by Diana Gardin
I sit up again. “I didn’t get you a blanket and a pillow.”
He pushes me back down with gentle hands. “Greta, you need to relax now. I can get it. Just tell me where the stuff is and I’ll make a bed on the couch.”
“No.”
He arches one eyebrow. “No?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want you to sleep on the couch. Will you sleep in here?”
I’m not sure what goes on in his head then, but it looks like a war. I adjust my prior request.
“On the floor. You can make a bed on the floor. Look at all these pillows on my bed. I think I can spare a few for you.”
He smiles, gazing into my eyes as he nods his head. “Okay. I’m good with sleeping on your floor.”
I tell him where the linen closet is at the end of the hall, and he retreats to grab a few blankets. After spreading them out across the floor, along with the pillows I offered, he leaves again to grab his bag and use the bathroom across the hall.
When he returns, my breath gets trapped somewhere between my lungs and my throat. Because Grisham isn’t wearing a shirt. And Grisham without a shirt on is like watching a Greek god walking amongst us normal folk in the flesh.
I can’t avoid staring. A white-hot heat lances through my core at the sight of his rock-hard chest, oceans of abdominal muscles that clench and flex as he moves through the doorway, and astounding absolute masculine beauty.
But it’s not only the ripped perfection that has me staring. It’s the scars that mottle his torso: clear evidence of a man who’s been through something horrendous. They’re littered among the beautifully drawn lines and epically graceful script of several tattoos along his chest and shoulders.
His eyes burn into mine, and I don’t care that I’m staring. I’m pulled to my feet by some unseen force and drawn to him like a magnet. He stands there, watching me with rapt attention as I approach.
Halfway to him, I snap to my senses. What am I doing? Am I really just going to attack him like a rabid fox? Instead of stopping where he stands, I squeeze past him in the doorway, creating a path to the bathroom.
As I pass, the tips of my breasts through my shirt brush ever so slightly against his arm and I squeeze my eyes shut tight. Just that small, galvanizing touch was enough to send piercing shards of desire spiking through my body. It’s a match to a gasoline. It’s not just electricity or attraction that I feel for Grisham.
It’s pure, primal need.
I freeze, trying to regain just a single ounce of control. And then he speaks. And his voice is enough to melt me where I stand.
“Greta.” His voice is rough, like nails dragging across concrete.
It incites a shiver that starts somewhere deep inside me, some deep, dark place I’ve never explored. My body responds to his voice like an instrument only he knows how to play. Heat rushes to my core, starting an ache between my legs that pulsates with my racing heartbeat. My nipples harden instantly, straining against the material of my shirt. My mouth fills with saliva, and I swallow without pulling my eyes away from him.
For just a second, his expression is tortured. And it makes me wonder whether his body is reacting to me the way mine is to him. Everything about this man is hard, beautiful, and scarred. His eyes are dark, an eclipse that has shadowed their usual glow.
Could it be possible that he wants me, too?
Then he schools his face, donning an unreadable expression as he averts his eyes and clears his throat. He walks stiffly toward his palette on the floor.
I watch him only for an instant before I flee for the bathroom.
Locked inside, I lean against the counter, my chest heaving with every breath. If Grisham had made a move, if he’d taken even a step in my direction, I would have thrown myself in his arms. But that’s obviously not what he wanted. I was like an animal in heat, and he turned away. Embarrassment colors my face as I lean over the sink with trembling limbs.
What the hell, Greta? You’ve gotta get it together. You’re acting like a complete idiot, and he’s going to think you’re a total psycho. Don’t have any illusions about this guy. He was never yours and that isn’t going to suddenly change now.
My body has never betrayed me like that before. Never have I lost control of myself around a guy. Grisham does something to me that no one’s ever done before, and that fact scares the shit out of me. I can’t control it.
But I have to control it.
I splash some cool water on my face, brush my teeth, and take a deep breath before opening the bathroom door and trekking back across the hall to my room.
