"We're going to have a baby." He squeezed her hand. "We. This is my child, too, so we're in this for another eighteen. At least. Remember that."
He tried to read her again and found … more of that fear. Of him? He deserved a lot of things, but not that.
The back door rattled with a key. Rena jerked her hand away, momentary connection snapped. Chris swung the door open.
Frustration brewed in him. "Where have you been?"
"Talking with a friend." Chris snagged the bowl of chili from the table, found a fresh spoon and started shoveling. "Time kinda slipped away. Sorry."
Rena's hand fell to her son's arm to stop him midbite. "We worry. Call next time."
"Sure," he answered evasively before dropping the bowl in the sink. Fishing a candy bar out of his pocket, he tore open the wrapper and tossed broken pieces into his mouth.
Warning bells clanged like an alert klaxon. The kid had plenty to be edgy about, but was there more?
He had two weeks to find out. Two weeks of nonstop one-on-one time with his wary wife, where he would be helping her with her every intimate need while refraining from giving her the most intimate of touches.
If J.T. didn't touch her, really touch her soon, she would burst into flames. Or scream. Or do something equally embarrassing that would leave her husband frowning pensively, then helping while giving her a wide berth as he'd done for the past week and a half.
True to his word, he'd been around whenever she needed him, all his flights conveniently scheduled at night after she fell asleep and Chris was already home. But even though J.T. slept part of the day, his presence still filled the house, reminding her of the good times, until she feared coming down with a convenient case of amnesia when it came to remembering all that drove them apart.
At least they were out of their too-close quarters, their home having become a sauna of need. Instead, spring heat baked the roof of the truck, lunch-hour traffic spewing exhaust on the highway leading toward the base. Nausea tickled, but at least it distracted her from her achy foot. Achy, but no longer throbbing and sans stitches.
A cargo plane roared low overhead on its approach for landing. She fidgeted along the bench seat, anxious to finish up the drive, get back to work, even for an hour or two. J.T. wasn't happy about it, but she couldn't juggle this particular patient to another counselor. And the afternoon would also offer J.T. the chance to fit in a training class at the squadron while he waited.
Could he tempt her from clear across base? Seeing him so hot and hunky in his flight suit didn't help.
He'd been doing a mighty fine job of tempting her the past few days even in his favorite Hawaiian shirts and jean shorts. So attentive. So blasted perfect. He carried her up the stairs. Down the stairs. To the shower. Sat beside her on the sofa, shared popcorn, watched chick flicks with her, brought tissues when she cried over the endings because her own life sucked so bad. And never, never once did he make a move on her.>He thumbed along the pages of the discarded book beside the computer. Even the Bard couldn't quiet the storm in him tonight.
Dinner with his wife and kids had been near perfect, so close to what he'd planned for himself during his teen years. Nice house. Plenty of food. The conversation was a bonus he hadn't known he was missing until Rena came into his life. Sure he didn't join in much, but he listened. Enjoyed. Like tonight.
And then she'd started cracking those chicken wing bones. Bo's breaking hand had echoed in his head. And…
It was all too much. Too much emotion, noise. Storm.
He'd retreated. Except his quiet office, books, computer weren't offering him much in the way of relief.
A noise broke the silence.
He glanced up at the clock again, pendulum swinging. Rena was asleep—he'd checked. That one look at her soft body curved into her pillow was the source of most of his current frustration.
Chris was due home over an hour ago, but the office window showcased an empty parking spot.
Floorboards groaned. Old house-settling noises? Or something else.
Unease cranked along with his heart rate. He slid the key into the bottom drawer of his desk, opened, pulled out his M9 Beretta pistol.
The sounds could be nothing. The hit-and-run could be nothing. Or it could all be something, and no way would any of it get near his family.
Another squeak of boards and a rustle spurred him to action.
He edged out into the hall, following the sounds. Quiet, stealthy sounds. Should he have called the cops first? His hand fell to his cell phone in his back pocket, pulled it free and ready as he followed.
His footsteps led him to the kitchen. He slipped around the corner, socks silent on ceramic tile until he found…
His hungry intruder head deep in the refrigerator, a mighty fine and familiar ass pertly in view, clothed in a red satin nightshirt he'd given Rena two Christmases ago.
Chapter 6