Enough daydreaming about Gray.
She scrubbed through her shower and toweled dry, staring at the little pile of clothes. Too bad she hadn't left behind fresh underwear, not that she really needed a bra. Hating the thought of putting on anything she'd worn the day before, Lori whipped the T-shirt over her bare chest and stepped into the shorts.
The hall echoed with her light footsteps. Gray's door stood open to an empty bedroom. Her eyes traveled to his rumpled bed, then skittered away.
Ping. The tinny sound reverberated from the kitchen, followed by a grunt from Gray. "Yeah… Uh-huh…What's her temp now…? And when do those sputum cultures come in from the lab…? Well, page me… Yeah, thanks. I'll check back later."
Ping.
Odd. It tinkled like a spoon lightly tapping a dish, but without the rhythm or force that accompanied eating. She walked toward the kitchen.
Ping.
Lori closed the last few feet to the kitchen archway where a fresh flight suit dangled from a hanger hooked on the molding. She stepped around it to find Gray sitting at the table in his boxers and a plain, black T-shirt. His left leg lay propped on the white tiled table.
What was he doing? His broad shoulders hunched forward, blocking her view.
She inched closer. A large blue towel draped half the table. The cordless phone and a notepad rested beside a small medical kit.
And a dish with pieces of bloody metal inside.
Gray's hand extended toward the bowl, tweezers firmly in his grip, and released another fragment of metal.
Ping.
"Ohmigosh!"
Gray jerked, then glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, Lori."
She rushed forward, staring horrified at his shrapnel-splattered leg. Nausea stung the back of her throat.
Flecks of metal and rock the size of peas and pinheads dotted the upper back of his left calf. Blood oozed from the small wounds already cleared of debris.
Lori grabbed the edge of the table and sank into a chair. "'Hey, Lori'? That's all you can say? You're digging chunks out of your leg and all you can say is 'Hey, Lori'?"
"It beats flinging crew dog curses your way. And believe me, hon, I've got a few of those floating around in my head right now." sleepy woman molded herself to him as he shoved down the comforter. Gray guided her onto the bed, slipped her shoes off and draped a spread over her, no lingering touches.
But maybe one last look.
Moonlight slatted through the navy miniblinds. She burrowed into the pillow, sighed, and stopped moving. Her femininity contrasted with the stark furnishings of his apartment, always had.
Wisps of caramel hair straggled across her face, one catching on her mouth. Gray brushed them aside, allowing his thumb one extra stroke across her full bottom lip.
A dark part of his mind whispered he could have her now, in his bed, in a minute—in her. Just as quickly he squashed the thought and went to his own room alone. Of course he wouldn't take advantage of her that way. As he fell facedown on his bed, already half-asleep, he wondered who he was protecting more.
Lori or himself.
* * *
His father stepped out of the cargo plane. Reed-thin, painfully thin, Dave Clark clutched the handrail as he descended the stairs onto the tarmac with the other liberated POWs.
Gray wanted to sprint forward, but hung back with the rest of the waiting families. He gripped his brother's sticky hand while his mother held his little sister.
His father's clothes hung from his shoulders like a uniform left on the hanger. Righteous indignation and rage filled Gray's nine-year-old chest. What had they done to his dad?
He didn't want to think about it. His father was home, and that's all that mattered. Gray could give back his job as man of the house. Everything would be normal again.
His feet itched to move. Gray bolted forward.