by Debbie Mason
“Sorry about that.” He walked to her side and took the plate from her hand, sliding it behind the others. “How’s that?” His lips twitched.
“Fine,” she said, unconsciously straightening the plate. She grimaced when she realized what she’d done. “Sorry, I guess I’m a bit anal.”
“Maybe just a little.” He smiled, then looked out the open window, a gentle breeze ruffling the curtains. “Beautiful night.”
“Yes, beautiful,” she murmured, taking in his strong, masculine profile, his thick, sleep-tousled hair. She’d spent so many months praying for him to come home that it felt surreal having him standing beside her now. She wanted to touch him, wanted him to hold her in his arms like he had earlier.
He glanced at her. Embarrassed, afraid he could read the desire on her face, she turned and closed the dishwasher. “I can reheat the pie if you’d like a piece.” Her fingers trembled as she gestured to where it sat on top of the stove.
“Sure, if you’ll have one with me.”
“I really shouldn’t.” She pressed a hand to her stomach.
His eyes slid over her pink checkered sleepshirt, and a fluttery sensation came over her at the warmth in his gaze. She found herself leaning toward him. “Don’t tell me you’re watching your weight,” he said.
She blinked, quickly straightening, wondering how she was going to keep from touching him, from begging him to kiss her like he used to. “No. I don’t sleep well, and eating this late doesn’t help,” she said, her voice husky. Self-consciously, she cleared her throat.
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he studied her. The movement pulled the white stretchy fabric tight across his broad chest, and she found herself paying more attention to the corded muscles in his arms than the flicker of concern in his laser-blue eyes. “You always have a problem sleeping or is it more recent?”
This was ridiculous. She couldn’t think straight. He doesn’t feel anything for you. He doesn’t want you, she reminded herself sternly. The thought had the same effect as standing under an ice-cold shower. At least she could think clearly again. “Jack Junior took a while before he learned nighttime was for sleeping. I think it messed with my internal clock,” she answered, adjusting the temperature on the oven. In truth, she hadn’t slept through the night since Jack went missing. She’d been able to deal with the fear during the day, but it haunted her at night. But like her lusting after him, it wasn’t something he needed to know.
“What do you do to help you sleep?”
Pray. Imagine what it would be like when you came home. Figure out how I’ll go on if you don’t. “Warm milk with a banana.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
She wondered if he meant for her or for him. If he was having trouble sleeping, it was something she needed to know. Despite how peaceful and sweet they’d look lying together in the big bed, Grace knew enough about PTSD to be cautious and had returned Jack Junior to his crib. The military trained their warriors to cope with being captured. And Jack was one of their best. But that didn’t mean warriors didn’t break. He hadn’t been fine when he left.
“Are you having trouble sleeping?” she asked, placing the pie in the oven. He didn’t answer right away, and she glanced over her shoulder.
His gaze slid up her legs to her face. As if embarrassed to be caught checking her out, he uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. It was somewhat heartening to discover he wasn’t totally immune to her.
“No, not at all. Why?”
“So you’re not having nightmares or flashbacks?”
“Is that why you didn’t leave Jack Junior in bed with me?”
“No, of course not. I didn’t want him to fall out or for you to roll over on him.” He raised a brow and held her gaze. She sighed. “Okay, so the thought crossed my mind.”
“If you were worried about it, you should’ve asked me. For the record, I don’t have PTSD.”
“It’s a little early to say that for sure. There can be a delay in symptoms.”
“We’ll have our pie, and then we’ll talk about—”
Stunned, she interrupted him. “You want to talk about it?” She’d begged him to open up to her last time, to help her understand what was going on with him. But every time she did, he’d shut her down.
“Honestly? No. I’m one of the lucky ones. I survived. I came home. But you have legitimate concerns, and we should discuss them.”
This was the man she’d fallen in love with, the one she’d prayed would come back to her. At that moment, the desire for him to remember her, to remember them, was painful. She had to remind herself she was lucky to have him home at all. She forced a smile. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”
Opening the cupboard, she took out a plate. He reached around her and took out another one.
“I said we’ll have our pie and talk. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it,” he said when she went to object.
“I told you—”
“Yeah, I know what you told me, but I don’t believe you. I’m home now. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
“How did you know?”
“Let’s just say you wouldn’t make a very good poker player.”
“Is that right? Well, how do you explain the fact I beat you every time we played?” She grinned at his shocked expression.
“Huh. I wouldn’t have taken you for a poker player. What did we play, Five-card stud, Texas Hold’em?” he asked as though he didn’t believe her.
She took the pie out of the oven. “Strip poker.”
“Sorry, I missed that.” He leaned into her, his warm breath ruffling her hair. “What did you say?”
“I think you heard me just fine,” she said in a breathy voice, trying not to melt into his lean, muscled body.
“Maybe I’m in shock. You don’t strike me as the strip-poker type.”
“What type do I strike you as?” she asked, placing first his slice of pie, then hers, on the plates. She handed him his. “I have ice cream if you’d like. Häagen-Dazs dulce de leche.” She wondered if he remembered the brand was his favorite.
