Alive Day: Homefront, Book 2

by Rebecca Crowley

  He thought about the suddenness of Mia’s kiss, her wrists crossing behind his neck, the impetuous, unselfconscious press of her mouth against his. Her body felt improbably tiny against his, and he’d marveled that so much vibrancy and personality and intelligent spark could be contained in such a small frame. He’d tasted cocoa in her mouth, imagined her popping a dark chocolate square between those soft lips as she read over some suicidal grunt’s case file, and that combination of girlish sweetness and indefatigable strength sent a sharp bolt of desire blazing through his chest.

  He’d seen honest attraction in her face, read sincere interest in her eyes. And the way she hung onto him, leaning into him, was a more meaningful expression of trust than if she’d said the words aloud.

  He reached down and picked up a screwdriver, hefting its solid handle, running his thumb along the cold metal. Then he walked over to the cardboard box, stabbed the screwdriver into the brown packing tape and ripped it open.

  Four hours later Ethan was sweating, starving and full of more energy than he’d had in months. He put the last book on the flat-pack shelf he’d dragged out of the garage and finally assembled and stood with his hands on his hips, surveying his handiwork.

  “That’s more like it,” he murmured approvingly. The box was unpacked and its contents disseminated. The bottles were rinsed and sorted to recycle. All the books that had been piled in the hall were shelved alphabetically by author, and those that didn’t fit were stacked neatly next to the bookcase. He’d changed the sheets on his barely used bed, filled the dishwasher and even bagged up a load of clothes to take to the dry cleaner. He felt productive and fulfilled, and as an idea soared and then burst in his brain like those maddening fireworks a few weeks ago, he started toward the door before any of his bad old clouds could move in to mar his clear mental skies.

  When the cool solidity of the flagstones penetrated his socks to the soles of his feet he realized he hadn’t put on shoes. In fact he hadn’t changed clothes at all—he was still in his T-shirt and ACU trousers.

  He paused on the front walk, the fresh evening air easing his thrumming enthusiasm. Was this a terrible plan? Was he about to make a huge mistake? Maybe this was just a manic upswing and a rock-bottom low was doomed to follow.

  He cut off that line of thinking with a shake of his head. He was sick of being miserable all the time. Crazy or not, this was a chance he wanted to take.

  “Once more unto the breach,” he declared to the indifferent darkness, then cut across both their lawns to Mia’s door and firmly pressed the bell.

  There was an audible shuffling behind the door, perceptible hesitation, then it cracked just wide enough to reintroduce him to that frightened woman he’d glimpsed in the bookshop.

  One look at the wariness and alarm in her eyes and he clamped his back teeth together, less interested in the circumstances that put that fear there than in where he could find the man responsible, so he could administer a lesson in good, old-fashioned Southern manners. Preferably using the butt of his service weapon.

  “Ethan.” Mia exhaled, the caution draining from her face as she swung open the door. “I couldn’t imagine who would stop by so late, but I should’ve guessed it was you.”

  His confidence stumbled but he dragged it back to its feet. She meant he was close, so he could easily wander over—not that an unannounced, late-night visit was in keeping with his characteristically eccentric behavior.

  She took in his clothes and shoeless feet and frowned. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s great. I’m sorry about the hour. I guess I lost track of time.” Dammit, he felt a tremor starting in his hand, the insidious spasm a reminder that a couple hours of housecleaning didn’t make him a fully functioning member of society. He shoved his hand behind his back, hoping she hadn’t noticed. “Anyway, I wanted to ask about your plans for the weekend.”

  She smiled, and it was so bright that for a minute it felt more like noon than nine o’clock. “Well, I’m busy on Saturday. I met this really cute officer and he’s taking me out.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  “Very.” She lounged against the doorframe. “So what can I do for you? Need to borrow a cup of sugar?”

  “I came to propose a change in plans. Instead of waiting until Saturday, would you like to have dinner tomorrow? I’ll cook. Save us the drive into town.”

