“I’ll see you both for dinner,” Mrs. Benton said, turning toward the grass field separating the two properties. “Tell Eloise to come, too. I have enough food to feed an army.”
“We promise to eat like one,” Luke said.
“We’ll be there,” Mark said, drawing her through the kennel’s front door. He kept going, leading her away from the voices to the relative quiet of the veterinary exam room. She could still hear the dogs, but not the Benton brothers.
He released her hand. “Are you okay?”
“I hate the way they see me,” she said, her voice wavering. Part of her wanted to scream or cry—maybe both. “I can’t stand the fact that Mrs. Benton thinks I’m perfect. I’m not.”
“Come here, Amy.” Mark drew her into his arms, holding her tight. There was so much comfort here with her face resting against his chest.
“I
’m not perfect,” she repeated. “And neither was Darren. Did you know he never did the laundry when he was home? Not once. He told his mother he loved her brussels sprouts, when I know for a fact he hated them.”
The words came out in a rush. It was as if she’d kept them sewn up inside, but the stitching had come loose.
“He forgot our wedding anniversary,” she continued. “More than once. Even when he was stateside, he forgot. And my birthday. And...”
Our wedding vows. The moment he’d gone to bed with another woman, Darren had broken the promises they’d made to each other before he’d become a SEAL, before the never-ending deployments. Before life tore them apart, shattering her faith in him. It took trust to know your husband was fighting half a world away. She’d given it to him. And he’d tossed it aside.
Of course his family didn’t know. No one had known her marriage was crumbling. She’d never said a word, not wanting to tarnish his memory then. She still didn’t. What good would it do? They couldn’t possibly understand how much she’d wanted Darren to come home. She’d wanted him to witness the downfall of their relationship, or work at her side to pick up the pieces. Even after he’d betrayed her, she’d loved him. She’d wanted to fight for their future.
“I wish they could remember him for who he was, not this god among men,” she said. “When he died, I didn’t lose a war hero, I lost my husband. And that man, he was not perfect.”
“I know.”
Amy drew back, looking up into Mark’s eyes. Did he? Had Darren told his best friend about his affair?
“I know he had faults,” Mark said. “Maybe not about the laundry or the brussels sprouts, but I never saw him as perfect. Still, he was a damn fine friend, brother and son. His family can’t help remembering the good.”
Wrapping both arms around her, he hugged her tight. “I just wish his family wasn’t so determined to bind you to his memory. Because I look around and I see what you’ve built, and I see a woman who has set out to make a place for herself. I think this kennel is you, Amelia Mae, standing on your own two feet.”
His words pushed past the memories and the turmoil they carried with them. For the first time, she felt as if someone saw her.
She shifted, wanting to be closer to this man. Maybe it was the lingering desire from her dream, or maybe it was his words, but she couldn’t move away. Her hips pressed against him, her fingers moving over his chest, feeling the contours of his muscles. Tracing those hard edges, the sculpted lines of his body, the wild, wanton feelings that had surfaced last night in her truck returned. She wanted to touch more, feel more, experience more...
Mark’s hands remained frozen on her back, as if he was clinging to friendship territory. But Amy knew they were hovering close to that line. If she rose up on her tiptoes, she could touch her lips to his. If she held him, letting him feel every inch of her body, he might understand her need to steal a kiss, and maybe more, from the only person who understood her. It had been so long. She knew he wanted her. The way his fingers had slipped below her clothes last night. The way he’d looked at her as if it took every ounce of his self-control to say no when he wanted to tear her clothes off and scream yes.
She wanted the Mark from her dream. The man who set her body on fire—
“Amy?”
The sound of his voice—questioning what she was doing—shattered the moment. This wasn’t a dream. And he wasn’t the man from her fantasies.
She pulled back, her body screaming for her to push forward and claim that kiss. Her hands remained on his chest as the internal battle raged. But he released his hold, his arms falling to his sides, taking the possibility of that kiss with him.
Amy looked down at the concrete floor, knowing it was for the best. Maybe her cousin was right. Amy could write her own rule book when it came to men, relationships, kissing and, God help her, sex. But she hadn’t written it yet.
7
AMY’S HANDS BLAZED a path across his chest. Mark didn’t know whether to curse his flannel shirt or be grateful for the barrier. Without it, he might do something crazy like claim her mouth and kiss her. Hard.
He stared at her parted lips, wanting to make her his. All it took was her hands on him and her body close to send his imagination running wild. The thought of holding Amy’s hips while he pressed into her, feeling her tighten around him... Shit, he wanted that.
His jaw clenched, his hands formed fists at his sides, wishing he could reach out to her again. He’d held her countless times, but never with desire burning so bright they couldn’t ignore it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her arms.