by Clara Frost
Emily met his gaze and looked into those smoldering green eyes. The cab felt suddenly stuffy, as if someone had opened the door of an oven. “Do you... I... uh...” She had to break the contact just to form words. “I know it’s a giant cliché, but do you want to come up for a cup of coffee? Or a brandy?”
“I would love to.”
Emily remembered to breathe. She pushed some cash to the cabbie, then climbed out of the backseat. Her legs wobbled as she led him to the front of the building. She wasn’t sure exactly what she planned to do with him, but if it didn’t end with both of them naked for at least a couple hours, she was going to be very disappointed.
Chapter 7
T
HE apartment was modern and clean, an Ikea show room with an excess of bookshelves. Rafa wobbled over to the nearest one and skimmed through the titles while Emily went to the kitchen to start the coffee. Shelves of psychology texts, a long row of John Grisham and, tucked away at the bottom of a shelf, enough romance novels to catch even his mother’s eye.
“You weren’t kidding about being a reader,” he called into the other room.
“I was not. Cream or sugar?”
“No, thank you.” He slipped around the leather sofa and took a seat on the end. He still wasn’t entirely sober. There was no television in the room. He wondered if there was one in the bedroom. No, better to not entertain thoughts of the bedroom. The boys at the barracks had talked about the “cup of coffee” being the last step before the bedroom, but he didn’t want to get ahead of himself.
As if going back to her house after the second date wasn’t getting ahead of himself.
Emily came in with two steaming mugs. She still looked amazing. The navy dress hugged her hips and her bust, showing off her curves to maximum effect. It was all he could do not to stare.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting his mug. He took a sip and smiled. Even without cream or sugar, it had a heavy, sweet vanilla flavor.
Emily set hers on the end table opposite him and went to a small radio tucked onto one of the bookshelves. A moment later, quiet violin music started playing. “It will shuffle. I hope you like classical.”
“That works for me.” He held up his mug. “Your coffee is good.”
She shook her head. “It’s just from a pre-mix cup. Is it true that you special forces types take your coffee really seriously?”
“Some of us do. Before missions, guys like to have routines. Rituals. In the old days soldiers sharpened their weapons. Some still clean their guns, but others will take an hour to make themselves a perfect cup of coffee.”
“So what about you? Do you have pre-mission rituals?”
“Not anymore.” He didn’t have missions anymore. No need for rituals. But that wasn’t what she was asking and he knew it. “My job was to make sure my men were prepared and that I knew every last detail about the mission.”
“So you studied a lot?”
He smiled. “Every mission was like the night before final exams. And if I screwed up, people died.”
“Wow.” Her eyes strayed to his empty cuff.
He tucked his good hand over the cuff. “It turns out there are worse things than death, too.” At some level, every soldier, at least every experienced soldier, knew that. They all lost friends, and they all saw ruined bodies go home.
When he was young he’d thought he was immortal, but as he’d gotten to his late 20s and had lost too many men and too many friends, he’d learned better.
“But you’re here. You’re alive. You’re moving around and--“
“I feel sorry for myself sometimes. I know I do and I know I shouldn’t. There are others that have it worse though.” He twisted in his seat. “Have you treated any PTSD patients?”
She nodded.
“PTSD is a tricky thing. I spent a lot of time with guys at Walter Reed talking about it. Most people, and I mean like 99% of civilians and probably 95% of the armed forces, react badly to really intense stress. Seeing a buddy die beside you. Having a bomb go off close enough to leave you deaf for six hours. It leaves a scar on the inside.
“But some people it doesn’t affect. They are so locked in on who they are and what their mission is, that anything that happens, happens. These are people so absolutely sure of themselves and their role in the world, that violence and stress is like just an occupational hazard on the level of traffic jams and broken printers.”
Emily watched him, her fascination obvious. It made him feel like a specimen under the microscope. He realized that he was sitting on the edge of her sofa, so he slid back and tried to look more relaxed than he really felt. Telling war stories didn’t do a thing for him, but talking about the psychology of a warrior? That could keep him going for hours.
“So what kind of person are you?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t had any nightmares, if that’s what you mean. I’m a tiger without its fangs, I guess.”
“Perhaps.” She rose and collected her empty mug. “Care for another cup of coffee?”
Rafa pushed himself to his feet. “You don’t have anything a little stronger, do you?” He followed her to the kitchen, stopping at the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room.
Emily took his cup and set it in the sink, then pulled open a cabinet beside the fridge. She produced a pair of bottles. “Port or cognac?”
“Yes.” He grinned.
She poured two glasses of port and gave him one. “I’m in the mood for something sweeter.”
They went back to the sofa and sat, though this time she sat beside him, only a few inches away. He ached to touch her, to stroke that beautiful blonde hair. She was sending all the signals, but he waited.
She took a sip of her port, then set her hand on his knee.
#
His left leg was granite-hard, and when he shifted toward her, she could feel the muscles move. It felt like something out of a scifi novel. Liquid steel.
He set his hand on hers and squeezed. “I think...”