Grisham is lying on top of his blankets, his hands laced behind his bed as he stares up at the ceiling. I steal across the room and climb into bed, pulling my covers up to my chin. Reaching over to the nightstand, I yank on the lamp chain, leaving us in darkness.
My breaths are just starting to even out when Grisham speaks again.
“So how long have you been surfing?”
I shrug before I realize he can’t see me from his position and in the darkness. “I think I started when I was around twelve. We actually lived in Georgia until then. When we moved to Lone Sands, it was because my father was retiring from the army and this was where he’d always wanted to retire. He and my mom were fighting a lot, and I needed an escape. I found it in surfing.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “My mom and dad always fought a lot, too, but they didn’t give me the relief of a divorce. I don’t think my mom could ever find the strength to leave him. She should have.”
His voice is bitter on the last sentence, and I find myself wishing I could see his face, read his expression. “Divorce is awful, Grisham.”
There’s a pause before he answers me. “Some marriages are worse.”
I mull that over for a bit.
“We should surf together sometime,” he says.
Smiling, I agree. “We should.”
“But only if you can stay on your board. No more visits to urgent care.”
Giggling, I throw one of my extra pillows at him. I hear his soft grunt as it makes contact. Then I laugh aloud as he tosses it back.
“Better me falling off my board than you. I wouldn’t be able to save you. I faint at the sight of blood.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, mostly my own blood, but yeah. It’s not pretty.”
His laughter stalls. “I’m pretty sure there’s no moment in existence when you aren’t pretty.”
Warmth surges through me at his compliment, and I’m at a loss for words. I replay the nicest thing a guy has ever said to me repeatedly as my breathing evens out once more. When I feel my eyelids growing heavy, I turn on my side and whisper down to him.
“Good night, Grisham.”
His response is immediate. “Good night, Grits.”
When my eyes open again, the sun is streaming in through my apartment window. I stretch, and then sit up. The first thing I do is search for Grisham on the floor. The pillows are neatly stacked by my nightstand and my blankets are folded just as adeptly.
I climb out of bed and scurry to the bathroom to check my hair and brush my teeth. When I emerge, I venture down the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the living room.
Grisham is sitting on the couch, a mug of coffee in his hands. His profile is to me; I expect the TV to be on, but it’s not. He’s sitting in silence. Thinking?
“Grisham?” My voice escapes in a tentative squeak.
He turns toward me, aiming a beautiful smile my way. “Good morning, Grits.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I’m going to make you some. Then you won’t make fun anymore.”
“Hey,” he protests, “I’m not making fun. But the nickname fits, and I’m not dropping it unless you ask me to.”
He waits, but I turn for the kitchen, hiding my smirk. I don’t want him to ditch my new nickname, and he knows it.
He follows me. “I made coffee.”
Sniffing the delicious aroma, I whirl on him. “Thanks. So, you didn’t wa
ke me up last night.”
His eyes widen. “Damn. I knew you were sleeping heavily, but I didn’t think you’d completely forget. I woke you up every two hours, Greta. Just like I said I would.”
Surprise pulls my expression into confusion. “You did? I had no idea.” Then I’m filled with apprehension. “Did I say or do anything stupid?”
He smiles, coming closer. When he’s standing directly in front of me so that I have to look up at him, he taps my nose with his index finger. “You were completely adorable in sleep. Just like I’d expect you to be.”
My skin instantly heats at his nearness. My breathing comes faster, and I’m reminded of how out of control I was last night. It isn’t just his looks that do this to me. It isn’t just the fact that I know exactly what sort of sculpted masterpiece is hiding beneath his clothes. All of that turns me on, sure, but it’s everything that encompasses Grisham. It’s his tenderness juxtaposed with his rough and manly job. It’s his beauty, which directly opposes all of his scars. It’s his consideration, taking care of me when it isn’t his job to do so.
