“Because his story is your next bestseller?” she asks, avoiding eye contact.
I shake my head. “Because he’s the single most amazing man I’ve encountered in my life. He’s a man with qualities I don’t take lightly. Trust me that he’s in good hands for as long as he’ll keep me.”
His mother smiles, and I force my own, my heart hammering in protest.
At the reminder of the book, my palms begin to sweat. It will be impossible to explain my pseudo-romance, nonfiction, fiction novel to his family. With the ending still up in the air, the mere thought of my book makes me cringe and wish I were in front of my laptop toiling.
Margaret pats my shoulder and excuses herself into the kitchen. I return to studying the photos on the wall, the ones with Megan and his high school friends. He wasn’t as happy then, I remind myself. It’s a small victory in the big picture, but a victory nonetheless.
Conversation is pleasant with his family. His father looks like an older, carbon copy of Smith, and he is very quiet and reserved. I get the feeling that when he does speak, everyone listens and appreciates it. He’s a little less rough around the edges than Smith. As an introvert and people-watcher, I’m comfortable going out on a limb and assuming that Smith’s career path was a shock to his family. Now that it’s stolen parts and pieces of him, I’dfathom neither parent is as glamorized by his SEAL status as the rest of the world.
As we hang out, Smith always makes sure to touch me, or kiss the side of my head, or include me in conversation even when I’d be better left out. He says my name like a praise, passing his lips into a world I’m unfamiliar with. The way he talks about me is almost embarrassing. It’s the first opportunity I’ve had to witness how highly he regards me. I blush. I fidget. Especially when he speaks of my novels and accolades.
“But no one will know it’s about Smith?” Fiona asks after sipping coffee. The children are loud, sticky with sweet-smelling candy, and buzzing around with youthful fury. “Kids, outside!” she finishes, pointing a finger into the air.
The children go, their pounding feet resembling the noise of drunk cattle.
“No one will know,” Smith answers when quiet settles.
I clear my throat. “I’ve changed everything. His facts are in there, but they’re twisted in a way where his identity could never be uncovered. No matter how much someone sleuths,” I say. Taking a sip of my own coffee, I let the heat burn my throat on the way down. “I truly think this novel will help someone. Not because I’m writing it, but because Smith’s life is spectacular and relatable.” Over the time that we’ve known each other, he’s given so much of himself to me in his stories. It’shelped me to open up too. It happened unexpectedly—he caught me off guard. At this point I’ve told him my darkest secrets, and he knows my life driven desires. In divulging his darkest nightmares, he’s helped me heal my own demons.
“I can’t wait to read it,” Fiona says. “He never tells us anything.” She smirks in Smith’s direction. Smith balls up a napkin and tosses it at Fiona’s face. She swats it away, laughing. The banter is light, unforced. It’s like I’ve been sitting at this table with these people for a long time—not meeting them for the first time.
Margaret’s cell phone rings. She raises one brow and takes the call in another room. Fiona looks uneasily at her mother’s retreating back and continues talking to her husband about books.
“Want to go play a game of hide-and-seek with the kids?” Smith asks. He takes my hand and doesn’t wait for a response. “I’m sure adult supervision is required after that much sugar.”
I laugh. “It’s the equivalent of an adult having four cocktails,” I say. I’m trailing behind him as he guides me down the porch steps and around the house to the thin copse of trees the children are circling. “Why the hasty exit?”
Smith runs his free hand through his hair. I notice the scars on his hands as I admire his strong, large physique. “Megan called my mom.”
I raise my brows. “I’m glad you see no need to lie,” Ireply. “I should be sad, but after listening to you sing my praises for the past hour, I’m confident nothing else matters.” It stings. I can’t erase his or his family’s past. Megan has every right to call. To visit. To wonder how the birthday party is going on without her presence.
“Sad? I was afraid you’d get pissed.” Smith yells at the kids to get ready for the best game of hide-and-seek the world has ever seen.
Furrowing my brow, I try to bring anger to the surface. Most women would be mad or self-conscious at the very least. “How could I possibly get angry?” On the contrary, most women haven’t received a beating in their life. I know whom I should appreciate and trust. I squeeze his hand. Smith shrugs, shakes his head, and licks his lips. I smirk as the children disperse through the yard. “Turn around and close your eyes,” I whisper into his ear.
When he chuckles, I peck his cheek and take off in the opposite direction, heading for several large trees that might conceal me. He calls out after me, but I don’t stop my hurried pace. Echoes of laughter fill the air, and eventually I hear Smith’s booming voice call out, “Ready or not, here I come!”
“That was not twenty seconds,” I huff under my breath. I pin my lips together between my teeth, and as slowly and carefully as I’m able, I peek out from behind the tree. Smith is chasing a little boy, his pace indicating he’s giving the child the benefit of a head start.
My heart thumps loudly as I watch him, the man I love, play. Helooks so carefree, innocent, and unassuming. This isn’t the war-torn soldier shouldering loss, tenuous responsibility, and memories that invoke the worst kind of nightmares. He’s opening my eyes to a softer side. A side I’ve always known has been inside but hasn’t had the opportunity to come to light. Flashes of a future I never dreamed of having start flickering in the part of my brain untainted by Roarke. It’s like magic. Like healing. Like maybe sometimes miracles do happen.
I hear when his footsteps approach my hiding spot. They’re quiet at first, and then almost silent when he realizes I’m near. Reaching behind me, I lay my palms against the rough bark of the tree and think about Smith’s ability to blend into any circumstance. The sense of touch grounds me in the here and now.
“Olly olly oxen free,” Smith says, rounding the tree.
Tossing my head back, I laugh. “That easy?” I ask. My smile fades when I see the intensity of his gaze. His body is lithe yet solid as he approaches.
With one hand on the tree, he shakes his head. “Quite the opposite, actually. Difficult. You’re difficult,” Smith growls. He rubs his fingers over his top lip.
I frown. “I resent that. Fully. I pride myself on being easy. Wait, that didn’t come out right,” I say, smirking.
Smith places both of his palms on the tree on either side of my head.
“I could be easy right now if you wanted, though,” Icoax.
He leans closer, his nose brushing the side of mine. His scent—the mouthwatering, fatally toxic scent of him—enters my body. I inhale deeply just as he blows out a breath.
