by Amelia Wilde
Twenty-two minutes.
It shouldn’t be this hard to do the shit you’re supposed to do. To work a job on the right side of the law. To claw yourself out of the black, numb despair that creeps into your chest at night, that makes you get a cramp in the foot that doesn’t exist, a cramp that won’t release its grip until the sun comes up and you have to be on the factory floor, making windows for buildings you’ll never see.
I’m leaving.
It’s not worth it. It’s not worth this.
I shift my weight forward in this hellish, stylish seat.
“Mr. Nash?”
It’s not the receptionist’s voice. It’s not a voice I’ve heard in a long time, and at the sound of it my toes—real and imagined—curl. Pleasure or shame? I don’t know.
I drag my eyes away from the carpet and shove myself up out of the chair as some other guy makes his way past. I don’t let myself look until I’m upright in case it’s not her, in case it’s a hallucination I’d be better off ignoring.
It’s not a hallucination.
It’s really her.
A different version of her. A gorgeous, grown-up version of her. Not the gritted-teeth version going too fast down Suicide Hill, snow and determination in her eyes, or the tomato-red mortified version standing alone at the corner of the school dance, but I’d know her anywhere.
Anywhere is here. Right in front of me, saying my name.
The strangest desire wraps its fists around my heart and squeezes. I wonder if her hair still smells like Pantene.
My foot doesn’t hurt at all.
2
Summer
His eyes give him away.
He’s backlit by unearthly winter light from the huge front windows, his face in shadow, but those eyes. It doesn’t matter that we’re standing in the sleek, subtly patriotic waiting room at Heroes on the Homefront, where professionalism and empathy are our top priorities. Every inch of me is alive with his presence.
It’s Dayton. My Dayton. Or—Wes’s Dayton, really. He was never mine.
That doesn’t matter. I’d know those eyes anywhere.
I dismissed it when I saw the name on my appointment list. D. Nash could’ve been anyone. No reason to get nervous. No reason to think he’d walk into this office in Midtown, three months after I started my dream job. To keep the workload under control, we don’t do verifications or research until the veterans have attended an intake meeting. About a quarter of the people on my list every day don’t show up.
Dayton showed up.
So did my last appointment, which is why I’m late for Dayton. Gregory DeWitt looked fine, sitting in the waiting room, even flashed me a smile on the way back to my office. I thought it’d be simple. A little brush-up of the resume, a few questions about his general interests, and I could look at listings before my eleven o’clock.
He wasn’t fine.
He’d sweat through his shirt by the time he sat in the chair across from me and said listen, I don’t go out much. By “much” he meant that he hadn’t left his apartment in three weeks, but he was running out of money. The VA was dragging its feet on approving him for disability, one domino falling, then another. I couldn’t kick him out. It wouldn’t have been right.
I had the apology on my lips when I stepped into the waiting room but the words fall to the floor and scatter. I tuck my hands together to stop them from trembling.
Carla, the receptionist, is about to lose her mind. I can tell by the way she’s sitting forward in her ergonomic desk chair, pretending not to notice that the silence between me and one Mr. Nash—Day—has gone on too long not to be awkward.
That’s not good.
I look into those dark eyes, those wells of pain flecked with surprise, and forget to be professional.
He’s different. Even broader than the last time I saw him, more muscled, and peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt are the black curves of tattoos. The way he’s standing isn’t how I remember it, but he’s been in the service. That changes a man. It’s changed Dayton. The evidence is right in front of me.
Tattoos.
He never had tattoos before, and if I’m right, the lines I’m seeing are the tip of the iceberg. A wild curiosity ignites in the center of my chest, a dry brush going up at the strike of a match, clarifying my strange double vision. I see him as he is. I see him as he used to be. The two versions compete for my focus.
I move before I can stop myself, crossing to the first row of those godawful chairs. They look lovely. Try sitting in one for twenty minutes, though, and you’ll change your opinion.
I shouldn’t do this—it’s against the code of being in the office—but every breath is tinged with a strange excitement, a strange dread. I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around him, right above his waist, and hug the hard, solid mass of his body.
It’s a mistake.
