He twisted onto his side and stared at the armchair where Drew had always sat. He could almost see him there now, a beer in hand as he cheered on the Rams. The memory burst forth in vivid color. Drew’s deep voice belting over the television announcer. Reagan sitting in the chair beside him when she wasn’t in the kitchen making appetizers and snacks. Drew and him passionately criticizing the quarterback.
It had been almost a family for Alex. Too many years divided his sister and him; she’d left for college when he was only nine. His brother had never shared his love of sports, following more in the way of his parents’ and sister’s love of the arts.
Until Alex met Drew in boot camp, he’d never really known the bonds of brotherhood. The days he’d spent in this dinky little town during leave, throwing the football around in Drew’s backyard with Chance, barbecuing on the grill, kicking it back. Damn, he missed his best friend. And what he’d done tonight with Reagan changed all those memories.
It made the occasional lingering glance they’d shared seem traitorous. Made the way she innocently paid him no attention seem deliberate. Like they’d been hiding something.
Worse…down deep where the ache started, Alex wanted to do it all over again.
Which made him even more selfish. For Christ’s sake, he’d sunk so far from honor it was shameful. She deserved a better man. He punched a fist into the cushion and swore beneath his breath. Tomorrow, he was cutting the last of that tree off her roof. He’d secure the dangerous parts of her front porch and then help her line up reputable contractors to fix the rest of the things she needed. He didn’t dare wait another day—he couldn’t trust himself to stay.
Chapter Seven
“Shit!”
Reagan’s oath jerked Alex out of sleep. He blinked, groggily, and then scrubbed his eyes, momentarily confused about his surroundings. The scent of something burning cleared the fog. He lifted onto one elbow, peering through the entry to the kitchen with a frown.
A pan clattered. Followed by more of Reagan’s mumbling, but he couldn’t make out what she said. Running water rushed in the sink just as the smoke detector began to beep. His head pounded with each shrill note.
Muttering to himself, he pushed off the couch to investigate the commotion. He glanced at his shirt lying in a rumpled heap on the floor, then thought better of putting the uncomfortably tight thing on. He supposed it didn’t really matter—much as he’d like to erase his behavior last night, he couldn’t, and Reagan had seen everything he had to offer anyway.
Alex found her in the kitchen, standing at the counter, glaring at a pile of something black and charred on a plate. Her hair still mussed from sleep, she wore merely a faded old T-shirt and a pair of sleeping shorts. Plain and natural, she looked sexy as hell. Damn it. He didn’t need to start his morning with a shot of desire, much less a pounding headache.
“Problems?” he grumbled over the ear-splitting beeps, one hand held to his temple.
She jumped, but surprised him with a grin. “I forgot about the bacon. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
Uncertain what to make of her bright and cheery disposition, he stalked to the headache-inducing noisemaker and snatched the battery out. Blessed silence filled the room. He took a deep breath, calming his sensitized nerves.
When he turned around, Reagan had a glass of what looked to be tomato juice in her extended hand.
“Here, have a V8.”
He wrinkled his nose.
She pushed it a little closer. “It’ll help with the hangover.”
“I don’t have a—” Frowning, he accepted the glass. There was no reason to deny his shame. Hell, it was almost a serviceable excuse for the way he’d all but attacked her the minute they walked through the front door last night. It was certainly well-deserved punishment.
Bracing himself for the terrible taste, he tipped it to his mouth, downed half the glass, and set it on the counter. The reflexive grimace was impossible to control. God, he hated tomato anything.
Why was she so chipper? He was pretty sure she’d cried herself to sleep before he finally dropped off again last night. The last thing he’d expected to wake up to was Reagan acting like everything was normal. Like they hadn’t had mind-blowing sex on her couch.
Drew’s couch.
Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised. Since he’d arrived, she’d acted like nothing had happened. Avoidance. Plain as day.
He shoved the internal voice aside and gritted his teeth. “Bacon for what?”
Reagan waved a dismissive hand as she turned back to the charred food. “I was going to make a casserole for tonight.”
The thought of food made his stomach twist. Best not to shake it up by continuing that line of conversation. He carefully eased himself into a chair at the oak-finished bar that separated the dining table from the expansive kitchen. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Alex glanced out the back patio doors at the gray sky. Damn, a storm would only set him back and prevent him from leaving.
Silence gnawed at him as she tinkered around in the kitchen, grabbing things from the fridge, putting them back, dragging bowls from the cabinets, and clanking around at the sink. It seemed hours stretched out of a few minutes. He knew he ought to say something, but what, exactly, eluded him.
Finally, he decided to give it a try. Anything was better than the lame-ass, obvious quiet. “About last night, Reagan.”
She turned around, a large plastic spoon in one hand, and gave him an adamant shake of her head. “Don’t you dare apologize. That’s worse.”
So she was upset—he didn’t need any more confirmation. He heaved a sigh and drummed his fingers on the countertop as she went back to whatever it was she was working on.
Screw this—she wasn’t escaping this conversation. And he wouldn’t chicken out. Things needed to be said. “He was my best friend, Reagan. I can’t just forget all the time we’ve been together, the three of us. Look me in the eyes and tell me what we did last night doesn’t bother you to some degree.”