Emily turned her head up, looked into his eyes again. His face moved forward, and their lips collided. The world dissolved down to that one connection, so warm and soft.
His kisses came gently at first, but soon his urgency grew to match her need. His stubble rubbed her chin, rough and manly and pure sex. Their tongues fought a pitched battle between their lips. Emily pulled away gasping and laughing.
“You don’t kiss fairly!”
Rafa looked at her with a mixture of shock and desire. He pushed his hair from his eyes. “You don’t either.”
“I can see where this is leading.” She threw herself at him, catching him by surprise and bearing him down onto the couch. She laid across him, her body pressed tight to his, and planted another kiss on his lips. One of his legs slid between hers, and they snuggled closer together, intertwined.
He tucked one arm behind her back, holding her to him. The other traced over her flank, her hip, feeling her curves. Her dress rode up, exposing her thigh, but she didn’t care. Every inch of skin he touched burned, and her desire increased with the flames. Their tongues warred, hot and sweet. He tasted of coffee and alcohol and man.
She broke the connection between their lips again.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. Well,” she smiled, “other than you still having clothes on.”
His surprised twisted into a smile. “Then perhaps you should do something about that.”
Emily tugged at his shirt, lifting it over his head. What she found surprised her, even though she knew it would be there. The whole right side of his chest was covered in a mass of puckered red scars. She reached out tenderly, stroking him.
“Do they hurt?”
“Not right now.” His hand caressed her hip, tugged lightly on her dress, lifting it an inch.
“You first.” She moved to his waist, unhooking his belt and unzipping his zipper. He worked with her, lifting his hips to let her slide his slacks down. Again, she knew what to expect, but
was still unprepared. Even in his boxers, she could see the scars working their way down his leg until the wounds and the leg both ended at a prosthetic cup just below the knee. A long metal rod extended from the cup and ended with a metal foot.
Rafa flinched away from her gaze, and she had a feeling that no woman--at least no woman outside a medical setting--had seen him like this. She could imagine that he must feel vulnerable, and everything within her yearned to hold him and to protect and to love him. She stroked his thigh, felt his trembles.
“You’re beautiful, you know,” she told him.
“I think I’m supposed to say that to you,” he replied.
“Maybe. But right now, I think you need to hear it more. Never, ever think that you’re less of a man because of this.” Emily took his hand and led him toward the bedroom.
Chapter 8
Y
OU'RE glowing,” Christa said.
“I’m just sweaty.” Emily plucked a hand towel from her gym bag and wiped her forehead.
“Nope, you’re glowing. I take it the second date went well?”
“Extremely well.”
They were at the base of the trail again, at the end of a 10k jog. Rafa had helped her look for cars earlier in the afternoon, then dropped her off at Christa’s. Emily took a long swallow of water.
“How are you doing?” Christ asked. “I mean with Scott and all?”
“I’m good, Chrissy. Better than I thought.” Emily looked off toward the mountains. The first good snowfall of the season had fallen on the high peaks, and they glistened white and pure. “Scott would have wanted me to be happy. I loved him. You know that. He knew that. And I... I think I’m ready now. I’ve taken the time to mourn him and I’ve found my peace with it.”
Christa patted her shoulder. “That’s good. So you think there’s something real between you and Rafael?”
“There could be. I hope there is.”
He was deep and complicated and mysterious, but she relished the opportunity to learn more about him. Not so much to peel away his layers, but to be there as he unveiled them. To help him when he needed help, and to comfort him when he needed comfort.
And maybe, just maybe, to love him when he needed love.
Chapter 9
H
ARVEY Windsor didn’t want to cooperate. He sat across the table from Emily, staring at the wooden puzzle. Barely seven years old and well over a hundred pounds, Harvey filled out the child-sized chair in a way a boy twice his age shouldn’t.
It broke Emily’s heart.
“Do you see the puppy’s face, Harvey?” she asked.
He crossed his arms. “No.”
“Look here.” She shifted a few pieces around, showing him how the poodle’s tan face formed the middle of the puzzle.
“Puzzles are dumb.”
Emily sat up straighter. “Harvey, that’s not a very nice thing to say.”
“My grandma has a poodle. He scares me.”
That wasn’t what she’d expected, but it was something she could work with. “What’s his name?”
“Snowflake. He barks at me when no one is around. And he jumps on me. And I don’t do nothing to make him.” His little cheeks puffed out. “My grandma makes me sit in the corner when he barks at me.”
“Why does she do that?”
“Don’t know.”
“Are you mean to Snowflake?”
Harvey shook his head.
“Have you ever played with his toys? Or kicked him?”
“No, Miss Emily.” He looked away, up and to the left. Even in a child, it was a sign of deceit.
Harvey wasn’t seeing her because he didn’t get along with his grandma’s dog. He was seeing her because his father had finally decided he was bigger than any boy his age should be, and his mother wasn’t doing anything about it. Telling them to lay off the hamburgers and milkshakes wasn’t enough.
“Does your grandma feed Snowflake?”
His head jerked up at that. So whatever it was, it had something to do with food. Harvey nodded.
