Falling for the Marine (McCade Brothers 2)

His laugh sounded harsh to his own ears, but that didn’t stop him from adding, “Free bird my ass. Your nesting instincts are so innate you can’t help yourself.”

Her chin shot up. “That’s not true.”

“Look around this place. In the last two weeks you’ve strewn more personal stuff through my apartment than I have in six months of living here. You’re a natural-born nester. This philosophy you’ve adopted is a handy piece of fiction you came up with to justify running from place to place because you’re too scared to stick.”

She hit him with a, you-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about glare that sparked every defensive fuse he had in him. “You know I’m right. Put your fucked-up first marriage in the past where it belongs. Drop some roots and build a real life. Find an actual home, some in-the-flesh friends, and, who knows…maybe even someone you look forward to waking up next to for more than a few weeks.”

There it was—the true source of his frustration. He didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to be her someone and all she wanted was to move on to her next job. The realization didn’t do much for his sense of fair play. “You’re letting fear keep you drifting from place to place like an itinerate laborer. Do you seriously plan to be a free bird forever? Sounds more like a chicken to me.”

“I am not running from anything, or drifting, as you put it.” Her wadded-up napkin hit the table to punctuate the statement. “I wanted…no…I needed a change after my divorce—sue me for being human—and Helping Hands offered the perfect fresh start. Traveling therapist is a legitimate career. I get to go to lots of different, exciting places. I call my own shots… I’m never stuck somewhere indefinitely… I-I call my own shots.”

He refrained from pointing out she’d already used that one. Instead he sat back, crossed his arms over his chest and aimed below the belt, mentally cringing even as the words left his mouth. “Yeah, from where I’m sitting I can see this calling-your-own-shots thing has really worked out for you.”

She sprang out of her chair so fast it might as well have had an eject button. “Maybe I’d do better if I handed control of my life to the Marine Corps and let Uncle Sam send me wherever he sees fit?”

“God forbid. You’ve made your high opinion of military life

crystal clear. Somehow that’s too unstable a world for a woman who instead chooses to have no permanent home whatsoever.” Now he sounded sarcastic and critical, but he couldn’t seem to get a lock on his tongue because, goddammit, it hurt, knowing she’d dismissed any possibility of him being her someone right from the start, based on nothing more than his career.

“I grew up in that world. I lived it, and I’m honest enough to know that’s not what I want. Look down on it all you want, but my ‘itinerate labor’ never required me to lie to my boss.”

“No,” he replied with an icy calm he wasn’t anywhere close to feeling, “it required me to lie to mine.”

“Don’t you dare put it all on me, mister. This engagement helps your ass out of a sling too, or did you forget about Sempler?”

“Sempler didn’t file a complaint. I confirmed that today with a reliable source.”

“Well, lucky you. Leave the dishes,” she said as she stormed down the hall. “I’ll get them tomorrow.” A second later the guest room door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.

He crumpled up his own napkin and threw it against the wall.

Chapter Fifteen

Chloe flopped over onto her side, kicked the covers off, and blinked at the fierce red glow of the digital clock. 5:00 a.m. If you go to sleep right now, you can get two hours.

Her guilty conscience pfffft’d the thought. She’d behaved like a big brat last night when a man who’d done nothing but try to help her had dared to express his opinion about her choices—an opinion he was entitled to—especially considering he’d been living with the fallout from her last round of decisions. Hurt and outrage had kept her keyed up and awake until midnight, and then, slowly, the remorse had set in. Throwing the fake engagement in his face was an especially low blow. Sempler wasn’t going to file a complaint against Michael, so their living situation remained the only reason for the deception. There was no way to look at this as a mutual solution anymore. He was risking his future to help her out. Sleep wasn’t in the cards until she apologized.

She valued honesty, and he’d handed her some. Even if it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, she couldn’t fault his observations. There were big inconsistencies between what she was saying and how she was behaving. Her plan had been to land in San Clemente, add a few personal touches to a generic apartment, get to know a new set of neighbors and coworkers—but not so intimately she’d miss anyone when she moved on. What had she done instead? Gotten to know one neighbor pretty darn intimately.

Huge mistake, because if she let herself, she could picture a life here in San Clemente, with a regular job, friends who knew her birthday, and her background, and occasionally called her Scarlett just to be funny. She could fall for this place and this job…and this man.

Okay, yes, no point in denying it. She could tattoo a hummingbird on her butt, or a roadrunner across her dang forehead, but some weak, stupid part of her that never learned wanted to be with Michael, which was crazy, because they’d only known each other a short time and he served his country and despite managing to convince everyone else to the contrary, they couldn’t be more wrong for each other.

Falling for him ran afoul of every personal goal she’d set for herself after the long, painful self-assessment she’d made following her divorce. Falling for him meant she’d made no progress at all over the last year. Her heart clenched at the thought…and her bladder followed suit. She sighed and hauled herself to the bathroom.

Afterward, she crept out to the kitchen for something to drink, but stopped short in the archway when she saw Michael standing by the fridge, downing a glass of water. Barefoot and shirtless, he wore the same dark blue sweatpants he’d had on earlier, with the white letters, USMC emblazoned down the side of one leg. They hung low on his hips, revealing the long, powerful lines of his back, all the way from his broad, invincible shoulders to the twin dimples bracketing the base of his spine.

Before she fully realized she’d put herself in motion, she came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek to his warm, smooth skin. He didn’t so much as jump, which told her he’d known she was there, but when she would have drawn away he covered her hands with his and held her in place.

Apologize and back away. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, but her rebellious arms just hugged him tighter. “I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat for expressing your opinion, or lashed out at you because we’re in a situation where we have to be less than honest with people. You’re doing that to help me, and I am grateful.”

He turned and folded her in his arms, bringing her into the safe harbor of his chest. She breathed deeply. The clean, slightly herbal scent of his bath soap lingered on him.

His chin brushed the top of her head, and he followed that up with a kiss. “No, I’m the sorry one. You have to run your life your way. You didn’t ask for my opinion, and, considering I share the blame for the situation, I’m in no position to criticize or give advice. I acted like a dick.”

“You’re under a lot of stress, and I’m a natural irritant.” She looked up at him and tried for a smile. “I warned you I’m not easy to live with.”

Serious brown eyes stared back at her—no trace of amusement—as he touched her cheek with gentle fingers, sweeping down to her jaw. “You’re too easy to live with,” he said softly and covered her mouth with his.