She crossed over to him, wrapped her hand around his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all. He’s just so”—he shook his head—“innocent, trusting, happy.”
“He’s had no reason not to be.”
“We’re getting a pool.”
She sighed. If he had the money for it, she supposed there was no reason to argue against it. “All right.”
She thought she detected satisfaction in the slight nod he gave her.
“You like the glow in the dark Spiderman?” she asked.
“He’s a little frightening.”
“I thought we could have glow in the dark stars in the nursery, since you like stars.”
“I like that idea.”
Reaching down, she took his hand and led him back into the bedroom.
“Close the door,” she instructed.
He did, and she moved over to the bed, slid her finger into the sash, loosened it, and slipped off her robe.
“Lock it.”
She laughed softly with triumph as he tumbled her onto their bed.
Hunter awoke thinking that there were definite advantages to being married. A woman’s sweet perfume filling his nostrils through the night, her warm body nestled up against his, her soft breathing a calming cadence, her hair tickling his chin, her arms around him.
With Serena he had more than all that. He was acquiring a familiarity—something he’d never had with any other woman. He knew that she preferred to sleep on her side. That she rubbed one foot against the other until she drifted off to sleep. And he knew that he slept more deeply with her beside him. That she held his loneliness at bay.
And that she made him grateful to wake up.
He skimmed his hand along her hip, down and up. He kissed the curve of her neck, the back of her shoulder. He rose up on his elbow—
“Don’t move,” she whispered.
He stilled, listening, his senses on alert. “What’s wrong?” he asked, quietly, barely breathing.
“Morning sickness.” She released a tiny moan. “It comes and goes.”
Morning sickness wasn’t a totally foreign concept to him, but since almost every man he worked with was also single, it wasn’t something that he knew a great deal about.
“How long does it last?” he asked.
“Depends.”
“What exactly are you feeling?”
“Nauseous.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Could you make me some hot tea? Bring me some crackers.”
“Okay. Sure. Be right back.”
Concentrating on his muscles, his movements, he eased himself off the bed. He snatched his jeans off the floor—
“My God!”
He spun around at her exclamation. Looking over her shoulder at him, she was raised on her elbow.
“What?” he asked.
“I didn’t even feel you get up.”
“I thought if you felt the bed moving, you’d get sick.”
She rolled over, stretched out on her side, and studied him. “You’re amazing.”
He grinned at her. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
He could tell from looking into her eyes that she didn’t feel well. The sparkle was missing. He wanted to get back into bed with her and just hold her, comfort her.
Instead he pulled on his jeans. “I won’t be long.”
He headed into the hallway and stopped briefly to look in on Riker. This experience was foreign to him—waking up in a house full of people. But he liked it. He liked it a lot.
The dog lifted his head before leaping off the bed. Riker groaned and rolled over.
Hunter reached down and petted the dog. “Come on, fella. Let’s see if we can figure out where things are in the kitchen.”
Serena’s kitchen held a lot more items than his did. He managed to find the tea bags and pots so he started boiling water. Then decided he’d surprise her with a little more than crackers. He put on a second pot of water and placed a couple of eggs in it. Then he rummaged through the pantry until he located the saltines. Toast was fairly bland so he grabbed the loaf of bread.
He wanted to give her more than she was expecting.
He located a shallow wicker tray that he thought might be an actual breakfast tray so he decided to use it to carry everything upstairs. He popped outside, swiped a few flowers from her garden, and placed them in a glass of water. The water was boiling in both pots. He started timing the eggs and poured water over a tea bag in a cup.
Then he turned to go in search of the sugar and came up short. Riker stood in the doorway, scratching his head, yawning, wearing nothing more than his underwear. How did this kid constantly sneak up on him?
“What are you doing?” Riker asked.
“Making your mom some breakfast. She’s not feeling well—”
“What’s wrong with her?” He appeared terrified. “She’s not going to die is she? Grandma didn’t feel good and she died.”
“Oh, no, she’s not going to die. The baby…makes her feel kinda sick.” He wondered how much the boy knew about the birds and the bees. If he even knew where babies came from. How much he should explain?
“Jason’s mom is going to have a baby.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“Jason said she cries all the time.”
Great. “I don’t think your mom will cry.”
Riker walked farther into the kitchen and peered over the stove. “Are you making egg boats?”
“Nah, just boiling eggs.”
“When I’m not feeling good, Mom makes me an egg boat. Can we make her one?”
“I don’t know how.”
Riker’s eyes widened with enthusiasm. “It’s easy. I’ll show you.”
Hunter wanted to tell the boy that he needed to get upstairs quickly and didn’t have time to be building any boats, but he didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
“How long does it take?” Hunter asked. “The tea is almost ready.”
“Not long.” Riker was digging into a drawer, removing paper, scissors, and pencils. “When the eggs are done, peel them and cut them in half.”
“Where’s the sugar?”
