Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

Reaching under the sink, he unrolled a new garbage bag and lined the trash can. He prowled the kitchen, closed an open kitchen cabinet Smacked the lid back on the airplane cookie jar.

Finally, the kitchen immaculate, he sat, leaning down to untie one boot, then the other. "At least we have a clue now as to why he's been so preoccupied.">Her muddled brain shouted at her to process his words while her aching heart told her to run. Her flaming body urged her to just jump him so her brain and heart would shut up because everything was crumbling around her.

"I listened to you, Rena, and maybe I'm not as good at understanding out of bed as I am in bed. But I am trying, damn it."

As much as she wanted to cry or rage, at least they were talking and she wouldn't let temper or tears shut that down.

She stared into stormy gray eyes usually so steady, constant, ever honorable, and the truth deluged over her like those storm clouds opening up. In his manspeak way, J.T. had answered her question after all. J.T. didn't lie. He gave sparse accountings, but his words counted. He'd told her he loved her then. She'd just never listened.

The truth raining over her chilled to a deeper realization of icy, sheeting sleet. He'd said loved. Past tense.

Today, he hadn't said a thing about loving her still. In fact, he hadn't said those words for a long time. And she couldn't help but notice his love had stopped right about the same time as the kisses.

He'd screwed up.

J.T. lifted the crutches out of the back of the truck in their driveway, sidestepped a bush of pink flowers … azaleas maybe? Or wisteria? Hell he couldn't keep all her plants straight: Or her needs.

He passed the crutches to his silent wife, crickets sawing in the background, night traffic in the neighborhood slow and sporadic. Damn it, he shouldn't have lost his cool. He still wasn't sure exactly where he'd slid off course, but no doubt, his plan to woo Rena had been shot down.

"Thanks," she said without looking at him. She swung trim calves out of the truck, hopped on one foot taking the crutches from him.

He followed while she worked her way down the flagstone path, ready to catch her if a crutch went rogue in the soft lawn. Why did she have to make this so difficult? Everything from a simple trip inside to where he parked his boots.

Not that he intended to ask her. He kept his yap shut, because if she questioned whether he'd said he loved her all those years ago then he must have messed up worse than even he'd imagined. He'd done something seriously wrong and still he couldn't pinpoint what. He'd tried his best to keep the darker parts of his job and himself the hell out of an already strained marriage.

Opening the side door, J.T. followed her into the kitchen. "Son, we're home," he called.

Too bad he wasn't announcing the coming-home deal for real.

Stenciled ivy bordering the walls mocked him with reminders of the time he'd interrupted her painting. He could read her lingering arousal from their kisses in the truck. They could have been upstairs in bed now, together.

Rena rested her crutches against the counter and dragged out a chair at the table. A sign she didn't want to go upstairs with him? Or that she didn't want their evening to end?

She dropped into one chair, propped her foot on another. She slipped her hand into a side pocket on her skirt and pulled out a package … of peanuts. Honey roasted. She tore open the corner with her teeth, poured half the minipack into her palm.

Quiet echoed through the house, dishes on the counter. Two glasses?

One with glittery lip gloss kissing the rim. God, he couldn't be everywhere at once checking on his family.

Chris's footsteps thudded down the second set of stairs leading into the kitchen. "Hey, Mom. Dad. Have fun?"

"Yeah, we had a nice drive." J.T. tucked one glass into the dishwasher, then the other. "Have someone over while we were gone?"

Rena looked up from her snack. "Chris?"

He shrugged, shuffled across the tile floor into the pantry. "Just a friend."

Twisting the setting knob, J.T. started the dishwasher and flipped the magnet from "dirty dishes" to "clean." "A female friend, I'd say, based on the lip gloss on the second glass."

"Just a friend," Chris repeated over the sound of a chip bag tearing open.

Rena nudged peanuts around on the table. "Hon, you know I prefer you not have girls over when no one's here."

"Sure. Sorry."

The phone rang. Lucky Chris.

J.T. yanked the receiver off the wall. "Hello?"