He takes a deep breath and expels it. “I didn’t have a lot of options and wanted an education, so I went into the military when I was eighteen. During my service, I was identified as having the right profile for special forces and ended up in PSYOPS. From there, I developed enough specialized skills that the bureau recruited me.”
Clearly, there’s a lot of story left untold. I tread lightly. “Since you’re no longer there, I guess it wasn’t your cup of tea.”
He clears his throat. “I was decent at it.”
The constrained way he speaks tells me he’s underplaying. That he wasn’t just decent, he excelled and he liked it.
The real question is, why did he leave something he loved? “So why are you lying here with me in Revival instead of with some war-weary agent who’s probably married?”
“You are such a smartass.” He squeezes my ribs, tickling me.
I let out a squeal, pushing him away, but it just makes him dig his fingers in harder. I fight him off, and we roll around on the bed, playing and laughing and making out.
Breathless, I say, “Stop distracting me! I will not be thwarted.”
He drags a hand through his tousled hair and splays an open palm on my stomach. “It’s not a big deal. I got tired of too much travel, late nights, and bad coffee.”
It’s a half-truth. The easy answer. “Is that your standard line when people ask?”
His midnight eyes shutter closed, so quickly it has to be habit. “Yes.”
“I want the real answer.” I turn toward him so we’re lying side by side, our heads on the pillow, faces close.
He’s silent for a long, long time, and I don’t rush in to fill the quiet.
I won’t push, but I hope he tells me the truth. Not for me or even for us, but for him. It’s not good to carry around so many secrets.
He studies my face as though he’s looking for something, then says in a careful tone, “Even though it might make you feel differently about me?”
His words take me by surprise because they showcase a vulnerability I don’t expect. An understanding steals through me, settling deep in my bones.
He’s scared to lose me.
I trail a finger over the line of his jaw. “There’s nothing you could say that would make me feel differently.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
I lift his palm from my hip and lay it flat over my heart, pressing my hand over his. “I know what kind of man you are.”
“You know the man I am today, but you don’t know how I got here.” His fingers tighten against my skin.
“I don’t care how you got here, other than to understand you, and I trust my judgment.” I move my hand to cover his heart, meeting his dark gaze. “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
The desire to run must get to be too much for him, because he rolls away and sits up, putting his feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees. Muscles flex and expand as he takes a deep breath. For a second, I think he’s going to get up and leave, but he remains motionless.
“I didn’t have your fairy-tale childhood. Mine was…” He trails off, clearing the strain from his voice before he continues. “Hard.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, Charlie. I can wait for as long as you need.” I want to touch him but don’t, letting him have the distance he craves to tell me things he’s never spoken of. I don’t know what his childhood has to do with his time in the FBI, but there’s obviously a connection in his mind.
He cranes his neck to look back at me, and he’s wearing that shuttered expression again. “What was it like, to grow up as you did?”