  She shrugged, having no idea that what seemed like a casual change in date was one of the most momentous steps he’d taken on the long road back to his old self.

  “Sure, that works. What can I bring?”

  “Your most embarrassing anecdotes from our undergraduate days. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Her smile faltered so briefly he almost missed it. He bet most people did, because she’d already dragged it back in place so convincingly he almost doubted what he saw. But between that moment in the bookshop and the guarded cast to her eyes as she answered the door he knew she had something painful simmering beneath the surface.

  He hoped she’d eventually trust him enough to tell him what it was.

  “Six thirty okay?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Six thirty’s perfect. Let me know if you need directions to my house.”

  “I’ll call you if I get lost.” She backed into the entryway and put her hand on the knob. “Good night, Ethan.”

  He raised his hand in farewell and started back across the lawn, his step light and his cheeks practically aching from the size of his grin.

  He was going to do this. He was going to be okay.

  Chapter Six

  “I’m in control of this situation. I’m in control of my thoughts and feelings. I’m making the decision to enjoy this evening without feeling anxious. Everything will be fine.”

  Mia repeated the statements in time with the straightening iron she ran through her hair, using the same soothing self-talk technique she taught battle-traumatized soldiers to prepare herself for her date with Ethan.

  “For God’s sake,” she muttered in self-disgust, slamming the iron on the dresser. “It’s just dinner.” And an outdoor barbecue if the smell of charcoal drifting up to her window was any indication. If he planned to sexually assault her, surely he would prefer to do it inside?

  She’d told her colleague, Jeff, where she’d be and what was happening. She’d keep an eye on her drink and she wouldn’t go overboard with the alcohol. And her short-sleeved, palm-tree-print dress hardly screamed “take me now”—not that what she wore should make any difference, she reminded herself firmly.

  Yet she couldn’t shake the sense that Ethan was dangerous—and the threat was more likely to her heart than her body.

  She glared irritably at her reflection in the mirror. She was fed up with this stupid relationship anxiety, the lack of faith in men’s intentions and her inability to trust herself because of one failure of self-control ten years ago.

  “Ten years ago,” she emphasized aloud. She’d been a naïve undergraduate who didn’t know her limits. Lots of women probably had similar if not identical experiences, but did they let that single night curtail their love lives for the next decade? Of course not. They hurt, then they learned and moved on. They didn’t spend their adulthood serially dating men they found comfortably underwhelming and fleeing at the first sign of attraction.

  Her hand stilled over the hairbrush on the dresser. Was she doing it again? Was she going out with Ethan because subconsciously she knew his combat trauma would make a long-term relationship impossible? Was she only able to act on her attraction because she felt safe knowing he was even more broken than she was?

  “This is so fucked up,” she muttered, but raised the brush and pulled it through her hair, hating herself a little more with each stroke. She couldn’t back out now, and there were still five weeks left in the research project—which meant five more weeks with nothing but a foot of drywall keeping them apart. She’d recognized and acknowledged her dubious motive, and now she had to set it aside an
d offer Ethan the open-minded honesty he deserved.

  Mia grabbed a bottle of wine out of the fridge and opened her front door, then froze in confusion as she caught sight of the man on Ethan’s doorstep. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, his brown hair was cut to army regulation. He had a heart-shaped box of chocolates in one hand and a lavender balloon proclaiming Happy Easter! in the other.

  They regarded each other with mutual surprise as Mia crossed the lawn.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her as she approached. “He’s expecting me.”

  She frowned. Was this a double date? “He’s expecting me too.”

  He winced. “Okay, I lied, he’s not expecting me. I thought you might be worried I was trying to break in.”

  “I don’t think many burglars carry helium balloons. I’m Mia Levin. Ethan invited me over for dinner.” She stuck out her hand.

  He transferred the balloon to the other hand and shook hers distractedly, his brow furrowing. “He did?”

