Shit.
He pulled his focus back onto the indomitable woman at his side and thumbed a droplet of perspiration from her forehead. Lime and banana tree leaves rustled overhead but offered minimal shade against the harsh African sun. Her freckled skin started to redden, matching the pink-backed pelican wading along the bank. He tugged a generous edge of the picnic blanket over her body. The handwoven cloth swept around in bright splashes of green and red.
She brushed his hand aside, laughing. “It’s no use covering me up. I’ll be sunburned all over, but it’s a price I’m more than willing to pay.” She stroked down his side to his left buttock with the two green footprints tattooed in honor of the early PJs who’d been picked up by a helicopter called the Jolly Green Giant. “And I do enjoy checking out your all over tan.”
Ethnicity wasn’t something he thought of other than when time came to fill out forms and check the box. He was a U.S. citizen, wore the uniform. But he did have a heritage he was proud of, a grandma who’d put her life on hold to help them out when times got particularly tough with his mother. “My paternal grandmother was born in Cuba. Jose was her father’s name and my dad’s name.”
“Sounds like perhaps your grandmother was more of a maternal influence than your mom.”
“She tried until her health gave out.”
“Health?”
“She had diabetes, but she put her needs on the back burner to help out when my mother tried rehab… Then Gran was too sick.” He’d wanted to be there for her the way she’d been there for him, but he was a kid without a driver’s license. He’d jogged to her nursing home eight miles away on weekends when the weather permitted.
The breeze off the Shebelle cooled his skin and hopefully hers too. He was doing his damnedest to romance her, and certainly their dating had been unusual, exotic. But what happened when they returned to real life?
The everyday Jose was a recovering alcoholic with a family so dysfunctional they could eat up a whole season on some Jerry Springer type show. He didn’t want to lose Stella, but he didn’t know how to keep her. Here, in Africa, their time together was all fueled by adrenaline—sneaking off when she returned from some covert op in a nearby village to ferret out human intel on local radicals. Or after he got back from a mission on the ocean rescuing vacationers from the never-ending flow of pirate attacks.
When he saw Stella, they were either hyped up on the adrenaline of victory or if the mission hadn’t gone well, then they came together with an edge of frustration.
Stella smiled up at him, her nose red from the sun. “When we get back home, it’ll be a lot easier to grab sunscreen from a nearby drug store. Not that I’m complaining about the picnic, mind you, I have a permanent love of guava jam.” She rolled to her stomach and kissed his chin. “I have a permanent love for you.”
She was saying exactly what he wanted to hear. She’d said it before.
And every time it sliced him to ribbons inside. “Stella, I love you too.”
Fuck. He hated how damn agonized the words sounded when he said them.
She swatted his shoulder. “Jeez-Louise, Jose. You are so damn dramatic. It’s going to be okay.” She tapped his temple. “Think about it. We love each other. You’re just stressed right now, and I get that the kind of work we do is rough on the nerves. We’ll get home, indulge in a full week of jam and tantric sex…”
“Stop, Stella.” He eased her off him and stood, yanking on his shorts. “Going home will only make things tougher, not easier. The me out here in the field, that’s the better me, and I’m still struggling.”
At least she didn’t laugh. She quickly pulled on her bra and panties, avoiding his eyes. He sat beside her again, watching her warily as she stared off in the distance.
An ostrich ambled by on lopey legs, staying way clear of the rhinos on the other side of the lake. The smell of syrupy jam clung to her skin and he just wanted to roll her underneath him and make love again. But after four months with Stella, he knew her pensive face and she wouldn’t budge until she’d sorted through all the “facts” in her mind.
Finally, she sat again, hugging her knees, her spine so vulnerable, at odds with her indomitable air. “You’ve spent over five years pushing yourself to the limit in one of the most stressful jobs there is. You’ve gone overseas, seen combat, natural disasters, and no one would have faulted you if you’d cracked and taken a drink. But you didn’t.” She searched his face with those too wise and logical green eyes. “You’re an expert at running, Jose. Why do you doubt that you can go the distance in your personal life as well?”
“It’s not about the pace or the distance.” He toyed with the tail of her braid, brushing it along the back of her shoulders. “It’s the ‘afterward’ that has me worried, the everyday life part, the quiet moments. As long as I keep running, I’m good. When I stop, I crash.”
“A crash? Why not think of it as a cool down, relaxing and reveling in success? You don’t have to keep running until you burn out.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He dropped her braid and scratched his collarbone, itchy from more than jam.
She stayed silent while an albatross flapped low over the water, then sighed hard, a forced smile on her face. “What made you start racing?”
He grasped the subject change with grateful hands. “I was a hyper kid. My grandma would make me run around the outside of the house until I got so tired I wouldn’t run around the inside.”
“Smart grandma.”
“Then I started running in school, especially near the end of high school.” He’d stuck around to avoid going home, taking on extra workouts and stints in the weight room.
“When your mom was drinking, after your grandmother got sick?”
“It was simpler for everyone if I stayed busy at school. Dad would swing by and pick me up on his way home. We made it work.” He started to stand.
She clasped his hand and tugged him back down beside her. “What about your niece and nephew? Are they into running? How old are they?”