“Do you even have to ask?”
“You remembered.”
“Yeah, I remembered,” he said quietly.
As she took the container from the freezer, he said, “Bridge. I would’ve figured you for the type of woman who played bridge. When I first saw you, that’s who you reminded me of—wealthy women who do lunch and are involved in good causes. Elegant and refined, polite and cultured.” Grace kept her back to him so he wouldn’t see the face she made. He could be describing her mother. “You’re also sweet and have a great sense of humor. And you’re a wonderful mother. Our son is lucky to have you.”
She blinked back tears, pretending to fight with the ice cream lid. She didn’t want him to see how his words had affected her. “Thank you.”
They were lovely words, but that’s all they were. She didn’t think the qualities he ascribed to her would be enough for him to fall in love with her again if his memory didn’t return.
* * *
Her narrow shoulders slumped, his wife leaned over the sink to close the window. Her sleepshirt rode up her toned thighs as she did. What had he said to upset her now? Jack wondered. Maybe she’d feel better if he told her she also had the most incredible, long legs he’d ever seen and a dimple that made him smile every time it winked at him. Both were true, but she might take it the wrong way and that’d get him into trouble.
He didn’t want to mislead her. If he didn’t get his memory back, he didn’t know if he was willing to stay married to a woman he wasn’t in love with. A woman who had her heart set on keeping the bakery and living in Christmas.
There was no question he’d honor his responsibilities. But Grace deserved someone who loved her. Not someone going through the motions. As much as he knew that in his head, his gut protested, tightening once again in a possessive knot. He knew of one man who would happily step into h
is shoes—Sawyer.
Jack shoved the thought aside. He’d worry about the what-ifs later. Right now his mission was to take care of his son’s mother, to make sure she was healthy and strong. It didn’t matter that Jack didn’t love her now. He must have loved her once. He’d married her. And she loved him and had suffered because of it. His mother had suffered, too. Only Jack and Jill had been too young to do anything about it. His father had died on a military mission in Honduras, and his mother had never been the same. She’d tell them she was fine, same as she’d tell the neighbors and his grandmother when she called. She’d said it so often they believed her. Until the morning Jack found her in her bed, cold and unresponsive, staring unseeingly at the ceiling after chasing back a bunch of sleeping pills with a bottle of wine.
He hadn’t thought about that morning in a long time. He sure as hell didn’t want to think about it now. Jack took the plates from Grace. “Why don’t we sit in the living room?” he said when she looked like she might suggest eating in the kitchen. The chairs looked good but were damned uncomfortable.
“Oh, okay,” she agreed.
“You sure you don’t mind?” he asked at her disconcerted expression. He’d lay odds no one ate anywhere but in the kitchen. The woman was a neat freak. Since he wasn’t, he imagined that’d been a bone of contention between them. So what exactly was it that they had in common? he wondered.
“Of course not. This is your home. You can eat wherever you want.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her the apartment had never felt like home. His memories of growing up here weren’t happy ones. And the changes Grace had made didn’t help. The place looked like it belonged in a magazine.
Jack set Grace’s plate on the coffee table, then sat on the couch with his. Settling in, he put his feet up.
She came into the room with a glass of milk and napkins. Wrinkling her nose, she set a coaster on the table before putting the drink down. Unfolding a napkin, she placed it under her plate.
Jack fought back a laugh. He must’ve driven her nuts. “You okay with me putting my feet up?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
He didn’t think she realized she was frowning at his feet. He offered her a spoonful of pie and ice cream. “Come on, just one bite. You don’t know what you’re missing.” He waggled the spoon in front of her.
Her gaze flicked from the spoon to the couch. “I’m good.” She smiled, then placed a napkin on the cream-colored fabric between them.
Damn, she was cute. He grinned and tucked into the pie. As they ate in companionable silence, Jack found himself relaxing. It was nice to be with a woman who didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.
“That was the best pie I’ve ever eaten,” he said once he’d finished. Resting the empty plate on his stomach, he folded his arms behind his head and reclined against the back of the couch, closing his eyes.
It wasn’t long before he caught a hint of wildflowers, then felt the gentle pressure of Grace’s hand as she removed the plate. He opened his eyes.
“I’m glad you liked it.” She smiled, then searched his face. “You’re tired. Would you rather wait until tomorrow to talk?”
He slid his feet off the table and sat up. “No, might as well get it over with.” Elbows on his knees, he dragged his hand down his face before he looked at her. “How much do you know?”
“Most of it, I think.” She repeated the conversation she’d had with her father after Jack’s initial debriefing in Afghanistan.
“I’m surprised the general told you as much as he did.” For reasons of national security, some of what her father had told her wasn’t meant for public knowledge.
“I used to work for him. I have TS security clearance. Well, I did have.”
Jack couldn’t believe it. His wife had top secret security clearance. “What exactly did you do for him?”
“Basically I was his girl Friday. I did everything. But mostly I acted as his hostess and arranged all his social functions, many of which included heads of state and foreign dignitaries. You’d be surprised how much you learn in a social setting.” She gave him a dimpled smile.
