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Lissa’s heart thudded. He sounded so serious. Was he going to tell her their idyll, their affair, whatever you called it, was over? If he was, as he’d put it, moving into the world again…
“What?” she said in a small voice she hardly recognized as her own.
“It’s time I told you what happened to me. How I fucked up my leg.” He reached for her hand and gripped it so tight that she felt each of his fingers press into the bones in her wrist. “How I fucked up everything.” Nick swallowed hard. “And I’m scared shitless, because it might change how you feel about being with me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
If ever Nick had known a time that called for a good shot of whiskey, this was it.
But he’d poured all that bourbon down the drain two weeks back; he’d been sober ever since and he knew damn well that was a good thing.
Brutus gave them a big hello and an ecstatic wag of the tail for the delicate little pastries that vanished in two bites of his massive jaws. They checked on Louie and Peaches and found them sleeping curled together in a basket in Nick’s office.
Nick let the Newf out while Lissa brewed a pot of tea. Then they went upstairs to his bedroom, to their bedroom, and he lit a fire on the hearth while she poured tea.
He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d always figured tea was what you drank when you were sick. Besides, he had to admit this stuff smelled great, of cinnamon and other spices, and he needed something to warm him.
He was ice cold with fear.
He had planned on facing the world tonight, but he hadn’t planned on facing Lissa.
But he knew the time was right.
They settled on the love seat before the fireplace, Brutus at their feet. Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Nick cleared his throat.
“Great tea.”
“I’m a big tea fan.”
“What’s that taste? Cinnamon? Something else?”
“Allspice. And a little bit of orange peel.”
“Ah.”
More silence.
“Your own recipe?”
“I wouldn’t call it a recipe. It’s just something I learned to toss together years a—”
“I was on patrol with three army Rangers in Afghanistan,” Nick said, the words rushed, low, spoken so quickly they ran into each other. “We were in a Humvee. We ran over an IED. I was the only one who made it out.”
Lissa stared at him. He’d shifted forward, his gaze locked to the orange and blue flames on the hearth, his hands so tightly wrapped around the mug of tea that his knuckles were white.
“Oh God,” she said softly, “oh Nicholas…”
“Two of them were nineteen. One was thirty. They called him Pop. He had a wife and two kids. He showed me their picture that morning.”
She put her hand on his arm. She could feel the rigidity of his muscles before he shook off her touch.
“The nineteen-year-olds were from the same town in West Virginia. One had a twin sister back home. The other was an only child.”
Tea sloshed over the rim of Lissa’s mug as she put it down on the small table beside her. She had to say something, but what? This was Nick’s awful secret, that he’d seen three brave young men die.
“It must have been terrible, seeing that happen.”