  She nodded.

  “He asked you to come over to his house? Tonight?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. It’s good. Great, actually.”

  “Because?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “He hasn’t told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  He glanced at the door, then dropped his voice as though it might have ears. “It’s Ethan’s Alive Day. Exactly a year ago today he was on a forest mission in Kunar Province and he took a bullet in his helmet.” He tapped his forehead. “Kevlar stopped it from penetrating his skull. He walked away with whiplash and a concussion but he was centimeters away from going home in a box. It’s a tough anniversary for anyone, and I was worried he’d—”

  The door swung open so abruptly Mia jumped. In slim-fitting khaki trousers and a collared shirt with rolled-up sleeves Ethan looked like he’d just arrived in Kansas from the Hamptons, and she couldn’t help but lick her lips as he glanced bewilderedly between his two guests.

  “Here.” The other man thrust the chocolates and balloon into Ethan’s hands. “I didn’t know you were having company.”

  Ethan squinted at the balloon. “Why does this say Happy Easter?”

  “It was on sale.”

  Visibly grappling to regain his composure, Ethan introduced them. “Mia, this is Staff Sergeant Chance McKinley. Chance, this is Mia Levin, the psychologist.”

  Chance’s eyes widened in recognition but he said nothing.

  “McKinley is in Echo Company’s Second Platoon, but he declined to participate in the therapy project.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Chance grinned. “I like my crazy just the way it is. Anyway, I’ll leave you two to your evening. You’re looking well, Captain. Call me if you need anything.”

  Chance ducked his head in farewell and loped off to his car. Ethan ushered Mia inside with a hand on her back, tugging down the balloon to fit through the doorway.

  “McKinley has an eccentric sense of humor,” he said apologetically, motioning for her to follow him to the backyard. He dumped the chocolates on the kitchen table as they passed and tied the balloon to the back of a chair.

  She waved dismissively. “He was fine. I brought you this.”

  Ethan read the label on the wine bottle. When he looked up at her with a smile, her body eased just enough for her to realize how tense she’d become since Chance’s revelation about the significance of this evening. She took a deep breath, remembering his clear-eyed sobriety when he’d asked to move their date from Saturday to Friday. He wanted her here—she wasn’t intruding.

  “Chenin blanc from Stellenbosch. Did you drive all the way to Wichita for this?”

  “Nope, I bought it down the road in Meridian. That liquor store in the strip mall with Rock’s has this magical shelf of amazing wines tucked in between cases of Bud Light.”

  “Then I’m as impressed by the acquisition process as by the end result.”

  Mia settled into the kitchen chair he’d placed on the grass near the grill while he poured the wine. When he leaned over her to clink glasses she got a whiff of his bittersweet juniper scent—and nothing else. His quick gaze, smooth smile and confident movements as he turned steaks on the grill attested that this glass of wine was his first drink of the day.

  That man in his boxers stinking of whiskey, those bottles overflowing from the cardboard box in his kitchen—maybe that wasn’t really him at all. Maybe she’d caught him in a bad patch those first few weeks. Maybe she’d underestimated this handsome officer all along.

  Hope and caution fought for dominance in her stomach, and she took another bracing sip of wine.

  Dinner proceeded more companionably than any date in Mia’s recollection. Ethan would’ve been charm personified if not for his occasional flashes of shyness, the modest smiles and self-effacing shrugs that were achingly endearing. His intelligence shone so brightly it would seem arrogant on another man, but Ethan’s inborn humility and old-fashioned Southern manners tempered it to a warm, welcoming beacon.

  Soon it was dark, and as she leaned down to slap another mosquito off her leg she reluctantly decided it was time to take her leave. When she straightened, Ethan was watching her intently.

  “Do you want to move inside? There’s more wine, or I can make tea.”

