“He sampled?” Correction, not her ex-husband, her asshole ex-husband.
“Like a kid in an ice-cream parlor, and being the dumbass I am, I overlooked the clues for a long time, because I couldn’t bear to let go of my happy-ever-after fantasy. Heck, I might still be sitting in Memphis overlooking the obvious if one of his shiny new things hadn’t called and informed me she was pregnant with Drew’s shiny, new baby.” She took a large sip of wine and swallowed before continuing. “I confronted him. He confirmed the information. I filed for divorce, registered with Helping Hands, and got on with my life.”
Her flippant tone didn’t completely conceal the depth of the wound. She’d trusted and been paid back with betrayal. Of course that hurt. He resisted the urge to gather her up in his arms and promise he’d never let anyone hurt her again. First, because she wasn’t his to protect, and next, because he had the funny feeling any protective instincts he displayed would be met with a complete and total freak-out on her end. Hell, it freaked him out too. She was a temporary decoration in his life, not a permanent fixture, and he wasn’t looking for more complications. Their situation was already complicated enough. Getting back into the cockpit required all his focus. He needed to remember that. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too, but my point in bringing this up is, his coaches knew from the start I wasn’t perfect-wife material.”
“He wasn’t perfect-husband material.”
“No, he wasn’t, but they weren’t talking about him. They sensed something about me. A lack of”—she rubbed her thumb over her fingertips, searching for the word—“I don’t know what exactly, but you sensed it, too, the night we met. Don’t deny it. When you looked at me, you didn’t think, ‘There’s someone to take home to Mom.’”
“Chloe, that’s not fair. The night we met you were handcuffed to your bed, wearing two scraps of black lace, yelling your head off for someone to rescue you. As memories go, meeting you ranks right up there in my hall of fame, but no, I was not thinking, ‘Here’s a girl who walks the straight and narrow—’”
He shouldn’t have admitted anything, because she didn’t let him finish. “Don’t you think your commanding officer and his lovely wife are going to sense the same thing?”
“No.” He reached over and took her hand. Her free-spirited nature, her courage to embrace her wild side, made her Chloe—unique, chaotic, spontaneous, constantly surprising Chloe. Yes, he appreciated discipline, order and control, and maybe their diametrically opposite approaches to life meant they mixed about as well as whiskey and a piña colada, but h
e couldn’t stand to let her consider her personality a failing. “They’re going to wonder what a beautiful, vivacious woman like you is doing with a big, cynical marine like me.”
Her fingers curled around his and hung on. “This is a bad risk, Michael. The colonel and his wife will want to hear our Grandkid Story, and ours is hopelessly warped. There’s no making it sound smooth and pretty.”
“Our Grandkid Story?”
“Yes, our Grandkid Story—what we tell our grandkids when they ask how grandma and grandpa met. Here’s ours in a nutshell: Grandpa had to rescue grandma when she handcuffed herself to her bed, then grandma got fired for trying to give grandpa a happy-ending massage, then grandpa and grandma moved in together and pretended to be engaged so grandma wouldn’t be homeless and grandpa wouldn’t get drummed out of the Corps.”
“Sounds a hell of a lot more interesting than, ‘Grandma and grandpa met on Match,’ don’t you think?”
“What I’m trying to highlight here is that our real story has some…problems. I don’t want to embarrass you or set you back. What if I slip up and say or do something to tip the Hardings off that things aren’t what we’ve led them to believe?”
“You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because they’re not looking to trip us up. They’re curious, that’s all. They may ask a few questions, but those are easy to anticipate and prepare for, right?”
“You think?” She eyed him warily.
“Yes. Trust me,” he got up, grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge, and refilled her glass, “you’re stressing about this way too much. The questions are predictable. As for the answers, aim for ninety-nine percent truth, one percent bullshit.”
“You make this sound like a game.”
“Think of it as a game.” He raised his beer bottle. “In fact, for tonight, let’s make it a game. For every question one of us gets right, the other has to drink.” She’d be relaxed in no time. “Five right answers in a row, and I text my CO and tell him we’ll be there.”
“Fine. How’d we meet?”
“Easy.” He shot her a grin. “Applying my truth-to-bullshit formula, I’d say we were neighbors, and I got to know you when you needed help opening something. Drink.”
She narrowed her eyes but took a sip of her wine. “Okay, bull-shitter, what was our first date?”
“You invited me over for a beer, to say ‘Thanks.’ The rest is history. Drink again.”
She swallowed and then sent him a look full of challenge. “Where was I born?”
“Texas.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Are you psychic?”
“Drink.” While she obeyed, he explained, “You mentioned it last night at the Stars & Bars…right before you fell off the porch and threw up.”