His jaw dropped. “You were a spy?”
She laughed and shook her head. “No. I watched and listened and relayed what I saw and heard to my father. It seems I have a talent for fading into the background.” She smiled again, but this time it seemed a little forced.
He studied her, intrigued by the revelation. “Did I know about this?”
She nodded. “We met at one such function. It was when you received your Medal of Honor.”
“Were you watching someone then?”
“Yes, and you kept distracting me. Sort of like you’re doing now.”
So much for hoping she wouldn’t notice. “Your father pretty much covered everything. There’s not much left to tell.”
“You were held captive for seventeen months, Jack. You were subjected to torture.” She held up a hand when he went to object. “In the beginning, you were beaten, whether you remember or not.”
She was right. They were lucky they’d survived. If Josh—a medic—hadn’t been on board, they might not have. “If I’d been alone, it would’ve been worse. We kept each other’s spirits up. We were focused. We did everything we could to stay in shape and healthy so that, when the opportunity arose, we’d get out of there. We never gave up. That’s what kept us going.”
They talked for another hour, and he did his best to answer her questions honestly and set her mind at ease. It wasn’t as difficult to talk about as he’d thought it would be. But that was mostly because of Grace’s military background. She knew more than the average citizen. It made it easier to open up to her about his experiences. And she had a way of getting around his discomfort. If she sensed him shutting down, she steered the conversation in another direction, then circled back without him realizing what she was up to. She would’ve made a great spy.
“I imagine it was more difficult for Ms. DeMarco. You were trained to deal with situations like this, but she wasn’t. Have you heard how she’s doing?”
His internal warning system kicked in, the back of his neck tingling. He concentrated on not reacting. “She’d been in the theatre before, so she was as prepared as she could be. It wasn’t easy for her, but for the most part, she held it together.” He had to shut this down. He didn’t want to think about Maria, let alone talk about her. She’d texted him several times today, but he hadn’t responded. Sooner or later, he’d have to.
“Were you able to talk to her or did they keep you separated?”
“About nine months ago, they moved us, and the new guards were more lax. We were allowed more freedom,” he said with a goal to steering the conversation toward the escape instead of Maria, then realized the minefield he’d be tiptoeing through. “We were able to communicate with her then.”
“She was lucky you were there for her.” His wife’s sweet, trusting smile felt like a punch in the gut. If she knew… No, he would do everything in his power to make sure she never found out.
Grace opened her mouth, and Jack braced himself.
From the back bedroom, his son called for his mother. Jack had never been more grateful for an interruption in his life.
“I’d better go to him,” she said. “It means a lot to me that you talked about this, Jack.” She placed a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He stroked her silky hair, the tension leaving his body. That’d been too close for comfort.
She drew back and smiled, coming to her feet. As she picked up the plates and glass, she said, “I’d love to meet your crew and Maria. We’re planning a big Fourth of July celebration, maybe they’d like to join us. It would be nice for all of you to be together that day, don’t you think?”
Chapter Six
Grace opened her eyes, taking a moment to get her bearings. After finally getting Jack Junior settled last night, she’d fallen into a dreamless sleep on the narro
w cot in his room. It was the best sleep she’d had in months. Jack was right: having him home made all the difference. Remembering their conversation last night, she smiled. He’d opened up to her, and more importantly, when she’d kissed him, he hadn’t pulled away.
It wasn’t often Grace was up before her son, and she decided to take advantage of the opportunity to have a leisurely shower. As she slowly eased off the bed, the frame squeaked. She waited for her son’s curly, sleep-tousled head to pop up. Surprised when he didn’t awaken, she tiptoed to his crib.
“Jack Junior,” she cried, flying from the bedroom.
“Hey. It’s all right. I’ve got him, Grace,” Jack said, coming from the kitchen.
She sagged against the wall, placing a hand on her chest. “I thought he got out of his crib on his own. I have dead bolts on the front door, but there’s no telling what he’d get into.”
“Relax, he’s fine,” Jack said, standing before her wearing a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, a spatula in his hand. “I caught him coming out of the room.”
“I never heard a thing. How did you keep him quiet?” she asked.
Jack grinned, looking outrageously handsome and pleased with himself. “Food.”
Grace came to an abrupt stop at the entrance to the kitchen. Her son, strapped in his high chair, naked except for his Pull-Ups, shoveled pancakes in his chocolate-covered mouth. His hair, stuck together with what she assumed was syrup, stood on end in clumps. She opened her mouth, then caught sight of the counter and closed it. It looked like Jack had lifted the beaters from the mixing bowl while they were still on. Batter was splattered from one end of the white Corian countertop to the other, with splotches dotting her pristine white curtains.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, looking from her to their son. “I checked with Jill before I gave him the pancakes.”
Grace managed a smile. She didn’t have the heart to tell him, no matter what his sister said, their son wasn’t allowed chocolate and syrup. He was hyper enough without adding a sugar high into the mix. “No, it’s fine.” She gave Jack Junior a good-morning kiss on the only clean place she could find, his ear.