For an instant we’re standing together, right there in the waiting room for everyone to see, and then my freak hug has knocked him off balance. He takes a step onto his left foot. Something’s not right. He goes over, sitting down hard into the chair behind him.
“Shit.”
“Oh—” I can’t get my arms untangled from his waist fast enough, so I fall along with him, and both of us are tangled up in what has to be the greatest mortification the world has ever known. “I’m sorry, Day, I—” The old nickname swims up from years ago, from back when I could hear his low voice through the wall while he played video games with Wes in the middle of the night, and my face goes molten. I yank my hands from behind his back and straighten up.
Oh, God.
No, of course I’m not the little girl he knew back then. I’m all grown up and perfectly composed. I meant for this to happen.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes against my skin. There are two other veterans in the waiting room, and then there’s Carla. The wheel of her chair squeaks as she shifts her position, no doubt to get a better look.
“It’s fine.” His voice is gruff, and when he glances up I see something in his eyes that I missed before. It’s gone so fast, locked down behind a tightening in his jaw, that maybe I’m wrong.
It looked like shame.
But for the life of me, I can’t imagine what Day could be ashamed of. He’s a hero.
I smooth my hair back into its ponytail. Pretend he’s like anyone else. His coat, navy blue, over a white dress shirt. Tan dress pants, an adult version of the khakis he and Wes used to wear for special occasions.
The pants are hiked up to the socket of a prosthesis.
That explains why he lost his balance when I tackled him like a teenager at a One Direction concert.
I breathe away the heat pressing against my cheeks, but he’s seen me looking. I offer him a hand up. It’s the least I can do, even if the gesture is totally ineffectual. I’m not a weakling. He’s tall and muscular, but I could at least—
He dismisses the offer with a shake of his head and pushes himself up using the arm of the chair instead. Day narrows his eyes over my shoulder—jeez, Carla, be a little less obvious, would you?—and looks down at me.
Take control of the situation. This is your job. You are here to help. To prove that you can help.
“Let’s head back to my office.”
I try for a neutral tone, like Dayton is any other client, but he’s not any other client. He doesn’t smile but the corner of his mouth lifts up a fraction of an inch.
“Okay.”
How long has it been since I last saw him? Up until this moment, if you asked me, I’d have been able to give you an exact number of days. But right now, standing next to him in this waiting room, the cold, clean scent of him filling my lungs, I have no idea. Has it been three years? How did I ever go that long without seeing him? My soul is lit up like the Empire State Building on a clear night. My soul…and other parts of me. It’s like my soul doesn’t remember that he took my heart in those big, rough hands and squeezed until it
broke.
“Summer?”
My name is soft on his lips, and watching those lips form the word sends illicit pleasure tumbling through my brain.
“Yeah?”
A nod of his head, a quick gesture behind me. “Your office?”
Now the blush takes over. I can’t stop it. “Right. Of course. Right.” I turn on my heel and lead the way.
* * *
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Amelia Wilde writes steamy contemporary romance and loves it a little too much. She lives in Michigan with her husband and daughters. She spends most of her time typing furiously on an iPad and appreciating the natural splendor of her home state from where she likes it best: inside.
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Also by Amelia Wilde
Wounded Hearts
Before She Was Mine: Dayton Nash survived the war, but he might not survive falling in love with his best friend’s little sister.
After I Was His: War has torn Wes Sullivan apart. Whitney Coalport could put him back together…if they don’t destroy each other first.
Tall Dark & Handsome (A Wounded Hearts Spinoff): Cannon Hunt is the last person Juno Anderson wants to cast in her gritty war film. He’s the last person she wants to fall for. It’s never going to happen. Never…
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Single Dad’s Barista: Dash isn’t in Lakewood to make friends. He’s here to crush the competition… until he meets his rival and things reach a boiling point.
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Dirty Royal: Alec is a real prince…and a total pr*ck. But once Jessica’s had a handful of his crown jewels, she’ll follow him anywhere…including across the ocean.
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Copyright Information
Cover Design: Cover It! Designs
© 2018 Amelia Wilde
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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For more books by Amelia Wilde, visit her online at www.awilderomance.com