Blushing scarlet, I turn around and begin pulling out pots and pans. “Well, thank you for doing that, Grisham. You must be exhausted this morning. What time did you get up?”
He shrugs. “I’m always up at five. Old habits die hard.”
“I haven’t seen five o’clock in so long I can’t remember what the day looks like at that hour. What do you do that early?”
“I work out, usually. And make coffee. And then I go to work. How do you like your coffee?”
He meanders over to the full, steaming pot and I watch the view from behind. His low-slung jeans are hanging exactly right on the tight cut of his hips, and his plain white T-shirt hugs his sinewy biceps deliciously.
I need a fan.
He turns around and quirks an eyebrow at me, totally catching my stare-fest.
He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Coffee?”
“Oh. Um…give me about an inch of half-and-half at the bottom. And a teaspoon of sugar.”
He makes a face. “That’s sweet.”
I shrug. “I like sweet.”
He loses all trace of a smile, and his expression grows so intense, so scrutinizing that I want to take a step backward. I don’t, though. I just stare right back.
“Grits…you know that I’m not sweet, right? I’m…damaged. In more ways than the obvious one.”
I’m struck silent by his comment. We don’t break eye contact as he waits for my response, and I finally give him an honest one.
“I only know what I can see, Grisham. I see a guy who pulled me out of the ocean when he hadn’t been in the water in months. I see a guy who took me to the doctor and found my number to check up on me the same night. I see a guy who, when he realized I was going to be alone with a concussion, showed up on my doorstep with a duffle bag and a smile. If that’s not sweet…I don’t know what is.”
I drop my gaze, studying the countertop. But the fact that he doesn’t even know how awesome he is…it gives me the courage to look him straight in the eye when I speak next. “You’ve been through a lot, Grisham. So you have a story. We all do. It doesn’t mean you’re not good enough for someone else.”
He averts his eyes. His voice comes out in a ragged whisper. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Greta. You don’t want…this.”
He gestures toward himself.
Still keeping my eyes locked firmly on his face, I shrug. My attitude screams “carefree” but my heart is hammering a violent rhythm in my chest. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of what I want?”
“There’s no room in my life for a partner. Not anymore. I’ve dedicated myself to saving other people…to making sure they’re safe from harm. I gave up the illusion that I could do that any other way than alone a long time ago.”
It feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. If Grisham really feels that way, that he needs to be alone in order to fulfill his purpose in life, then I’m just setting myself up for a broken heart. This broken, beautiful man has dedicated his life to making sure other innocent people have one. How can I take that away from him?
But now that I know him, how can I let him go on thinking that all he can ever be is alone?
5
Grisham
Seven…eight…nine…ten!”
The bar clatters back on its anchor and I sit up on the bench. I’m out of breath and my biceps are burning.
“Damn, bro. You’ve been intense this morning. Five reps of ten with two-forty? Shiiiiiit, Ghost.”
I smirk at Lawson’s use of my combat nickname. “It was a hard road coming back from the amputation, Laws. My upper body functioned the way it was supposed to, so I worked the hell out of it. It was therapeutic or something.”
Lawson nods as he reaches for a pair of dumbbells and begins a set of bicep curls. “I ain’t mad atcha, Ghost. But…” He pauses in his lifting.
Here it comes.
I rise from the weight bench to grab my towel and my water bottle. I stand, waiting for him to spit out his question, wiping my dripping forehead with the navy-issue towel. We work out for the first two hours of every shift. It’s my favorite part of the day, unless we’re working on training exercises and maneuvers in the afternoon. We aren’t today. It’s mainly an admin day, and I have paperwork lined up on my desk I want to put off for as long as possible. Planning for the next mission my team will embark on without me is just depressing.
“Ben and I got your text yesterday morning that you weren’t gonna make breakfast. But then you missed pizza Wednesday. You never miss pizza Wednesday. What the hell kept you so busy yesterday?”
