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Sometimes, the soul needs beer and pizza to even think about recovering.
After a minute of ocean-staring time, I realize it’s not working. Solace isn’t helping. All I can think about is Lindsay. Being intimate with her. Talking and bantering with her. Protecting her.
Kissing her.
Am I crazy to think that we have a chance? I don’t think so. There’s no reason we can’t overcome the wounds. The scars will always be there, a map that reminds us of the past, but we have room in our lives to make new memories. Forge new commitments. Create a stronger bond.
A perfect love between two imperfect people.
I know she wants me as much as I want her. I know she’s scared and in reactive mode, wavering between fury and agreement.
Getting her to trust me is my actual mission, I see.
A wave crashes hard against the shore and I realize we’re like the tides. An invisible force pulls us toward and away, close then far, the back and forth inevitable.
An ache in my bones, my biceps, my heart, my cock turns emotional and physical at the same time, making me vibrate for her. I can’t do this. I can’t not be with her.
I rub my face with my palms and wonder if I can get away with going back to The Grove to see her tonight. Under what pretense?
And will she care?
Tap tap tap.
I fly up, gun in hand, pointed at my front door, finger on the trigger. No one visits me. No one. Ever. I’ve trained the next-door neighbor not to knock on my door. She knows. If I’m on the deck, I’m fair game.
Otherwise, stay the hell away.
“Foster? It’s Paulson.”
Shit.
“What the fuck, Mark? You know to call first.”
“I did. Went to voicemail.”
“Something wrong with Lindsay?” My blood sends a plume of heat through me.
“She’s fine.”
The heat doesn’t recede.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you’re not fine.”
I groan.
“Can we talk without the fucking door between us? Don’t you have any manners, Drew?”
I holster my weapon and sigh, looking at the half-empty pizza plate and remaining beers in the six-pack.
“Left them all in Afghanistan,” I mutter as I unlock the door and open it to find Mr. Blond DEA Dude standing there in surfing shorts and a t-shirt, holding a six-pack.
“Don’t you have a woman warming your bed right now, Paulson? Why the fuck are you bothering me?”
“Carrie’s fine. Great, in fact. But she’s having some girl’s weekend with her best friend.”
“How’s Amy doing?”
