Page 77 of Loving at 40

“You don’t need to go to the store.” The store isn’t the point. Food isn’t the topic. I want to know where the hell he’s been and how long he’s staying. “And you don’t need to make us dinner.”

“I’m not leaving, Jenna.” His firm voice holds conviction, as if he read my thoughts. “No matter what you think or what you thought, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here.” He points at the ground, emphasizing his position. Strangely, I feel the role reversal. When I ended up in his apartment, he allowed me to stay. I couldn’t have predicted where it would lead, just as I can’t say now what this means. If I let him stay here.

“A month,” he adds.

“A month?” I pause, glaring at him.

“Give me a month. We didn’t even have two full weeks before.”

“Whose fault is that?” I retort.

He ignores my irritation and continues. “No bedroom-only bullshit. No undercover, only in the dark. All in. One month.”

“Because that’s when you’ll leave?” Because he’ll leave. He’ll be called away or run away or find he’s bored in my little world.

“If you kick me to the curb, I’ll go. I’ll leave that on you to explain to the girls.”

“Playing my girls isn’t cool, Archer.”

“Good thing I’m not playing around then, ’Locks. Not pretending here. So get out of those cold clothes and go take a shower. I’m making dinner.”

There is no reason those words should sound sexy. Not the shower demand. Not the remove my clothes command. Not even the fact he’s making dinner. Yet every single sentence sends a thrill through my body that I’d like to tamp down but can’t. The flame this man sparks inside me ignites just as quickly as he set it the first time, and I’m in serious danger of getting burned. Again.

+ + +

Once the girls are tucked in that night, I find Archer sitting on the couch.

“Here.” I hold out a pillow, a sheet set, and extra blankets for him. He didn’t pull out the sleeper yet, and he glances up at me from where he sits.

Taking the pile, he sets everything beside him. Then he reaches for my hand. “’Locks, I don’t want you giving me that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you gave me earlier when I struggled to stand from the floor.”

I wasn’t giving him a look, but I do have genuine concerns about his physical health. “Did something happen?” I have so many questions. The list feels endless.

“Lots of hard topics, Jenna. And I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’m asking for tonight. One night to soak all this up.” He looks around my small living room with the embers of the fire dying out and the low light of the floor lamp the only illumination. The toys have been placed back in a basket tucked beside the couch, but a puzzle remains on the low table.

“I’ll tell you everything, just not tonight.” He tugs at my hand, but I tug back. The remainder of the day had been a struggle. The pull to him, the desire to touch him and prove he’s real. The push of my head, reminding me to stay on guard.

“Just tell me if you were hurt.” My tone softens with concern.

“If you mean, was I shot at again? The answer is yes. Did a bullet hit me? No.”

I slam my eyes closed. This isn’t my life. This can’t be happening. I feel like I’m in an episode of S.W.A.T, only I don’t know my lines. I’m missing the mark, and I’m a terrible actress. Not this man, though. He’s an actor. He told me how he had to pretend, but there’s no pretending he’s on my couch, holding my hand and staring up at me with so much emotion in his dark eyes that it’s melting the cold encasing my heart. The shield I want to keep in place to protect me from the hurt he could inflict.

“I’m okay.” He jostles my hand in his. “I’m here. I’m alive.”

Without releasing my hand, he presses himself upright, struggling a bit to stand. I step back, but he doesn’t allow me to give us space. His other hand reaches for my neck, and he gently draws the silver chain free from my sweatshirt.

“You been protecting my heart, ’Locks?” His voice cracks as he examines his St. Michael medal. Then his eyes lift to mine.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. Am I protecting his? Or my own?

With reverence, he drops the medal to my chest and flattens his hand in a familiar position. The heat of his palm seeps through my sweatshirt, and the T-shirt beneath, to my skin. Can he really feel it? Does he know my heart beats for him?

His eyes close for a second, and the corner of his mouth twitches. I stare at his face. His features are still hard. Those cheeks. The cliff-like jaw. The faint scruff peppered with salt. But he looks different. He looks calm, at peace even. He looks like a man who’s finally home after a long journey.