And there it is. I’ve been wondering when I’d have to bring up Greta. Knowing Lawson, he’ll rag on me until I let him meet her. And I’m conflicted about when or if that’ll happen. What would I introduce her to my buddies as? A friend? The way my body reacts to Greta is way more than friendly. But I haven’t made any type of commitment to her, either. Do I even want to?
And what if I introduce her to the guys, and one of them decides to make a move on her? Just the thought of anyone else getting close to Greta sends a sizzling jolt of anger ripping through me.
“I ran into a friend on the beach who needed help. I ended up needing to hang out with her for a while during the day yesterday and then again last night.”
I leave it at that, but on the inside I’m cringing, because I have a feeling Lawson “Sleuth” Snyder is going to ferret out the meaning behind the words I didn’t say.
I groan and turn away as a slow, suspicious smile dawns over his face. “So you didn’t go grab waffles with us because you ‘ran into a friend.’ And that same friend kept you busy for most of the day, and then again after dark. So I’m assuming this friend is hot, and you had her panties lying on the floor by the end of the night.”
I whip back around. Anger builds up inside me until I imagine I look like a cartoon character with steam pouring out of my ears. “I said she’s a friend. Get your fucking mind out of the gutter.”
Lawson drops the weights and holds up his hands in defense. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Ghost. I didn’t mean any disrespect. Does your friend have a name?”
I blow out easy breaths through my mouth as I bring my heartbeat back down to a more normal pace. “Her name’s Greta. She used to room with that girl I told you about…Berkeley. I hadn’t seen Greta for a while, that’s all. We were catching up.”
“I bet you were,” mutters Lawson. When he catches my death glare, he picks his weights up again with a chuckle. “Sorry. If she’s just your friend, then I guess she can come hang out with the guys this weekend at your barbecue.”
Shit. That’s right. This weekend is a long one, ending in Labor Day on Monday. I’d told my buddies we would do the end of summer up right and celebrate the fact that we’d all come back from Syria alive and well. They’d be ready to deploy again early next year, but I’d likely be sending them off without me for the first time since w
e’d been a unit. My leg can only take me so far from this point on. My SEAL days are over.
An overwhelming feeling of sadness and anxiety washes over me at the thought.
“You gonna bring her?” asks Lawson with another sly smile.
“I said we’re just friends, L. I might ask her and her roommate to stop by. Berkeley and Dare are coming, so I don’t want her to find out about it from them.”
Lawson scrutinizes my face as he finishes his third set. His normally cinnamon-brown face is morphing into a dark shade of red, and he hisses out a breath as he lets the weights drop to the ground. “Yeah. Act all nonchalant if you want to, Ghost. But I see it in your eyes. You want this chick to be there. So ask her to be there.”
I pretend to think about it. Then, moving quicker than Lawson expects, I snap his bare chest with my towel and take off, running as fast as my fake leg will allow me to go before he can give chase. Our workout ends with him cursing me as he follows me to the showers, while I howl with laughter.
I sit in the Jeep, my parents’ enormous Lone Sands home looming like a majestic beacon before me. It’s been months since I’ve been here. My mother flew to Germany when I was hurt. She stayed with me during my month-long hospital stay, and the entire time we were together, I could forget about my father and the way we’d left things the last time I’d seen him. She was there for me and me alone, and that felt good. For once.
But when we flew home, there he was. Back in control, trying to manage my medical situation professionally. He was sure he could still make a desk job at the base happen, and all of my protests fell on deaf ears. It was when my CO came to me with the transfer papers that I finally lost my mind and told my father exactly where he could shove his meddling manipulations.
So, sitting here now in the hot, late-August sunshine doesn’t feel too good. It feels wrong. But I know I have to go inside and at least invite them to my barbecue.
They’re my family. The only family I have. Regardless of the way I feel about their marriage and the way my father’s control issues have fucked up my life, I won’t ever stop trying to be there for my mother.
