For a reckless moment she wanted to blame on tumultuous hormones, she wondered what it would be like to loosen those boundaries, be sex buddies with J.T. for a few days and take the edge off so much tension.
But she was weak when it came to this man. Even if he agreed, she wasn't sure she could punt him out of her bed a second time.
"Rena? Do you need something?"
A kiss. His solid body on his side of the bed again. A way to erase the image of him walking out the door the last time she'd swallowed her pride and invited him home. "Thank you for staying here with me. I know this has to be uncomfortable for you, too. But in two weeks, we'll have everything settled out, and you'll be able to return to your place. I'm a fast healer."
Liar. But she was learning.
"Wounds need to heal by degrees. Just take care of yourself and rest up. The new kid will have you running soon enough." He backed into the hall. "'Night, Rena."
Once his footsteps faded, she flopped into the fluff of pillows.
The baby. The reason he'd returned.
Funny, but apparently her heart didn't heal as fast as the rest of her.
Chris's stomach clenched as tight as the rag twisted in his grip while he washed dishes over the restaurant's industrial-size sink. An ocean breeze rolled in through the open back door. Not that it did much good sweeping out the fish stink. Heat popped salty sweat down his face, into his shirt.
Great for the acne. Not.
If zits were his only worry.
Chris glanced over his shoulder, checked, found the kitchen empty. He resumed dragging dishes under the spraying water to rinse away fried seafood and hush puppies before stacking each plate in the dishwasher.
Hell no, he wasn't a wuss. He could work out his problems. Face them like a man. He might not look like his dad, but he would be like him when it counted. He would finish up his shift at the restaurant. No big deal. And under no circumstances would he make any more deliveries.
He just wished he'd never answered the ad in the base paper about this job. But his mom and dad were always fighting about money. He'd taken the job to help out as much as to get away from the arguing.
The double doors from the dining area swished open. Sweat iced, then itched along his back. He snapped around to find … the busboy who'd recommended he take this lame job. The fellow military brat dropped off his tub of plates and left.
At least it wasn't her. But the swinging door still offered sporadic glimpses of her anyway. The hostess, Miranda Casale, smiling her million-dollar smile for the final departing customers. Miranda sure knew how to flash that smile along with a view down her silk shirts to get guys to do anything she wanted.>J.T. held tighter to the wooden railing until splinters cut into his fingers with grounding reminders that he existed in the present. In the States. At home.
Easier said than done.
God, he needed to get his head out of the desert. He told himself Shakespeare had it right again in Othello by asking, "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?"
But he wanted this hell over now. Instead, his brain and his soul were still stuck in that time. Which left him less than half here when more than ever he needed his head on straight to fix his life. Salvage whatever was left of his marriage.
Bo's Jeep, his cast, if not the memories, disappeared around the corner. They'd maintained life throughout their capture. They'd maintained honor until their rescue.
Who'd have thought the toughest part would be figuring out how to return?
Chapter 5
Rena propped her foot on an extra dining-room chair and peered across the sturdy oak table at her family. Everyone was together for the first time since the weekend of J.T.'s return from Rubistan. Even if J.T. was in major brood-mode since he'd come in from seeing Bo off, her heart hungered to hold on to the moment more than her pregnant body craved chicken wings.
And that was mighty damned much.
She'd been so grateful to have him home and alive that nothing else seemed to matter. Not even their split.
She'd met him at the base with their children, never discussing where he would go afterward. Both knew and accepted he would come home instead of returning to the studio apartment he'd leased after she tossed him out.
All through that family dinner months ago, they'd sat together amid balloons and banners and favorite foods. And once the dishes were scraped clean of lamb chops, again there'd been no question but that he would follow her into her room. Their room.
Their bed. Two minutes later, they'd been naked.
Now her eyes met his over the Crock-Pot of chili, the platter of chicken wings and—oh yeah—her husband remembered, too, the night they'd made this baby nestled inside her.