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And he damn near did.
His eyes move back to Sal, who’s sitting up on the table, a content smile on her full lips. “You want a shower, darlin’?” he asks, hitching up his jeans
“No,” she says with a tilt of her dark head. “Let’s stay here. Have a picnic.”
He steps away from Sal long enough to grab an afghan off the couch. He returns, wrapping it around her and helping her off the table. Wordlessly, she smiles her thanks, then sinks to the floor.
“What do you say?” Luke swipes the pizza and the bottle of wine from the counter. “Think we worked up enough of an appetite?”
“I’d say so.” Sal raises her palms like a prayer as Luke lowers himself to the floor with the provisions. “Cold pizza and wine? Heaven sent.”
They settle back against the cabinets for support. Pizza slices are stolen from the box. The wine’s uncorked. Sal wears the blanket like a dress, tucked under her arms, looking so damn beautiful it’s a wonder he doesn’t lay her down for round two. He can’t help his lingering gaze. She’s tan from the sun, from her long runs around the farm property, her dark hair glossy and tangled.
This is what he wants. Sitting in the kitchen, eating cold pizza, drinking wine from the bottle. What he and Sal dreamed about. It could be any town, anywhere, drinking champagne or cheap beer, but the damn truth is being together is what it was about.
Luke passes the bottle between them. Sal drinks from it, glances around the moonlit kitchen. “I’m glad we can still do this.”
Though her words are light, airy, something unspoken passes between them. Luke understands what she means. Last year, a man was killed in their kitchen. They should have moved. Should have burned the place to the ground. And yet they didn’t. Him and Sal, they’ve rebuilt. They can’t forget but they can move on. They have to.
Sal wipes her lips on her bare arm. Her emerald eyes shine in the dim light of the kitchen. “How was your day?”
Luke stretches out on the floor, his back resting against a cupboard. “Pretty damn great, actually. We wrote a few new songs. Bobby’s huntin’ us up a new producer for the album. Gotta be someone fuckin’ fantastic seein’ as it’s number eight.”
Her eyes widen. “Already?”
“Already.” He chuckles. “Seth’s bitchin’ about Griff Greyson bein’ on the album. Thinks the album will tank.”
“Luke,” Sal chides softly. “You guys don’t know how to make a bad song.” She hugs him to her. “What else?”
“Got that interview with Rolling Stone on Tuesday.”
Sal tips her head to his shoulder. “We’re busy.”
“We are. How ’bout you?” He glances close at Sal’s moonlit profile. She looks tired. Fragile. “You want to tell me about today? Looks like it was rough.”
He saw it on her face when he walked into the kitchen. Damn near exhausted from something. What, he doesn’t know, but he damn sure wants to find out.
Straightening up, Sal blows out a breath and curls into him. “It was. It was a hard day. There was this girl there. She wasn’t even my patient, but she wouldn’t talk to anyone else. She was trying to hide the fact that she was pregnant.” Luke’s breath stalls, but Sal goes on. “She had these bruises, all over her arms, her stomach, and I knew, I just knew ...”
As she trails off, a long-buried but always present fury overtakes Luke. He doesn’t know how Sal managed to keep it together today, because at the mention, it’s taking all Luke has not to crumble, to give in to his anger. Any man who hurts a woman doesn’t deserve to live. It still has Luke wanting to kill Roy, even though the bastard’s already dead, over and over and over again.
Sal’s voice has gone distant and sad, pulling Luke’s focus back to his wife.
“It had me remembering Roy. I wanted to stay and help her. That’s why I was late. I thought I could change the world.” She shakes her head. “We gave her all the resources to get help, but I ... I just don’t know.”
Luke’s quiet for a long second.
Sal gives so much, is so damn selfless, it’s his job to make sure she takes care of herself.
He turns to her. “Darlin’, I love that you wanna help, but I don’t want you pushin’ yourself too hard. We just got back from tour, and now you’re workin’ twelve-hour shifts, tryin’ to pick up the slack at work.”
She cuts him off with a smile. “I haven’t had a migraine in months. Or a nightmare. My therapist says I’m making progress.” She floats him a smile. “So you should stop worrying. I’m fine.”
Fine. That’s Sal’s code word for I can do everything. It was Luke’s code word for a damn stubborn woman.
He touches her cheek, wanting her to hear him and not be offended. “You ain’t gotta work, you know that.”
A soft sigh. “I know.”