She spun again, a frown marring her pretty face. She began to answer, then evidently thought better of it, closed her mouth, and shrugged.
Damn it.
Another clap of thunder made the house shake. Rain crashed into the sliding glass door. Buckets of rain. Reagan’s frown deepened. “I have more pressing things to worry about than any sort of guilt, Alex.”
With that sharp retort, she bent to the cabinet beneath the sink, pulled out a large soup pot, and dashed out of the room. He twisted in his seat, watching as she set the pot on the floor in her front room. No sooner had she set it down than a telltale plink rang out.
Fuck. Her damaged roof. She was right—more important things needed consideration. Namely the chaotic state of her affairs. But her sharp tone warned him now wasn’t the time to broach that subject.
He pushed off his high-top chair and went to retrieve his clothes from the front room. “I’m going to run to the hardware store. Is there anything you need while I’m out?”
She glanced at him, surprise widening her eyes. She cleared her expression quickly, though, and nodded. “I could use a gallon of milk.” She took a breath, then hurried to add, “If it’s not any trouble.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “I offered, didn’t I?”
“Uh, yeah, but…”
“But what?” Damn, she was walking on eggshells around him. They needed to talk about what had happened…and everything else.
More quietly, she added, “My problems aren’t yours, Alex.”
Annoyance flared to life. As she tried to skirt around him, he grabbed her by the arm. “Damn it, Reagan, Drew saved my life. You think I’m just going to let the most important person in his life suffer? I owe it to him to make sure you’re okay. You’re not. Yet you’re pretending like you are.”
She jerked free of his hold. Her glare was immediate and scathing. “So that’s what this is—pity? Was last night a pity fuck, too? You gave in because I asked?”
“Jesus! No!” He ran a hand down his unshaven face. “I wanted you. I want you still, and I feel like I’m cheating on Drew!” There, it was out. The god-awful truth of it. “He died for me, and the minute he’s gone, here I am chasing after his girl. A girl I’ve always wanted but had to hide that attraction from my best friend. And you’re acting like Drew was never part of your life. Add it all together, and yeah, I feel pretty shitty about everything. Can’t you see that? Can’t you understand?”
She merely looked at him, her expression a torrent of conflicting emotions.
The dam had burst, and Alex couldn’t hold everything in. “He’s not even here, where he should be. Where’s his flag on the wall? Where’s his woodworking stuff?”
“I sold it,” she murmured. “Well, the woodshop. The flag’s in the attic. I thought—”
“You thought what?” he snapped. His fucking flag was in the attic. Forgotten like the rest of him throughout the house. Put away where she wouldn’t have to confront it.
“I thought you might want it,” she answered, her voice barely audible over another roll of thunder. “You were there, too.”
That soft phrase and the pain etched into her face was like a kick to the gut. His anger faded, and he blew out a hard, frustrated breath.
“I’m not dense, Alex,” she continued. “I won’t ever forget Drew, and I know his death tears you apart. But this is what I have left—a house that’s broken and a life to rebuild, however possible.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but instead, she turned and quietly made her way back to the kitchen.
“But you’re not rebuilding,” he responded flatly.
She stopped mid-stride, her shoulders as rigid as stone. He waited for her to whirl around, to give him a good what-for. But she didn’t. Instead, she continued walking, her stride full of purpose, like he’d never said anything at all.
Damn, damn, damn. This was ridiculous. He refused to allow her to avoid him. He followed, tugging his shirt on as he walked. “Look—”
She kept her back to him. “There’s a box of things in the attic you might look through while you’re here. It’s too hard for me to look at them, especially the Purple Heart. I don’t have any children to pass the things on to, and you were with him for everything. The awards probably have more meaning for you.”
Goddamn. She didn’t want any of it? It killed him that her way of moving forward meant erasing Drew. He checked his immediate spike of anger. Grief impacted others in different ways—a lesson he’d learned more than once in his years in the service. He had no right to condemn. Her tears last night were proof enough she wasn’t coldhearted or completely immune to Drew’s death.
A long moment of silence spanned between them. A moment Alex realized he could never fill the right way. He could never replace Drew. She’d confessed the reminders were too hard to confront. Which, though she hadn’t come right out and said it, implied he was a reminder, too. He would always be a reminder. Always be the one who’d survived, when she’d lost everything.
His shoulders slumped. “I’m going to the hardware store.”
She continued to chop at something on her cutting board.
She’d lost her hero. And Lord knew, even if he could move beyond the guilt, he was a sorry substitute for a Purple Heart recipient. Screw his promise—he couldn’t cope with her method of grieving. It pained him too much. He’d finish the roof, find a handyman, and then take off.
He returned to the front room to finish dressing, then left without another word. The rain made him feel a little better—today just wasn’t a sunshine kind of day—and he took his time driving to the hardware store that was more of a little-bit-of-everything general store.
The weather had let up by the time he arrived. He entered and spotted an aging clerk behind the counter. Drew had called him Don.
Hoping the man wouldn’t recognize him, he nodded cordially and wound his way down the aisles to the small section of overpriced clothing. He couldn’t take another minute in this too-tight shirt.