“And is Snowflake mean to you before or after dinner?”
Harvey’s voice was barely a whisper. “After.”
“Have you ever eaten Snowflake’s dog food?”
Harvey nodded.
Emily held her breath. She’d been worried about that. If he was taking the dog’s food, his problems ran deeper than she’d imagined. “Maybe that’s why Snowflake gets upset with you, Harvey. He shares his food with you, but do you share with him?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe we can find something that you can share with him then? Something like a pretzel. Do you like pretzels?”
He shrugged.
Emily realized that he probably didn’t even know what a pretzel was. “Well, maybe we can get you and Snowflake a little bag of pretzels. It could be your special treat to share together, and then you could let him have all of his dog food.”
He smiled at that. “I like sharing.”
That was an odd statement, coming from a boy his age. Harvey was an only child, and if she’d learned anything about boys like him, it was that they hated sharing when they first encountered it. Kindergarten was always a chore as they learned how to follow the rules of a classroom.
“That’s good. Can you tell me what you share?”
“M&Ms, Starbursts, Diet Coke...” he kept going, giving her what she assumed to be a detailed outline of everything his mother kept in the cupboard.
“Well, Harvey, it sounds like you get plenty of snacks. I have another idea for you, though. Do you ever play outside with Snowflake?”
“Sometimes Grandma lets us. While she watches her shows.”
Emily had to suppress a laugh. She could remember being about his age, and her mother watching her soaps in the afternoon during what was supposed to be nap time.
“Well, I think you and Snowflake should spend some more time playing outside. Does your grandma have a yard?”
He told her about his swing set and his rocking horse in exquisite detail. The chains were rusted and really squeaked when he got to swinging, and Snowflake like to howl along to the noise. That was usually when Grandma made him come inside and take his nap.
Emily listened, nodding thoughtfully. “Do you play with other kids?”
He looked at her with wide eyes, shaking his head. “No.”
“Never? What about at school?”
“Sometimes. They don’t like me.”
Emily chatted with him a while longer, trying to work around obliquely to why he thought the other kids didn’t like him, but she kept coming back to one explanation: “They just don’t.”
Someone knocked softly on the door to the office. Emily glanced up and realized it was the end of their hour. Harvey was smiling, which was a real improvement over how they’d started the session.
“Are you ready to see your dad?”
Harvey hopped out of his chair and followed her to the door. “Bye bye, Miss Emily.”
“Bye, Harvey.” She sent him off with his dad, then went back to her desk to write up her notes.
The poor boy had image problems. She was sure of that. It was almost like looking into a boy-shaped mirror of her own past.
She set her pen down and leaned back in her chair. Her ankles were still too thick, legs still too heavy. She didn’t keep a mirror in the office, but she knew what she’d see: an older, just as thick girl. She had more curves now than she’d had then, true, but the kids didn’t want to play with her, either.
Emily sighed and picked up the pen. The difference between seven year old Emily and twenty-seven year old Emily was that twenty-seven year old Emily still had bills to pay, and if she didn’t take care of Harvey’s file, they wouldn’t get paid.
As she made her notes, her mind wandered to Rafa and then back to Scott. What she’d had with Scott had been special, and he’d been taken from her too early. She desperately hoped he wouldn’t be upset with her for moving on. He’d have wa
nted her to be happy. Probably. And Rafa made her happy in a way she didn’t think she’d ever feel again.
She finished the notes and placed the pen back in her drawer. No sense in borrowing trouble. It would come soon enough. It always did.
#
Rafa grimaced with every stride. Emily watched him from the corner of her eye. He was sucking wind in a bad way, and favoring his wounded right leg.
“Do you need a break?” Emily asked.
“I’m good.”
He didn’t sound good. He sounded ragged, and it was more than the thin mountain air.
“Well, I need a break.” Emily slowed, her feet scuffing stones and pine needles on the trail. She pointed ahead of them, maybe a quarter mile. “There’s an overlook. Why don’t we take five up there?”
“Okay.” He said it with relief, slowing to walk beside her.
Emily glanced over, taking in the sight of him, her very own broken soldier. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to be worthy of having Rafael Carpenter in her life, but she woke up every day thankful that he was. Even though the IED had taken the bottom of his right leg and all of his right hand, he still looked amazing. Simple gray jogging shorts hugged every curve of his rump, and his matching Army t-shirt showed off a powerful chest.
Rafa smiled, catching her watching him. “I feel like meat on display.”
“What can I say? I’m a Colorado girl. Always loved a nice side of beefcake.”
That drew a good laugh. “I will accept your compliment, but if I catch you coming after me with a steak knife, we’re going to have a problem.” His smooth, faintly Spanish accent was like candy for her ears. It was good to banter with him, both of their insecurities temporarily suspended.
They moved off the trail at the overlook, and Rafa caught her hand with his, giving her a squeeze. The city of Boulder spread out below them. The lakes on the east side of town glistened in the mid-afternoon sun. It was breathtaking.
She glanced over at him, and caught him looking at her the way she was looking at the valley. Heat rose in her cheeks.
