You Never Know

by Mary Calmes

“Lucky guess.”

  “Hopeful guess,” she amended.

  “I don’t—”

  “Why does everyone always worry that if something happened in the past that it can’t happen now as well, or in the future?”

  “The past is the past. It should stay there.”

  “Who says? Just because it’s tragic?”

  “Why would anyone want to make the same mistakes over and over?”

  “Then how do we account for growth or learning?”

  “The new people you meet benefit from the enlightened person you are,” I suggested. “The truth of the matter is that sometimes we’re not smart enough not to make the same mistakes over and over.”

  “But maybe it was never a mistake, you were just young.”

  I groaned. “Stop talking in generalities before my head explodes.”

  She cackled. “All I’m trying to say is that he was young when he left. He had no idea about things, he was clueless to the fact that you—the guy he was leaving—was the love of his life.”

  “Oh God,” I groaned, not ready to examine my life before I had coffee.

  “Most people don’t find their soulmate in high school.”

  “Stop.”

  “You said to stop talking in generalities.”

  “I really hate you.”

  “Yes, I’m aware,” she said sarcastically, patting my cheek. “Now listen. He’s grown up a lot. He’s not spoiled anymore, he doesn’t trade on his looks anymore—or his athletic prowess—and he’s very good at checking for a net before he leaps these days.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was the one who told me not to give up on my dream even when the time that I gave myself ran out.”

  I squinted up at her. “What’d he do?”

  “Supported me, emotionally, financially, put his money where his mouth was until I landed on my feet.”

  “After performing a gorgeous leap, stepping out of it, and hitting a pose, of course.”

  She patted my cheek.

  “He could still trade on his looks if he wanted.” I sighed, looking the man over from head to toe as he lay beside me. Still so very hot, ruggedly handsome with those gorgeous chiseled features, thick muscles, broad shoulders, and lean hips. Sprawled out beside me, he was like some romantic ideal of beauty, the power radiating off him making me ache to touch. Not that I dared put my hands on him; it was bad enough to feel the heat of him through his clothes.

  “Oh yeah?” Jessie said, interrupting my lascivious thoughts. “You still think he’s pretty?”

  “Very,” I said, my voice breathy and low.

  “He’s aging well.”

  “He is,” I agreed and noticed that her smile was wicked at the same time. “Oh, go away.”

  She bent over me again and tapped my forehead with her fingertip. “He’s learned what’s important. He’d never break your heart again, Hage. He knows better.”

  “Says you.”

  “Says everyone who knows him even a little,” she declared, crossing her heart.

  It was too much. Too much of her insistence, too much to try to think about. I needed a time out.

  “He’s different.”

  But so was I.

  I huffed. “So how did you find the house? I don’t live where I used to.”

  “Everyone knows where you live, kitten,” she said with a snort of laughter. “I just rolled up on the sheriff in my beefy rental and asked her.”

  “Christ,” I grumbled, amazed yet again over the lack of privacy in my town.

  “Lydia says hi, by the way.”

  “The sheriff should not be giving out my home address.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed, giggling. “That was naughty.”

  “Jesus.”

  More laughter before she walked away.

  When I tried to move, Mitch tightened his arm around my middle. He wasn’t awake yet; it was instinctive, keeping me close, and he pressed his face into the back of my neck.

  All night long I’d slept safe in the circle of his arms, his chest pressed to my back, with him breathing on me, in a position most people would have found suffocating and confining. But me, I liked to be wrapped up that close, always had, but now, no one but Mitch would have thought to try. All the men I’d been with in the Army, before Ash and up to him, I’d told the same thing: I didn’t like to be held while I slept. And now, in my life after the Army, that feeling of confinement would set me off into a panic. But because it was Mitch… because he knew me… it was different. Only Mitch knew that I didn’t move an iota when I slept, and only he knew being held tight was the only way I could get any real sleep. In that way, the new me who was afraid, and the old me who wasn’t, had both been comforted by the only man who could.

  And it wasn’t that Mitch remembered; he had, instead, never forgotten. It was instinctive, he’d pulled me in tight and not given my comfort another thought, and as a result, I couldn’t remember when I’d slept better. He knew me, and being with me, seeing me, everything he unconsciously understood had simply kicked in. It wasn’t fair, because Ash was right: no one else had a chance with me at all if Mitch Thayer was on point.

  I froze for a moment, lost in a wave of hope and fear, of what I needed and wanted, warring against what was smart and safe, wanting the walls to come down but at the same time needing them to remain unbreakable. I was so terribly thankful he had to leave. I was not ready to have life and death discussions with him.

  “When I get back,” came the silky rumble, “we need to have our talk.”

  “Maybe I don’t wanna talk to you,” I said, pushing back against him only to have him wrap his bicep around my neck and lean his mouth to my ear.

  “Yeah, you do. You want everything with me.”

  My first impulse, when he presumed, was to argue. “That’s not—you’re assuming things and—”

  He grunted and kissed the side of my neck.

  I shivered with the contact. “You need to let me go.”