After stuffing a comfortable T-shirt under his arm, he found a pair of serviceable jeans in his size and took them to the counter to ask about shingles and roofing supplies.
The old man strolled to the counter to meet him. His blue eyes were warm and friendly. “Need anything else?”
Alex tamped down a groan and said a silent prayer that the man wasn’t into casual conversation. “Had a tree fall on a shake roof. Sheared off the front corner of shingles, cracked the plywood beneath. I’ve got a contractor coming out, but”—he gestured at the light rain outside—“I need something in the interim.”
The man cocked a head of thinning gray hair, and those blue eyes studied him thoughtfully. “Must be working on the Sanders house. Weren’t you in here with Drew a while back?”
The groan he’d been holding down rumbled softly. “Yeah. We served together.”
Alex knew the moment Don put two and two together and connected with Drew’s death. His expression smoothed with unmistakable sympathy.
“Damn shame what happened to you boys over there. I served my time in ’Nam, and I’ve been in your shoes. It never quite goes away.” He thrust out a bony hand in an offered shake. “Welcome home, son.”
Uncomfortable, Alex shook. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
“Always an honor to shake a fellow soldier’s hand.” He motioned for Alex to follow toward the back corner of the store. As they walked, Don rambled. “People consider Sanders quite the hero, given the Purple Heart and all. Way I heard it, all of you took heavy fire, and he wasn’t the only one who saved some lives.”
“Something like that,” Alex mumbled. A flash memory surfaced—two young Afghan boys trapped in the corner of the street, caught in the cross fire, screaming for their mothers. He’d taken one look at Drew, and they’d both known Alex couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave those kids to die. He’d darted out from cover. Drew followed on his heels…
Alex shook off the flashback before it could consume him.
The old man studied him thoughtfully. “His wife seems to be coping with his death pretty well.”
Too well. As the thought registered, Alex got a good look at the old man’s expression. Speculation registered there. The hint that Alex wasn’t the only one who’d observed something off with Reagan. Loyalty to her, and to the man who’d saved his life, kept him from indulging in gossip. “She’s coping.”
He nodded as he reached for a product booklet. “Her house is a wreck after that storm. Thought I might donate some materials. But my wife…” He shrugged as he flipped the booklet open. “Well, she’s old-fashioned. Didn’t think too kindly of the poor girl selling off her late husband’s things the way she did. Can’t rock the boat too much at home, you know.”
Abruptly changing the subject, the vet looked over his shoulder with a conspiratorial wink. “You should stop by the VFW while you’re in town. The boys and I will give you a real hero’s welcome, if you know what I mean.”
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen in this lifetime. He wasn’t a hero. Not by any stretch. He’d been content with the likely price of his actions, accepting that saving those two kids would leave him dead. But Drew had followed…
The air felt thin, and Alex gripped the corner of a shelving unit to steady himself.
“You okay, son?”
Alex forced out a chuckle. “Skipped breakfast.”
He could tell the old man didn’t believe him, but there was something in the quiet way he assessed Alex. Something Alex only witnessed from other soldiers who’d seen the worst man had to offer and lived to watch another day, bearing healed scars that never quite stopped aching.
Don gave Alex a short nod and pointed at an overhead display of asphalt shingles in a wide array of colors. “I’d put these in if you’re waiting on a contractor. I’ve seen the house. Experience says there’s more structural damage than what’s visible, and the whole roof will have to go. No sense spending the money on the expensive shake, if it’s g
ot to come off.”
Alex nodded. “Easy to put up? I’ve never worked on a roof before.”
“Easy as pie. Just fit them under the shake, as high as you can get them. Start at the bottom, overlap up. You got your work cut out for you.”
As far as Alex was concerned, the more work the better. It might take him all day, but up on the roof, he’d be far enough away he couldn’t make the mistake of touching Reagan again. “Thanks.”
The old man scribbled something on a scrap of paper. “Give this to Ricky up front. He’ll radio it to the shed—you’ll have to drive around the side for loading.”
Alex clasped the paper.
The old man held on. “Son, no one can pretend nothing happened. Talk it out. It’s the only way to heal.” He released his hold on the paper and shuffled away.
As Alex stared after him, a question nagged in the back of his mind. Was he talking about him? Or was he referring to Reagan?
Chapter Eight
Reagan bent over the pile of laundry on the coffee table and fished around until she found the couch cover. After last night’s escapade, it had really needed a good wash. But she wasn’t thinking about last night. Nope. Not happening. She refused to replay the delicious feel of Alex’s hands on her body one more time. If she didn’t think about how alive he’d made her feel, she couldn’t be disappointed over the dead end they’d eventually come to. The one they may have already reached. Particularly given the way he’d seemingly taken charge of her disaster of a front porch and his attempt at telling her how to grieve. She’d just escaped one man who’d refused to relinquish control. If Alex thought he could come in here and take over, she wouldn’t put up with it.
She shook out the cover and tugged it over the arm just as his pickup rolled into the drive. Her traitorous heart skipped a beat, and she froze in place, watching through the window as he headed for the front door.
Shatter Me Page 5
