Her shoulders sink, relief and guilt coalescing in one expression. “I’m sor?—”
“Don’t.” I kiss her once, firmly. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m so proud of you. This was perfect—youare perfect, and I’ll touch you as many times as you want. Whenever, however, wherever you want, and you’ll never owe me a thing in return.”
A shy grin pops one cheek. “That’s really noble of you, soldier, but what are you gonna do aboutthat?” she asks, eyes dipping to my jeans again.
I chuckle and swing off the bike. “Youare gonna pretend not to know what I’m doing in the shower while you start dinner.”
She giggles, and the sound softens the heaviness in my chest like a balm.
Twenty minutes later,I step out of the bathroom to find Hannah chopping cucumbers at the kitchen table. She pauses her knife on the cutting board and meets me dead in the eye. That smug little face doesn’t pretend at all.
I cast her a warning glare. “Don’t say it.”
“Hey”—she points her knife at me—“I’m just a woman. You know, a normal person”—she resumes her slicing efforts, eyes on the task—“in a normal kitchen, chopping a phallic-shaped piece of produce foryourdinner.” My shoulders bounce in stifled laughter and I round the table. “And as the elite conversationalist that I am,Rowan.” She pauses, looks at me, then the board. “It’s only natural for me to ask the person who just finished a nice, long,hotshower how they feel after said shower.”
My arm wraps around her collarbone from behind.
She pops a slice of cucumber in my mouth. “So…feel better?”
“Like I’m the king of the world. Top of my game. Unstoppable,” I muse.
A soft laugh. She’s amused, but every word I said was true. I just got off to the image of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen laid outon my motorcycle, coming on my fingers, and it was paradise. No made up fantasies, only the real-life thing standing right here in my own kitchen.
I pinch her hip bone. “I tell no lies, sunshine.”
Cheeks flushed, she scampers to the bedroom to change out of her work clothes while I finish dinner and dream about the next time I get to touch her.
“Tell me about this one?”Hannah’s eyes find me in the light of the bedside lamp. Her finger traces the words inked over my heart:
P.S. Come home safe
“Mom’s handwriting. It’s how she ended every letter to my dad while he was deployed. She signed her letters to me the same way.”
She clicks her tongue. “Such a little momma’s boy.”
I smile, not the least bit embarrassed. “And?”
“And nothing. I think it’s sweet.”
Her hand drifts to my shoulder then, fingers floating along the edges of the anchor wrapped in a string of pearls inked there. The significance isn’t lost on her. For a moment, she just stares at it—the memory a living thing, dwelling in the silence.
Two soft taps against the tattoo and her gaze flits up. “Hope?” I nod softly. “And the pearls?”
“Pearlis Margaret in Greek. Pops used to call her that sometimes.”
Her lips curve in a sad line, palm flattening over the anchor like it might hold her there. “He never told me that. I wish he would have talked about her more with me.”
I wrap my hand around hers, kiss the back of her knuckles.
“Why do you think that is?” she asks.
“My guess is probably for the same reason he never told me about you.” I dip my chin, deadpan gaze fixed.
She pulls in a heavy breath, eyes pinging between mine. “Yeah, no, that was on me.” My brows knit together. “I asked him not to tell you.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to apologize, but I’m curious why you didn’t want me to know.”
A soft breath rushes out of her nose, mouth opening and closing once before she speaks. “We barely knew each other, my life was a mess, and you’d already done so much for me. I didn’t wanna give you the impression that I needed or expected more from you. And I definitely didn’t want you to think I was trying to weasel my way into your life because I was like, obsessed with you or something. It’s also why I didn’t wake you when I left or leave my phone number.”