Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(29)

“Yeah.” I drain my wine in two long gulps, barely even tasting it, and pour another glass. “Assholes from beyond the grave will do that to you.” And Miranda. Jesus, I need to tell her about Miranda. I really do. “And you’re still not bulletproof.”

“Damn bullet resistant, though.”

“If you intend on doing something that stupid, I can’t let you do it alone.”

“Because if you did, you wouldn’t feel manly enough?”

I try to lighten it up. “Woman, I spend my days hammering nails and building strong walls. I’m plenty manly enough.” She laughs, which was what I intended. It breaks her focus. I let my tone turn serious again. “Maybe we should think about getting out of here for a while. Just . . . somewhere. If we’re gone, Miranda and her circus will move on.”

“What about—”

“The job?” I shrug. “Construction’s a one-day-at-a-time kind of business. I can call out anytime I need to.”

“But that doesn’t mean they’ll hire you back.”

“Honey? I’m one of the best they’ve got. They’ll hire me back.” I sit back and drink my wine for a moment before I say, “I’m thinking of making a change, eventually, though.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know.” That’s almost a lie. Almost. I need to tell her the truth. Tell her about the job offer, the restless need I feel when I think about flying again. Stillhouse Lake is great because she’s here, because I love her and I love these kids.

But at the same time, it’s like my life is on pause.

I feel deeply fractured and restless. Between Miranda’s documentary and Melvin’s hammer blow to my brain, it’s stirred ugly shadows, messed with my head. And Gwen’s pulling away, defensively; I’ve felt it happening. She’s already strengthening the shields between us. So the easy answer is, Maybe we should let this breathe for a while, and I go and find my own way.

But it isn’t what I want. I love this woman. I want to be here. I want to be part of this family, not a separate, replaceable piece that comes and goes at will.

“I think I’m going to ask you to marry me,” I say. It comes out of nowhere, and I don’t even know why I’ve said it; my instant, panicked impulse is to try to claw it back, laugh it off as a joke, but then I go still because I meant it. I want this.

Gwen turns her head to stare at me. “What do you mean, you think?” she says.

“I am,” I say. “Asking.”

“Just like that.”

“We’re not the sunset-cliff-kneel-down-ring kind of people. Are we?”

I risk a glance at her then. She’s half covering her mouth with her wineglass. But she’s smiling. And she looks at me, and our gazes meet and hold fast. She takes in a breath and lets it out slowly. I feel a flare of heat, and I’m so damn glad, because it burns away all my doubts, all the filthy residue of Melvin Royal’s writing, all the sadness and grief and fear that Miranda’s brought back into my life.

“Why?” she asks. “Why ask now?”

God, she’s smart. And hits without mercy. “Because I don’t want to lose you,” I say, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said in my life. “Not to a bullet, not to some fanatic with a grudge, not to the two of us just . . . going separate ways. I want to be in your life, and I want you in mine. I want us to be together for as long as God allows.” I pause. “How’s that?”

Her face is flushed. Her eyes bright. “That’s pretty damn good,” she says, and drains her wine completely in two long gulps. She gets up, empty glass in hand, and turns to look at me. “Let’s go to bed.”

I hesitate for a second, then slam down the rest of my wine and stand up to face her.

I take her hand.

And we go together to the kitchen, set the glasses in the sink, and Gwen turns to tell the kids, “We’re going to bed, okay?”

They don’t even look at us. They just nod, pulled deep into whatever story is unfolding on the screen. I follow her down the hall and into the bedroom; before we get the door shut, I’m kissing her, and she’s against the wall, and we’re deep into it, into each other, and thank God my mind goes quiet and the vivid horror pauses.

She pulls free with a gasp. “Lock the door,” she says. Her voice is shaking.

I close the door and lock it, and when I turn around, she’s pulling off her shirt, and mine’s on the floor a second behind. I realize I smell like sweat from the long day, that I haven’t showered, and for a second, I hesitate. “I should shower,” I say.

Her smile is as bright as sunrise. “I like how you smell,” she says. “And we’re not sunset-cliff-kneel-down-ring people, remember?”

Damn, that goes deep, and ignites something wild.

The sex is untethered and breathless and silent—a mom’s habit, or maybe it’s because she’s so guarded even when she’s letting go. And it lasts, the intensity of it burning bright, until we finally collapse together, shaking and sweating. It’s astonishing, the fire we wake in each other. Precious and secret and completely right.

We’re still joined together when she whispers something in my ear.

I’m not ready for that answer, coming in the heat of this moment. Not in the least.