Page 7 of Issued
With a fork, she piles too large of a helping of food into her mouth. Who the hell manages to burn pancakes in the microwave? And why did she use the microwave? I have all the ingredients needed to make them homemade.
Dear God, please don’t tell me you sent a woman who can’t cook.
She shovels another massive pile of food past her full lips. Lips that had my attention the moment she walked through the door. Her gaze bounces between the envelope and my finger. “What’s that?”
“Copies of the paperwork.” I gently toss the envelope onto the marble countertop. “And your ring.”
She chokes. I can’t blame her. Rings are a detail that had evaded me as well. Ours aren’t anything spectacular. Just plain gold wedding bands. Something I never wanted on my finger again.
The cords in my neck twinge.
Maybe a drink of water will help me relax. Halfway to the cupboard, my body goes rigid, throat tightening. Burnt crumbs, a plate with charred pancake stuck to the ceramic center, and a couple of utensils sit in the sink. A deep growl rumbles in my chest. This woman invades my home, makes it smell like crap, and leaves a mess. I try to bite back the words that want to spill forth, but each filthy utensil and crumb is equivalent to nails on a chalkboard, and the pain in my injured brain ratchets up in intensity, causing flashing spots to dance in my field of vision. “Is cleaning up after yourself a problem?”
Every sinewy muscle in her body tenses up. “I’m going to clean it up. Figured soaking the dish would help the stuff come off quicker.”
I turn too fast and the world spins. There’s a ringing in my ears and for one gut-wrenching moment, everything goes dark. My knees buckle and I sway sideways until a small, cool hand slinks under my arm while another lies delicately against the heat of my chest before I can hit the ground.
Taya leads me over to the chair she just vacated, one palm a reassuring pressure against my chest while the other is now wrapped around my waist. “You should sit down.”
The urge to sink into her is strong but I straighten and weave my hand between my waist and her arm to remove her grip on me.
My stomach sours and churns when hurt and confusion flash across her features. But I didn’t ask for help. I don’t need it. I hate that she’s seeing me like this, all weak and shaky. Taya reaches out as I walk toward the kitchen island on unsteady legs and my jaw clenches. I turn to face her, intent on taking the focus off my weaknesses. “What was so important that you got distracted enough to burn microwavable pancakes? And where did you get them from?”
Taya’s ears turn red, the color crawling down to her throat and chest. “It was an accident. And I went to the small market down the street. How the hell else do you think I got them? Do I look like some magical genie who can blink andpoofpancakes here?” She snaps her fingers in front of my face and my mouth contorts in annoyance.
The glass of milk rattles when my palm connects with the granite, and Taya’s hand recoils. “Just because you’re some luckydependawho got into the program doesn’t mean you own this house. It’s mine. And I don’t care what some contract says.”
Placing her hands on her hips, she fires right back. “I’m not some child you need to yell at because I made a mistake. And what the hell is adependa?”
“A woman who tricks some weak sap in the military into marrying them.” The words hiss through my clenched teeth.
Raychel was the ultimate dependa.
I wince. Thinking of her name is like summoning Voldemort.
Taya’s fingers ball into fists at her side. “Trickinto marrying you? I was assigned to you. I’m not sure who I’m being compared to, but you don’t know a thing about me. I’m not somedependa. I don’t need you. Or anypoor sap in the military.”
I stare unblinking, lips pressed tight.
Her lips curl back in a sneer. “And why did you volunteer? Was it because your muscular six-foot-whatever physique isn’t enough to keep a woman once you start overreacting to simple mistakes?”
“Six footfour. And I didn’t volunteer. I was forced into joining the program.” My heart hammers like it belongs to a rabbit running for its life, every nerve firing, causing an electrical hurricane to rampage through my body.
Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. Her chest heaves and she blinks rapidly for a moment before she takes a deep breath. She grabs the plate of half-eaten pancakes and scoops them into the garbage. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’ll be more careful in the future.”
A wave of nausea sweeps through me as the magnitude of what I’ve just done hits home. This woman—mywife—lost her appetite because of me. My breaths come so damn frantic, so shallow, I have to look down at my feet and try to center myself. Feel the ground below my boots. When she heads over to the sink, I cut her off, gently taking the plate from her. “I’ll clean up.”
“It’s fine. It’s my mess.” But she lets me take the plate, her eyes cast down.
“Taya, I’m sorry. You’re right, I overreacted.” My voice quivers and I reach out my hand, brushing a lone, dark brown strand of hair from her face with trembling fingers. I don’t want to be the kind of person who makes a woman afraid. I don’t want Taya to be scared of me. But my head—the injury—maybe it’s more than I can control.
Taya looks up, her eyes glistening, a tear slipping free. She wipes away the salty droplet with the back of her thumb and raises her chin, no longer shying away from my gaze. “We both have our reasons for being here. So, how about you treat me as a roommate until we figure this out? I’ll follow whatever rules you want since it’s your house. And when the time for the annulment comes, I’ll leave.”
The look on her face halts me. Strange how tears can spike a woman’s lashes and make her eyes seem so much brighter. I want nothing more than to dry those lingering trails away. How would she react if I gave into my impulse and leaned over to brush wet, trailing lips down her cheek and across her ripe lips? Would it ease the strain and sadness that wilted her mouth into a frown?
Freak out. That’s what she’d do. Impulsivity is just another gift, courtesy of my brain injury.
Instead, I fight off the urge and look her directly in the eye to show her I mean my next words. “I’m sorry. I’m a little OCD. Never officially diagnosed, but I definitely have a few of the quirks.”
