Page 32 of Jameson’s Salvation

“There’s a lot I can’t tell you,” he started. “The missions I went on are top secret. And just because I’m no longer in the Navy doesn’t mean I can talk about them.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t sure where he was going with the conversation but it didn’t look pleasant.

“I’m struggling,” he admitted, and clenched his jaw like it was the worst feeling in the world. “I don’t know what to do with you. Straight up honesty here, I’ve never met a woman I’ve wanted to talk to about my past. And not because I want to unload my burdens, but because I wanted her to understand why I am the way I am.” He stopped and took another drink before he looked me dead in the eye and continued. “I’ll never be like you. I’ll never be the type of person that rolls with the punches, takes one on the chin, and still looks on the bright side of life. That will never be me. I’m not wired that way. It’s ingrained in me to protect, to watch for danger, to predict it, to stop it before it happens. And when I can’t, I react to the threat in a manner that eliminates it permanently.”

Jameson handed me the bottle and waited for me to take a drink before he took a deep breath and went on.

“I was a total dick earlier. I made assumptions about the type of woman you are, because I’ve never met anyone like you. You confuse me and surprise me. Neither of which I’m used to. The physical attraction between us is undeniable. We both feel it. You were right about all of it. Everything you said was spot-on. And that’s another thing, it bothers me that you barely know me, yet you can see right through me. I’ve never been in love. I’ve never had a relationship. Hell, I’ve never dated or had a girlfriend. I’ve gone to great lengths to keep my emotions in check and you make me want to test the waters. You scare the ever-loving hell outta me.”

“Not even in high school, you didn’t have dates or a girlfriend?”

I found that hard to believe, Jameson was a good-looking man. I was sure as a teenager he was just as good-looking. Teenage girls would’ve gone crazy trying to get with him.

“Didn’t say I didn’t hook up in high school, but there weren’t movies and ice cream involved.”

“Oh.”

That made more sense. Of course he would’ve gotten some action, but the thought of him never opening himself up to anyone made me kind of sad.

“My dad walked out on my mom. And I saw what it did to her. She fell apart in her grief. I remember her telling me how much she loved him—that was years after he’d left and she still loved the asshole. She waited for him to come home, prayed about it, begged God to answer her one wish. When I left home to join the Navy, she was still prayin’. I wanted no part of that. If that was what love did to you, I never wanted to find it.”

That I could understand. I’d watched my own mother break down after my dad died. But he didn’t leave us intentionally, he was taken from us. And even though it was painful to watch my mother have a nervous breakdown there was beauty in it. She loved my dad so much she couldn’t cope with his death. She couldn’t imagine a life without him. But I wouldn’t tell Jameson that—the situations were vastly different, and his father didn’t deserve the kind of love and devotion his mother had offered.

“What if I’m like my dad? What if that’s in me?”

“What if what’s in you?”

“Whatever is so fucked-up in him that he could walk away from a good woman and his kid. My whole life I’ve been told by everyone in my family I’m just like my dad. I look like him, I’m built like him, I was a good athlete like him. So what if he gave me that, too; that fucked-up gene that makes me destroy my family?”

“He didn’t.”

“You can’t say that. I know I’m an ass—”

“He didn’t, Jameson, and you already told me why you could never be him. You’re not wired that way. It’s ingrained into you to protect.”

“I’m a product of my environment. If he hadn’t left, I wouldn’t’ve had to step up and be the man of the house, care for my mom, support us. I would’ve been a normal kid going through life. I would’ve been like everyone else, looking for love and wanting a family. Instead I’m this man, the one who won’t touch emotion with a ten-foot pole because his father taught him love hurts.”

Damn, I kind of hated Jameson’s dad. What kind of dick leaves his family? And by the sound of it, severs contact with his own flesh and blood.

“Maybe you wouldn’t have had a skewed view of love and relationships. Maybe you would’ve found a sweet woman and married her and had a couple of kids by now. But that didn’t happen. What happened was, your dad’s a jackass and left, his decision sparked a chain reaction, and that made you into a man that has a burning desire to protect those around him. And because of that, because of him, and what he taught you, you’d never inflict that type of pain. He taught you a great lesson.”

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?” Jameson huffed. “How to be a cynical, distrusting prick?”

“No. He taught you everything you didn’t want to be. And sometimes that lesson is more important. You’re the man you are today, because you knew the man you never wanted to be.”

Jameson picked the bottle back up and I watched the muscles on his neck constrict and his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Every inch of his body seemed to have muscle piled on top of muscle. I’d never in my life found a man’s neck sexy, but all I could think about as Jameson drank was how much I’d like to run my tongue over the corded lines and trace a path.

It was crazy that six hours ago I was standing in Jameson’s office pissed off as all hell, yet there I was once again thinking about how much I’d like to touch him. It’s funny what a little honesty does by way of forgiveness and understanding.

Trying to find the good in people and the reasons behind their actions didn’t make me a doormat. I was telling Jameson the truth—I gave most people a second chance, because everyone screws up and says hurtful things. But the chance is only given if there’s sincerity behind their apology. And I believed Jameson was a good man. Twice now, he’d admitted he was scared, and for someone like him, I imagined it was a difficult confession. One I would not squander and throw in his face.

“How drunk are you?” Jameson’s odd question took me by surprise.

“I’m not.”

“Tipsy?”

“No, it takes more than a few sips of whiskey to get me buzzed. Why?”