The Forever Girl (Wildstone, #6)(29)

“You want to be a stay-at-home mom?”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “I still want to work. Maybe I can start my own home delivery meal service.”

“Really?” he asked doubtfully.

She was starting to get the feeling that he was forgetting a few pieces of her hopes and dreams. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“The only thing I’m surprised by is how much we’ve been arguing lately,” he said.

“Me too. But I don’t know why we’re doing it.”

“It’s wedding stress,” he said. “Your wedding stress.”

“And you’re not stressed?”

“Only when you are.”

“Maybe counseling would help,” she suggested quietly.

“What kind of couple needs counseling before they’re even married?” He patted the mattress. “Come back to bed, Caitlin.”

“In a minute.”

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you? Running through all the details of the wedding.”

Actually, for once, she wasn’t. She was running through the details of her life. So she had no idea why she answered the way she did. “Yes,” she said. “Caught me. I’m thinking about the meeting at the florist we have this week. My mom and dad aren’t flying in until Friday, just before the rehearsal dinner, but your mom’s coming. That means you and I need to get on the same page.”

“I hear you,” he said.

She straightened when she saw a shadow cross the yard. When it moved beneath the slash of blue light from the moon, she realized it was Maze and relaxed.

At the water’s edge, Maze stepped onto the dock, walked to the end, and plopped herself down, lying back to stare up at the sky.

Caitlin couldn’t see her expression from here, but there was a sense of anxiety and nerves vibrating from her that caught at her heart. She rose to her feet and was about to grab a pair of sweats to go out there, when another shadow emerged from the house. A tall, leanly muscled shadow, bare chested, barefoot, striding down the dock with ease of movement and a sense of purpose.

Walker.

Caitlin stilled, watching as he approached Maze, who was still lying flat on her back, feet hanging over the edge of the dock, seemingly unaware of his approach. He said something and Maze jerked in surprise.

Caitlin leaned closer as if maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could hear them. And she wanted to. Desperately. Once upon a time, they’d all been so close, so important to each other. Actually, everything to each other.

But then they’d all had that fight three years ago at Michael’s graveside and had scattered far and wide. As far as she knew, Walker and Maze hadn’t had any interaction in those three years.

Interesting then that his body language seemed . . . determined. And . . . familiar? Something else too. Intimate. She pressed a hand to the glass as if she could call out to them and be a part of their conversation, but suddenly Dillon’s warm arm encircled her from behind, his mouth landing just beneath her ear.

“Come to bed,” he said again, and then took her there himself. But for the first time—at least in bed—he couldn’t get her where she wanted to go.





Chapter 7


Maze’s maid of honor to-do list:

—Pull off a reception rehearsal without a frosting fight.

You’re going to get bit up by mosquitos.”

Maze nearly jumped out of her skin and off the dock into the lake at the sound of Walker’s disembodied, sleep-husky voice in the dark night somewhere behind her. Lifting her head, she sent a glare in his direction, which was undoubtedly wasted on him because of the low visibility. “I came out here to be alone.”

He didn’t say anything to this, and she craned her neck to get a better look at him. He wore a pair of running sweats and nothing else. Gulp.

“And you’re gonna be the one to get bit up by mosquitos.”

“I never get bit.”

“Because you’re not sweet enough,” she said.

“No doubt.”

He crouched low at her side and looked her over. She did her best not to squirm in her pj’s: sweat bottoms, oversized T-shirt, and let’s not forget the fake UGGs. She used the cover of relative darkness to study him too. He’d always been fit, but there was a lean hardness to his body that felt new. An edge. Her eyes caught on the sizable scar above his left pec where the bullet had pierced his chest three years ago.

His chest.

“Turn around,” she whispered.

He paused for a full beat, then reluctantly turned. Yep, there they were, the burn scars across the broad expanse of his back, shoulder to shoulder, from running into the Walshes’ burning house to try to save Michael. They’d faded a lot, but they were still clear enough to have the fear and terror bubble up inside her again.

“Do they hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

“And the bullet wound?”

“Sometimes, with the wrong pressure.”

She closed her eyes, feeling overwhelmingly grateful he was still alive. Even if she had mixed emotions about the man, and oh, she did, she couldn’t picture life without him on the planet somewhere.

Which meant he wasn’t the problem. She was. Walker emitted a sexual pull that was hard to resist. When he entered her field of vision, she got a rush, and up close? He was deadly. The second she caught a hint of his scent or felt his body heat, she was as good as gone.