How my scrawny best friend grew into this behemoth of gorgeousness is a mystery, but I amnotcomplaining.
Dorian huffs a laugh.
I drag my gaze back up him to see the slight grin on his lips. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on my bare legs. I’m still wearing his Army shirt, and the heat in his eyes says he approves.
“Morning, beautiful.”
His compliment, said in that low rough voice, melts me from the inside out. I feel treasured. Something I’ve never experienced before.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Please.” I wander closer, admiring the way his back flexes when he reaches for a cup. There are more scars on his skin, but none so big as the one on his cheek. I trace one with my fingertip, and he freezes.
“Are all of these from your time in the military?” I hate to ask, but I want to know. I want to know everything.
“No. Most are.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “The one on my ribs is from this little girl I used to pull out of trouble when I was a kid.”
I trace the crescent-shaped scar and wince. “From that time I pushed you off the rock at the hot springs?”
“I shouldn’t have teased you about your polkadot bathing suit, knowing how scrappy you were.”
I laugh at the memory. “I don’t know how you put up with me.”
Dorian fills my coffee cup, then grabs the carton of milk and some sugar. “Nowhere else I wanted to be.”
It breaks my heart, knowing how true that was. His father drank heavily, flying into drunken rages over anything. That’s why Dorian and I spent so much time together. Home wasn’t a safe place. Sometimes, for either of us.
My parents were always arguing. Screaming at each other about money or me.
On bad days, we’d sneak off together and pretend the world was empty except for the two of us, and sometimes Grandmama Florine.
I fix my coffee, stirring slowly. When I packed last night, I brought something I’d hidden in the Victorian a long time ago. A treasure too special to lose or have taken away when my parentsdivorced and mom and I moved to Denver. I put it on this morning.
Tracing the neck of the T-shirt, I hesitate. Is it too soon to show him?
Dorian takes another sip of coffee, then puts his hand on my lower back. “Something wrong?”
The tenderness in his eyes gives me all the confidence I need. I dip my finger under the collar and tug on the yarn. It’s faded and had to be knotted a few times, but it still holds the silver pendant with the tear-drop aquamarine gemstone.
He gave it to me one night when we sat at the overlook, staring at the stars. It was his mom’s. The chain had broken years before, so she no longer wore it. The red yarn was all he could find, and it was perfect.
Dorian swallows hard. His fingers tremble as he reaches for the pendant, tracing a finger slowly over it.
“You kept it.”
“Of course I did. You gave it to me.” It’s my greatest treasure.
He cups my cheeks and kisses me. Softly, reverently. Like I’m the only woman in the world.
Like we’re back at the outlook, pretending it’s just us.
Dorian presses his forehead to mine, his warm breath fanning my lips. Then he kisses my forehead and disappears into his bedroom.
I take a sip of coffee, and touch the pendant, so glad I brought it. I don’t know what reaction I hoped for, but the wonder in his eyes and the sweetness of his kiss were better than anything I could have imagined.
He returns a minute later, opens my palm, and presses something cool and metal into it.
I look down to see my grandpa’s old Buck knife, with the worn walnut handle and scratched brass trim. My dad had it inthe junk drawer of our old kitchen. But it was my grandpa’s, and Dorian was mine.
