The Military Wife (A Heart of a Hero, #1)(67)

The way her nails had scratched his back and she had arched into his hands added lighter fluid to the simmering attraction between them. But she was skittish and unsure and he totally understood why. Fate had dealt a cruel hand.

The morning had cast their combined desperation and need in a different light. She had been polite, but the distance between them had widened and a hollow loneliness burrowed in his chest. He was a kid again, reaching for his kite, but the wind snatched it away as his fingers touched the string.

“There’s an auction in a couple of weekends. Do you want to hit it together?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Her voice was vague.

“Let me know, because I’ll need to check my bookings and free up time.” No response. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “How did the meeting go this morning?”

“Fine.” Her one-word answer was clipped and didn’t invite more questions. A dozen awkward miles passed before she broke the silence. “Did you and Darren have a good talk last night?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘good.’ Progress maybe. He’s having trouble sleeping. Reliving everything that happened. Not unusual, but he’s not dealing with it well.”

“Obviously.” The heat in her voice was directed at him.

“What’s got your feathers ruffled?” His own frustration, sexual and otherwise, rose to meet hers.

“My feathers are not ruffled.”

He gave a snort and racked his brain. “Are you still mad about the spreadsheet I put together on cost comparisons?”

“No.” She shook her head and looked out the passenger window. He wanted to force her to look at him, talk to him, but he didn’t. “I’m not mad. Not really.”

“What would you call it then?”

“Disturbed? I wonder at the kinds of things you experienced when you were deployed.”

“Don’t waste your time wondering. Look around and be thankful you live in a beautiful place with a son and mother that love you. Don’t you get it? Men like me deal with the ugliness in the world so you don’t have to.”

“Noah used to say the same thing.”

Miles passed in a silence he didn’t know how to breach. Navigating the delicate machinations of a relationship wasn’t his strong point. His internal guffaw was tinged in bitterness. He wasn’t built for emotional complications and difficulties. He’d learned as a boy to pack weak shit away and never let it see the light of day.

How could he and Harper develop anything that resembled a healthy relationship with the history between them—with Noah between them? He couldn’t see a way forward.

“I was at the window last night.” Her soft words took him a second to process. “I need to know, Bennett.”

Anger and guilt exploded like twin bombs in his chest and licked through his body. She had no right to eavesdrop. No wonder she’d retreated and acted like he’d contracted the plague.

“Not going to happen.”

“I have a right to know.” She turned to him, her mouth and chin set.

Had she always been like this? Her emails had never hinted at an intractable streak. Yet he liked her more for it. It was the difference between seeing a flat work of art in a book and the real thing in a museum.

“You got a report.”

“I always sensed there was more and last night confirmed my suspicions. What happened and what did you promise Noah?”

“I can’t.” The words croaked out.

“You mean ‘won’t.’”

“I won’t drag myself—and you—through reliving it. What will it change? Nothing. Noah will still be dead.” Except he foresaw the subject of his nightmare as soon as he closed his eyes that night. He would be reliving it—with grisly embellishments—whether he wanted to or not.

She shook her head and scooted away from him. For the remainder of the drive to Nags Head, neither of them spoke. Before he had the truck notched into park at the curb, she threw open the door, unable to escape fast enough. She disappeared through the front door, leaving it ajar. For him to follow?

An ending stained the moment like a book closing. He wasn’t sure if it even qualified as a breakup considering they weren’t technically together. Still, a melancholy he hadn’t felt in years had him swallowing past a lump. He would miss her.

He sat in the still-running truck and debated the merits of peeling rubber down the road. But Jack London was inside and no way would he leave his dog behind. He was all Bennett had left.

Ben and Jack burst through the door, the boy trying but failing to keep up with the dog. Bennett turned the truck off and slipped out. Jack jumped on Bennett and knocked him back a step, his paws on Bennett’s shoulders, his tongue rasping the side of his face.

Normally, he would discipline Jack, but the welcome was so warm and unrestrained, Bennett rubbed Jack’s flanks and leaned in to give him a hug. His best friend was a dog. Which probably qualified him as a pathetic loser.

“Come on, Big Ben, you said you’d play ball with me.”

Oh shit. In the maelstrom in the truck, the promise had slipped his mind. Ben had his hand and was tugging him. He could have protested and come up with an excuse—albeit a lame one—but he allowed himself to be led around the side of the house to a gate in the fence.