“Mom has a special sugar shaker.” Riker retrieved it and put it on the tray. “Better let her do it. She likes lots.” He returned to the drawer where he’d taken out his supplies.
Hunter finished preparing the tea and followed Riker’s orders for the eggs. Riker returned to his side and handed him what looked like a toothpick sticking through a white flag—the flag being a scrap of paper cut into a triangle.
“We stick these in the eggs,” Riker explained. “Then we have a sailboat.”
Hunter nodded. “Clever.” He moved to stick it in one of the eggs—
“But first you have to write your message.”
He stopped and looked back at Riker, who was extending a pencil toward him. “What?”
“You have to write her a message. So she can feel better.” He wiggled the pencil at him. “You write one and I’ll write one.”
“A message.”
Riker nodded. “Yeah.”
Hunter took the pencil. Riker climbed onto a stool at the counter and started writing. Hunter glanced around the kitchen, searching for inspiration.
Riker returned to his side. “What did you write?”
“I haven’t yet.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know what to say to make her feel better. Let me see yours.”
Instead of handing it over, Riker poked it into one of the eggs.
I love you.
With hearts surrounding the words.
How was Hunter going to top that? He couldn’t. No way. He tapped his pencil against the edge of the counter. What could he write? What could he write? The tea and eggs were getting cold. Damn it.
Get well.
He drew a couple of sorry looking stars next to the hastily scribbled a
nd inadequate words and jabbed the toothpick into the egg in such a way that sent it skidding off the plate and onto the floor. The dog pounced onto it. Hunter went to grab him, his elbow hit an empty pan and sent it crashing to the floor.
“No, Lucky!” Riker yelled. “You can’t eat a toothpick.”
The dog took off around the island. Riker hurried to the other side. The dog circled back around and Hunter planted his feet squarely to block the way. The dog spun around and went back the other way, as though he couldn’t figure out he was trapped.
“Lucky!” Riker screamed.
The dog came back around, barreled toward Hunter. He reached down to catch him, the dog skidded, yelped, scrambled around—
“Come here, dog!”
“Lucky!”
“What is going on!”
Hunter spun around. Serena stood in the doorway in her robe, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Lucky has an egg boat, Mom. He’s going to choke on the toothpick!”
Serena knelt down. “Come here, Lucky, come here, baby.”
The dog lowered his belly to the tile and crept toward her. Somehow Serena managed to get the toothpick sail out of the dog’s mouth before the animal started downing the egg.
“We were making you egg boats so you’d feel better,” Riker told her.
“Were you?” she asked, smiling, looking up at him.
“Yeah, but then he dropped his,” Riker said, pointing a finger at Hunter.
“I didn’t drop it. It just slid off the plate.”
Only she didn’t appear to be listening. She was reading the stupid message he’d written on the sail. She looked at him and did the very last thing he’d expected. She started crying.
Riker cast a knowing glance at Hunter. “Told you so.”
Sitting in a chair with her feet curled beneath her, sipping her tea, she stared out the window and waited for her husband and son to return. Once everything had calmed down in the kitchen, Hunter declared that he’d needed to go for a run.
Riker promptly asked if he could go with him. Hunter had grumbled that he could go. She didn’t think he was upset with Riker. He was upset that she’d started crying. She’d upset herself as well.
She didn’t know why she hadn’t been able to hold back the tears. Riker had patted her shoulder and told her it was okay. It was because she was going to have a baby. But she thought it was more than that. It was because Hunter was trying so hard to please her—and because he had no frame of reference.
Yet, everything he did touched her deeply.
Even taking a pair of scissors and cutting the sleeves out of Riker’s T-shirt because her son wanted to be dressed like his new dad. Although Riker’s slender arms didn’t look anything like Hunter’s muscular arms. Or his legs.
Although she’d slept with those arms and legs wrapped around her, she still enjoyed viewing them. His T-shirt had molded to his torso.
She picked up the sail he’d made her and twirled it between her fingers. Riker gave his love freely, innocently, wholeheartedly. He’d been too young to really understand when his father had died.
And now he had a man in his life whom he fairly worshipped. Serena had to admit that she thought his feelings were well-placed.
She was feeling better, the morning sickness had subsided, and she had a lot to get done now that they were home. She went upstairs to her bedroom and got dressed. She needed to do laundry.
She gathered up her clothes and then decided that she’d wash Hunter’s as well. The clothes he’d worn yesterday were folded neatly on a chair. She picked up his jeans and began setting the contents of his pockets on the dresser.
She stilled when she recognized a matchbook for the Paradise Lounge. Steve had worked at the Paradise Lounge before he went into the Army.
It was an old matchbook. Faded, worn. It didn’t carry their new logo, but the one they’d had when Steve worked there. How funny.
She wondered if Hunter collected matchbooks and boxes like Steve had. Every place they’d ever gone—even though neither one of them smoked—he’d pick up a matchbook and write the date inside.
“Years from now we’ll have a record of all the places we’ve been and when we were there.”
