One Week with the Marine (Love on Location)

Not in a gross way. There were no animal carcasses or hoarder’s specials in her future, but a cleaning lady might not have been a horrible investment. Or furniture that wasn’t from a thrift store’s “free to a good home” pile. In fact, the only thing even remotely appealing about the place—aside from Avery herself—were the photos pinned to the otherwise empty walls.

Holden walked past the entertainment center—a nineties-style television sitting on a few concrete blocks—and Rodrigo slinked out to greet him, purring before rolling over to show Holden his tummy.

“You’re working on a new collection,” he said, pointing to the row of photos, all featuring elderly women’s hands, above the television.

“Yeah. The ladies at the senior center feel like celebrities. And now I have enough Jell-O cups to last me a lifetime, so it’s a pretty fair trade-off.” Avery shrugged.

“They’re beautiful. You should send them to a gallery.”

She turned, eying him skeptically. “Are you actually complimenting something in my apartment?”

“No, I’m admiring your work. Your apartment still looks like the cut scenes from a VH1 Behind the Music on Janis Joplin.” He smiled, tossed his bag into the corner behind the door, and then bent down to pet Rodrigo. Avery took his momentary distraction as an opportunity to flounce out of the room, barely glancing at the empty tequila bottle or mess of poker chips strewn across her coffee table as she went.

“You’re cute if you think I know who that is,” she said.

He settled on the couch, disappointed when her bedroom door closed, shutting out his view of the barely there, red-and-white-striped bikini bottom. It felt like forever since he’d been here. Alone with her, smelling the orange and coconut fragrance of her hair as he held her close. Thinking about her torturously long legs and the rest of that graceful, pliable body, he had half a mind to break down her bedroom door and not release her until morning. Or ever.

But those days are over.

After years of waffling, he’d made up his mind. By the end of their week together, he was going to make Avery the kind of woman who was suited to military life. She didn’t have to be Mary Poppins. She didn’t have to be June Cleaver. Hell, she didn’t have to keep a house or cook or anything if she didn’t want to.

She just had to agree to wait for him.

“Hello? Anybody home?” He glanced up to find her leaning against the white doorframe into her bedroom, waving her hand in the air. How long had she been standing there?

There was no way of knowing, nor could he understand how she hadn’t immediately grabbed his attention when she’d entered the room. She looked incredible.

Her feet were encased in knee-high boots while skintight leggings clung to her thighs, almost see-through in the apartment’s fluorescent lights. The V-neck tee that plunged low over her chest revealed just a little too much cleavage.

Hot. Damn.

“You look beautiful.” The words slipped out almost instantly, and if he didn’t know any better, he might have thought she blushed. Just as quickly, though, the moment was gone, and she cleared her throat as she pushed a lock of platinum hair over her shoulder.

“I think the word is hot,” she corrected.

“No, I don’t think it is.” He smiled at her, and she let out something between a cough and a sigh before gathering up her bag from the plastic dining room table and scrambling for the door.

“Well, thanks. Anyway, we gotta run or—”

“I just got off the plane. I don’t intend on running anywhere.” He stretched his feet out onto her coffee table, only slightly nervous about whether the rickety thing could hold his weight.

“Well, we’re not just going to sit around here,” she said.

“I didn’t think we’d do that, either.” He raised his eyebrows, trying not to grin at how cute she looked when she was flustered.

He got up from the sofa and made his way into her bedroom. This room, too, was just as much Avery as the rest of the place. Makeup littered the top of her shoddily painted white dresser, but glass pulls made the thing into a piece of art. On her bed was the same lavender silk comforter she’d had since the first time she’d let him into her bed, one night after they’d snuck into the woods and lied to their parents about where they were staying.

He’d told himself it was a white lie at the time. It was, after all, the only way they’d let him out of the house. If they’d even caught a whiff of Avery and her mother’s old trailer, his bedroom would have been locked until he’d graduated high school. As for Avery, she’d only lied so that he wouldn’t feel alone. She knew her mother didn’t care where she went, or with who. She had bigger concerns. But Avery kept up the facade all the same.

Sometimes he wasn’t sure who she’d kept it up for—her mother or herself.

Either way, their parents and their friends were the last thing on his mind the first time he’d seen the frilly purple down blanket that was so unlike Avery. It was delicate and silky, sure, but it was feminine in a way that Avery would never dare to be. There was nothing tough about it. But when she’d taken her clothes off and lain on top of it, somehow it had seemed right. It had seemed perfect for her.

He took a step toward the cover, taking the fabric between two fingers and feeling the slide of the silk, when Avery’s voice brought him back to the present.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I was just thinking,” he said.