get to it, eventually. But now, with my nerves already shot and my skin slick with sweat, the sound is unbearable—like a ticking clock counting down to my breaking point.
I flip on the light, step inside, and glare at the sink. The steadydrip, drip, driptaunts me.
With a sigh, I reach under the cabinet, grab the wrench, and crouch down, twisting at the pipes. It doesn’t budge. I adjust my grip and try again, harder this time. Nothing.
My jaw clenches. My pulse pounds in my ears as I try again. Harder.
Still nothing.
“Goddamn it!”
I slam the wrench down on the tile, chest heaving, frustration crawling up my spine like a vise. I should be asleep.
The drip continues.
I grab the mallet from the cabinet.