She opened the matchbook—just out of curiosity—to see if Hunter wrote anything in his like Steve did. And there was a date—6-15-1994—written inside a heart. In handwriting she’d recognize if she lived to be a thousand.
Her nausea returned in full force.
Hunter ran the last mile with Riker on his back. The kid was as light as a feather, and a pretty good runner in his own right. Hunter envisioned him running around the bases next season when he hit home runs during baseball games.
They got to the house and Riker slid down to the ground. “That was cool. Are we going to run tomorrow?”
“Maybe the day after. If we had a gym, tomorrow would be free weights.”
“We need a gym.”
“I can bring some weights from my house.”
“I like having you living with us,” Riker said.
Hunter patted the boy’s shoulder. “I like living here. Let’s go in and take showers. I’m going to check on your mom and then we’ll see about lunch.”
“I’m going to go see Jason first. Tell him that we’re running.”
“Okay.” He watched as the boy bounded across the yard, then he went inside. He didn’t see any sign of Serena downstairs.
He found her in their bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. She looked awful. Absolutely awful.
He wondered where the nearest hospital was. If he should take her there now. If he should dial 9-1-1.
He wouldn’t have left her to go for a run, but she’d seemed fine. He moved farther into the room. She didn’t acknowledge his presence. She seemed to have gone into some sort of shock.
He knelt before her. “Serena? Babe? What’s wrong? What do I need to do?”
She blinked and looked at him as though she didn’t know him. “Where did you get this?”
He looked down at what she was holding in her hand. The matchbook. Damn it.
“I was going to wash your clothes. It was in your pocket,” she said flatly. “Steve had one just like it. And you know what?”
She opened the flap, folded it back. “He used to work at the Paradise Lounge. I went there the afternoon I discovered I was pregnant, and he wrote the date down on a matchbook. He always did that. Used matchbooks to mark important occasions so he’d remember where he was when something happened.”
Tears welled in her eyes, spilled over onto her cheeks, and he felt his heart being ripped through his chest.
“June 15, 1994. He put a heart around the date, because he asked me to marry him that day, and I said yes. And he promised he would always carry it with him. It was his good luck charm. So why do you have it?”
“Because I’m the reason he died.”
Chapter 24
It had never taken Hunter more courage to do anything than it had to utter those few words and then to look at the woman sitting before him. Always before, the only thing he risked losing was his life.
Now he risked losing her. And he realized with startling clarity that he didn’t want to lose her. She might never have with him what she’d had before, but they could have something good, something worth coming home to.
He gave her credit for holding his gaze when he was having a hard time holding hers.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Of course she didn’t, because he hadn’t explained anything—and couldn’t reveal most of it.
“The mission in which he was killed is classified, so there’s a lot I can’t tell you.”
She circled her finger in the air as though trying to draw a boundary around everything. “But this whole time that we’ve been seeing each other, you knew who Steve was, knew I was his wife—”
“No, not until late the second night. And then I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that it was the same
guy. Steve Hamilton—nothing uncommon in that name. I convinced myself that it was simply coincidence.”
“And the coincidence was that you just happened to pick me—”
“I don’t know how much coincidence it was. I settled in the area because he told me it was paradise. I was looking for whatever it was that he thought was so damned special about the place. I have a feeling it was you.”
“When would you have told me?”
“I wouldn’t have. Keeping secrets is what I do.”
She held up the matchbook. “And this? How did you come to have it?”
“I was with him shortly after he got wounded. He wanted it, so I dug it out of his pocket. He died holding it, but in the insanity that followed, I somehow ended up with it. It became my talisman.”
“Why are you the reason he’s dead?” She shook her head. “You’re not the one who shot him.”
“No, but I’m the reason he was there. It cost him his life. It cost you.”
Six years of loneliness, dreams unfulfilled. A son without a father. She felt angry, but more she felt betrayed. Not because she thought he was totally responsible for whatever had happened that night, but because he hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her.
Because he had known and he’d kept the information from her. They’d exchanged vows: for better or worse. And he’d kept the worst to himself. How could she come to love a man she couldn’t completely trust? A man who didn’t completely trust her?
She’d had hopes for this marriage, for this relationship, for her life with this man.
How could she love him when he held secrets? How could she trust him when he didn’t trust her? They were building a house without a strong foundation beneath it. It was destined to crumble and fall.
She felt as though she’d betrayed Steve by sleeping with the enemy. Only Hunter wasn’t the enemy. He was a man she’d come to care for.
“Why didn’t you tell me when you figured it out?”
“Because you loved him so much. Because I was responsible for his dying. Because I knew I couldn’t do anything to make it up to you. Because I enjoyed being with you. I kept thinking, ‘I’ll just see her one more time, and then I’ll get out of her life.’
“And when I’d finally found the strength to do that, to walk out of your life, you show up on my doorstep and announce that you’re pregnant. With my kid. My kid is growing inside you.
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