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He shakes his head, and that awful feeling overtakes my stomach.
"You don't think you're going to return from Syria, do you?" I ask, almost in a whisper.
He shrugs. "You know, it's not uncommon for guys in the military to get married quickly. They want their girlfriends to have benefits. They want to have someone back home who's thinking about them. Someone who cares. It's a morale booster. I never had a girlfriend when I was deployed overseas."
I'm gulping in shallow breaths now, because the idea of something awful happening to Damien fills me with anxiety.
"The difference is, you're a contractor now. You're not in the military anymore. You don't have to go."
"I did sign an employment agreement. So yes, I do have to go."
I stare out the window again. "You want to have someone back home to think about. To write to. To call."
"No, Kate, I don't want someone. I wantyouback home. I want to write and call and think aboutyou."
He does? Then why doesn't he say the L-word? Why can't I? It's as if we're both afraid to voice our true feelings.
I swallow a few times, trying to rid the lump from my throat. Damien grabs my hand and gives my fingers another kiss.
"Girlie, why don't we make the most of your time off? We've got time to worry about this wedding stuff. Let's take it as it comes. I want to be with you right now. In the moment."
"Really?" I sniffle. God, don't cry. I take a tissue out of my purse and dab at my nose.
"Really. I truly enjoy you as a person. A friend. This isn't just sex for me."
I smirk.
"Okay, I love that, too. Love having sex with you. I think about it a lot."
That makes me giggle. Maybe I don't need to define what we have right at this second.
He lightly bites my knuckle. "Listen. I got us a swank hotel room, booked a spot on a pirate cruise, and have a few more surprises for you. Let's act like normal people today and tonight. Normal engaged people who enjoy each other an awful lot."
I let go of his hand and squeeze his muscular thigh.
"Even though we're not all that normal?"
"Even though." I love that wicked grin of his. It's devilish, laced with little-boy innocence.
"I'm glad you tolerate my obsession with tacky pirate stuff."
"Don't mind at all. It's kind of hilarious. And adorable."
My face flares with heat. "Well, I have a surprise for you, too."
"Oh yeah? What?"
"Cuban sandwiches. It was going to be our post-wedding meal. I found a place near our hotel. It's going to be my cheat meal for the entire year." My mouth waters at the thought of all that fatty, cholesterol-laden meat. I let out a throaty moan. "Did you know they put lard in Cuban bread?"
His eyebrows shoot up, and he pats his stomach. "If I could engineer a perfect woman, it would be one who sharesmy love for pickles between slabs of meat on pressed bread made with lard."
And so I push aside questions of love, marriage, and the future—all the things I'm afraid of and worried about—and try to act like I'm on a quick getaway with my boyfriend. Surprisingly, it works.
We hold hands and stuff ourselves with sandwiches. We take the pirate cruise on a tacky tourist ship in Tampa Bay, and he snaps photos of me laughing so hard that tears leak out of my eyes. Later that night in our gorgeous hotel room, we tumble into the king-sized bed and have sweet, filthy sex. Twice.
Right as I'm falling asleep in his arms, my skin sparking from the orgasms and the feel of the 800-thread count sheets, I stroke his broad chest.
"Taking things as they come isn't so bad," I say sleepily.
