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“You’ve been home barely a week. Give it time. Settle in and give yourself space.”
She grabs me, hard. “I don’t want space. Not from you.”
“Present company excepted.”
She laughs, her eyes flicking up to catch mine. “I’ve missed you. Not just you. Not just your presence. I’ve missed this.” Her palm flattens against my back, sliding up my spine as if counting the bones. “The easy way we have with each other.”
“Me, too.” Emotion overwhelms me. She cannot possibly know how deeply I’ve ached for her. Four years.
Four fucking years.
“All that anger, Drew. I was so hurt, and I hated you so much for betraying me. Knowing now that I was wrong makes me feel so ashamed. I’m sorry.”
I pull her back from me by the shoulders, my fingers gripping her hard enough to make her yelp. “Don’t you ever say that!” I hiss, the explosive emotion in me set off like an IED. “Never. I never, ever want you to feel shame for anything those bastards did to you. How you felt about me is understandable. They planted that feeling in you. They orchestrated the betrayal by your friends. They set us both up. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
I’m shaking her. I can’t stop. Some deep part of me thinks I can shake the shame out of her.
She rips herself away from me and stands a yard away, mouth twisted in fury. “I know that! I know it up here!” She taps her temple. Then her hand moves over her deliciously creamy skin, settling just above a naked breast, right over her heart. “But I don’t know it here.”
I cross the space and press my palm flat over hers.
“I do,” I whisper. “I know.”
Her eyes fill with tears.
And I almost tell her.
In Afghanistan, there was an incident. IED, ambush on a high mountain road, and in the middle of the attack one of our jeeps went down a three-hundred-foot cliff. The driver managed to jump out, but the guys in back were lost. As it tipped before my eyes, the passenger door had a hand.
Yeah, a hand. The hand shot out through the open window and I grabbed it as the soldier jumped out, bracing his legs on something inside to get some force. Our eyes met.
It could have gone either way. Life or death. Success or failure.
His body smashed against the edge of the window, ribs squished like thick toothpaste being squeezed out of a tube. He later had massive internal bleeding but my grip on his forearm – hard enough to dislocate his shoulder – kept him from tipping over that edge.
The jeep nearly dragged him down.
Impulse and training and sheer will kept him alive. The jeep almost took me down, too.
And right now, Lindsay looks an awful lot like a random hand poking out of an open window on a bombed jeep that is about to go over a cliff.
We are naked, standing before each other, hands on her heart. The look on her face says so much.
Rescue me.
Love me.
Don’t leave.
I’m damaged.
Don’t shame me.
I’m sorry.
“How do you know?” she asks. “How do you know what I should or shouldn’t feel?” Her voice is so soft. There’s no challenge. No anger. Just a gentle request that I answer the mystery of the universe.
No pressure, right?
