Falling for the Marine (McCade Brothers 2)

She leaned back until her head rested against his chest. “I’d wondered about the scar. There’s one more question I’ll be able to get right tomorrow night.”

“Hey, do me a favor and don’t worry about tomorrow. We’re going to game the shit out of this thing.” He turned the water off, dug a clean dish towel out of a drawer, and gently dried her hand and arm. Then he grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink and led her to the small dining area just off the kitchen, opposite the living room. She took the seat he held out for her and looked up at him with a you’re-stoned expression.

“C’mon, this is your chance to learn all my secrets. Ask me anything.”

Chapter Ten

Michael’s challenge hung in the air while he leaned over her wrist and wrapped a gauze bandage loosely around her burn.

“Anything?” she repeated, a little disconcerted to find herself the object of healing hands. She took care of people. As a rule, nobody took care of her.

Then again, her rules had gotten screwed up right from the get-go with Michael.

“Anything,” he confirmed, nodding absently as he secured the bandage.

She couldn’t help noticing the overhead lamp highlighted gold strands in his thick, brown hair. “I can’t think of anything.” Totally true. Her mind was too occupied noticing how uncharacteristically careful he was for such a big, tough man. No surprise really. She remembered how he’d rubbed her wrist the night he’d rescued her from the handcuffs.

“How about, ‘When’s my birthday?’” he prompted.

“November twenty-ninth.”

Sharp brown eyes collided with hers. “That’s my birthday.”

“I know. I read it on your chart yesterday.”

He kissed her bandaged wrist so gently her heart threatened to melt, and then he looked up at her and smiled. “With a memory like yours, we’re solid. I was trying to tell you to ask me when is your birthday?”

“Oh. Sorry. When’s my birthday?”

“I have no idea actually. November twenty-ninth?”

“Nice try. Drink.”

He got up and refilled her wineglass, then took a gulp, and plunked the half-full glass down on the small dining table. “When’s your birthday?”

“May thirty-first.”

“Not too far away.”

“Yeah, in a few short weeks, I’ll be well into my mid-twenties.” She sighed dramatically. “Twenty-five, divorced, and jobless. Thank God I’m engaged, or I’d be so depressed.”

“If it helps, I can promise our relationship will never end in divorce.”

The statement rang with such intensity it took her a moment to get the joke, and then she burst out laughing. “That’s the most romantic thing any man has ever said to me.”

He grinned and pulled her into a quick, one-armed hug. “I’m smooth like that. And I’ll make you another promise.”

“I’m not sure my heart can handle another.” She crossed her hands over her chest.

“If that lasagna you’re cooking tastes as amazing as it smells, I’m your slave for life.”

“The lasagna never fails. What kind of slave?” Naughty, but she couldn’t resist.

He raised an eyebrow and gave her an equally naughty look. “Any kind you think you can handle.”

…

They continued the game during dinner—which Michael admitted was the world’s best lasagna, Mexican or otherwise—and willingly assumed his role of slave. This necessitated opening another bottle of Chardonnay. He also found himself playing self-appointed rescuer again, surreptitiously drinking more than his fair share of the bottle in order to save her from a hangover. He managed to get heroically tipsy in the process, which hadn’t happened in a long time, and made concentrating on the game tough. When she spoke, his attention kept wandering to her hands or her mouth. Her actual words tended to get lost in the buzz.