  No. You need to go home. You’ve been here long enough. Just because he seems smart and gentle and he made you laugh and his body felt so good and that kiss tasted so sweet doesn’t mean—

  “I’d love a cup of tea.”

  His grin stood out in the darkness. “I’ll boil the kettle.”

  The kitchen seemed almost painfully bright after so much time spent in the fading sunlight, and Mia gratefully volunteered to carry their two steeping mugs into the sitting room while Ethan sliced three different cheeses and piled crackers and grapes on a plate.

  The interior of the house bore no resemblance to the cluttered mess she’d seen the day of the car accident. Everything was clean and in its right place, and she drifted over to one wall to examine the framed pictures hung above the sofa. They were all printed reproductions of vintage war posters, exhorting readers to help America’s sons by taking out victory bonds or knitting socks for the troops. She raised her hand to trace the image of a soldier on an army recruitment poster, lifting her finger to the curve of his steel bucket-style helmet.

  She paused with the mugs in her hand, listening to Ethan explain how to get to the county farmer’s market when she saw it, stopping so suddenly tea sloshed over the rims and pooled into the saucers.

  “It’s a long drive for a Saturday morning, but if you’re—everything okay?”

  She pushed her mouth into a smile as he took one of the mugs from her hand and lowered it to the table, but she could see that he’d followed her line of sight. There was no way she could pretend now. He knew that she knew.

  “Sit,” he urged and she sank onto the couch, full of guilt that she hadn’t confessed her knowledge sooner and apprehensive at how the evening was about to change. She should’ve gone home when she had the chance. She should’ve known she couldn’t keep herself out of a risky situation.

  Ethan reached behind the couch and picked up the helmet from the floor, then sat down beside her.

  “I guess Chance told you.”

  “He shouldn’t have. It’s none of my business how you want to mark a significant day in your life, or if you want to at all.”

  “He was just looking out for me. He’s a good friend.” He held out the helmet. “Do you want to see it?”

  She took the camouflage-covered Kevlar in her hands. “It’s heavy.”

  “Especially when it’s strapped to your head for twelve hours.”

  He shifted closer, reaching to turn the helmet in her grip.

  “This is the mount for our night-vision gear.” He tapped a black plastic rectangle on the front. “And this is where the bullet lodged. It would’ve gone straight through if Corporal Wright hadn’t stood up. His bod
y slowed it down.”

  She pushed her index finger inside the hole. The cold scrape of armor and the tickling edges of the punctured cloth cover sent a shiver up her spine. She yanked her finger out, thrusting the helmet into Ethan’s lap.

  He ran his thumb over the bullet hole. “This is why I joined the army instead of the air force. My dad was so angry, but I was insistent. I wanted to be on the ground, shoulder to shoulder with the men in my command, fighting my way through the war instead of flying over it. Classic teenage boy, thinking I was immortal and there was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “And now?”

  “Army life is harder than I ever imagined, but I’m handling it. I am,” he repeated, as if he needed the affirmation.

  “Yeah, you are.”

  Mia wasn’t sure what propelled her to pluck the helmet from his hand, toss it on the floor and lay her palm on his cheek. It certainly wasn’t good sense or logic, according to the part of her brain still shouting at her to run from this complicated, unknowable man. Was it foolish attraction? Brazen lust? Or simply her well-used self-destruct button clicking home?

  None of those answers felt right, not when she saw the answering glimmer of gut-deep yearning in Ethan’s eyes, not when he threaded his fingers through the hair at her nape with such cherishing tenderness that she had to swallow hard against the lump suddenly clogging her throat.

  Then he lowered his mouth to hers and her vocabulary shrank until it wouldn’t score two points on a Scrabble board.

  She had no words to describe the movement of his lips, the penetration of his tongue, the thrill as his hand tightened on her upper arm. He was unlike anyone she’d been with before, so much more masculine and yet less aggressive, each touch openly communicating heady desire at the same time it asked permission.

  She pulled back in his embrace and put her hands on his shoulders.