  “I need to take you to bed and keep you there for a couple of days, but sadly, that ain’t gonna happen until I get back.”

  “So certain of that, are you?” I asked, trying not to shiver and even more so trying not to let him feel it as it slithered through me.

  “I am.”

  I rolled over to face him, unable to hide with just inches separating us. “You left me,” I said flatly, putting it out there.

  “I did,” he replied, gaze locked with mine, not flinching, not looking away. We were doing this and neither of us was running.

  “And now what?”

  “Now you forgive me and we get on with our lives.” He didn’t smile, not trying to make light of it, instead simply laying it on the line, as had always been his way.

  “Just like that?” I asked, amazed, as always, by the things he took for granted.

  “I’m your anchor. You need me.”

  I scoffed, trying to roll free.

  He held tight. “I am. I’ve always been.”

  “You left,” I reminded him.

  “You can keep saying it and I’ll keep agreeing, but that won’t bring you peace and it won’t put me back in your bed and back in your life any faster.”

  I stared into his blue eyes that had always seemed filled with golden light. I knew they weren’t, logically I knew, but still.

  “I’m sorry for everything,” he said, slipping his hand over my cheek. “I’m sorry for breaking your heart back then, for not having the guts to call when I first figured out that I made a mistake, and now for being too chickenshit to come over as soon as I hit town.”

  I would not break down over his heartfelt confessions. I would remain solid, strong, and impervious to the man speaking from his soul, which I could clearly hear in every word and see in the pain on his face, the tightness around his eyes, and his lips pressed together in a hard line.

  “Please, Hage, forgive me.”

  “It’s okay,” I soothed him.

  “It�
��s not,” he sighed. “If it was, you’d do what I dreamed.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Run up to me, throw your arms around me, and hug me so tight that I’d be able to feel your heart beating in your chest.”

  “I promise you, I’m not mad anymore.”

  “But you’re still hurt and that’s on me.”

  “Mitch—”

  “I called hundreds of times.”

  “Funny, I don’t remember us talking.”

  His voice dropped low. “You know why.”

  “Because you hung up before it connected,” I concluded.

  “Yeah.”

  I had to change the subject. Between my head swimming and my nerves about what I could suddenly have versus what I’d assured myself was over and done… I was floundering. “Your kids are great, Mitch.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  “I am, but I want to be a loved man, too.”

  “I suspect you are.”

  “I’m a beloved son and father, brother, boss, and friend,” he said thickly, hand on my back, wedging me closer. “But I miss being something else too.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Husband.”

  I knew the word, had heard it a million times, and yet, until then, until Mitch said it, I had no idea it could ever mean anything to me.

  Husband.

  I was forgetting to breathe but had no idea how to make myself care.

  I’d thought that our time spent apart—so many years gone—would make seeing him, talking to him, easier. I’d been sure, even the day before, that it would be sad to see Mitch, yes, but that the feelings would have dissipated with time.

  I’d forgotten to factor in that my desire for him could never be quenched. I had never gotten my fill of him. There was more of Mitch Thayer that I wanted, and apparently, he felt the exact same.

  I heard the yearning in his voice clear as a bell because I knew what I was listening for. I had memorized every inflection, every high and low, every subtle change in the timbre of his voice years ago. He had been my sun and I’d been in orbit around him from the first day when he said hello to the last when he said goodbye. So now, gazing into the endless gilded azure depths of his eyes, I could see it in his gaze, hear it in his voice, I could know, easily, simply, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what it was that he both needed and wanted.

  I was what Mitch wanted, and there was no missing it.

  “You’ve already been a husband,” I managed to get out, even though it was shaky.

  “I haven’t been yours,” he replied huskily.

  “Way to push, Thayer.”

  “It’s what I do, Wylie,” he remarked dryly.

  “You think maybe you want to let me breathe?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said, smiling. “That’ll give you too much time to think.”

  “And nothing good could come of that.”

  He was laughing when he kissed me, and it was so sexy, the rumbling sound of him and the sparkle in those eyes I’d never stopped loving. The way he grabbed me as he took my mouth possessively, hungrily, let me know he was staking his claim.

  I should have yanked free, should have yelled, should have done a hundred other things if I was going to stay strong and resist. The fact that his kisses sent ripples of electricity crackling over my skin should not have swayed me in any way.

  “I’m all yours,” he promised, hands holding my face so gently but firmly at the same time. He didn’t want me to move.

  “What—” Kiss. “—if you leave me—” And another, biting my lips, sucking on my tongue. “—again and—Mitch.” I moaned his name, the ache of longing making me whimper, which left no doubt about how far gone I was.

  “No,” he swore raggedly, making the kiss hard and demanding, using his weight to trap me under him, one heavy thigh between both of mine as the one mauling kiss became another and another.

  I was losing track of where I was, the desire to submit blanking out everything else, and that was, in and of itself, a revelation: I didn’t do that anymore, didn’t think like that anymore. There was never a time now when I gave myself over to anyone else’s care.

  “Trust is in short supply,” he assured me. “I know.”

  It was and wasn’t, which would have made zero sense if I’d had to explain it. How could I have faith in Mitch, who’d left me once already, and have none in someone brand-new?

  “You can give me the benefit of the doubt because I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  “How—” I shuddered. “—do you know?”

  He eased back to look at me and I saw his kiss-swollen lips, flushed face, slitted eyes, and sinful smile. “I’m a whole lotta things, but stupid ain’t one of ’em.”

  The man was going to give me a heart attack.

  When he bent toward me, I stopped him with a hand on his chest.

  “What?”

  “Don’t ‘what’ me. You have to drive to Portland.”

  “Uh-huh,” he responded, pushing against my hand, using his leverage to get close to me, his rough, callused fingers sliding up under my T-shirt to the bare skin of my belly.

  I tried scrambling free, but he held tighter—and I waited for the jolt of panic, of fear, at being restrained.

  Nothing.

  I tried to tell myself I was scared, tried even to dredge up a horror of a memory, but Mitch was there, and so the pain and the anxiety, the dread and the choking, suffocating, paralyzing terror to run, to get out, to free myself at any cost… never emerged.

  I was me. Just plain old me, being kissed, having my teeth counted and my tonsils checked, feeling the ebb and pull of my all-too-familiar reaction to Mitchell Thayer, the deep, resonant throbbing want. All other emotions paled in comparison.

  There was nothing for my brain to hiccup about when I was writhing under my first love, as I had a million times before. That feeling, the rippling powerful heat of dominance and ownership and belonging that rolled off him, was so achingly familiar, so remembered, and so utterly normal that I had to choke down a sob.

  It was like surfacing from a great depth so I could breathe again. Finally.

  I knew the man wasn’t a cure for anything, but the idea of maybe feeling this good every day, if I had Mitch Thayer back, along with a good psychiatrist in my life, was very appealing. Mitch reminded me of what could be if I had some faith and put some work in. I’d been diagnosed with PTSD that presented as panic attacks, insomnia, reoccurring nightmares, and emotional distance, and that did not get fixed with fucking. But the desire to screw my ex might point me in the direction of actually getting the help needed to heal.

  I wanted to hit him. How dare he charge back into my life and fill me with hope? At the same time, the urge to grab hold of him and not let go swamped me, and when I let him know, when I gave in, went boneless under him, he groaned like he was dying. I couldn’t stifle my laughter.

  “Don’t do that,” he warned with a low growl.

  “Don’t do what?” I teased, but gently, the change in me evident in the pitch of my voice, the softness, honey replacing bitterness that quickly.

  “Go all warm and willing on me.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I will attack you right here,” he ground out as he bumped my forehead with his.

  I chuckled softly.

  “Can we please talk when I get home?” he rasped, the frustration clear in his voice.

  It was hard to focus on words because the heat from his body was seeping into me and I could feel the ache in me to submit, to let down my guard and simply mold my body to his.

  “Hage?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, breathing in and out, aware of my chest rising and falling, of the air filling my lungs as I wrapped my brain around the truth that was so very simple.

  I loved him.

  Still.

  Had never stopped, not for a moment, and that was the irrevocable truth. And I was not
going to fight loving him anymore because there was no reason, no purpose. I suspected that with him, I could be me again, and being me, living well in my own skin, was worth the risk.

  “I will never hurt you again,” he promised, and I saw his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Baby, I swear.”

  My brain shut off then, my body responded to the virility and power in him, and a surge of deep, drowning, devouring, lust spread through me. It had always been like this between us, emotion triggered want, and my moan was decadent and filled with sudden, ravenous hunger. As I got my hands under his Henley, I found the splay of hard muscle and hot skin and then heard the guttural sound of my name in the back of his throat.

  “You wanting to give in when I gotta go is a total asshole move, by the way.”

  “I can’t help it,” I sighed.

  “Okay, so that’s actually very good to hear,” he said as I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him tight, feeling the tension drain out of both of us.

  “I’ll be back on Tuesday. Tell me I can see you.”

  “Maybe.”

  He groaned. “Don’t make me beg.”

  “Why not?”

  Second groan, more pitiful than the first, and I smiled because this, too, the humor, the warmth, was just like old times.

  “We can talk.”

  He uncoiled my arms and maneuvered until he was under me and I sat up, straddling his thighs, staring down at him. His hips rolled and I pitched forward, curled over him, arms braced on either side of his head as I stared down into his eyes. “I really do wanna talk to you—I swear I do—but Hagen… baby… you gotta either have me or let me have you when I get home.”

  “I’m not that easy,” I teased, moving over him, pressing down, feeling my effect on him as his shaft thickened with the friction I provided.

  His groan sounded pained. “You have so never been easy.”

  “I was too,” I assured him. “We were only together three days before I let you do things to me.”

  “That’s because you were stoned.”

  “So were you.”

  “That was bad weed, too,” he recalled. “All of the munchies and none of the buzz.”

  It was fun to have the person I shared all my memories with right there with me. Good, bad, and everything in between, Mitch knew what I was talking about.