The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

He hadn’t had the nightmare since he and Addison had been together, but what did that mean?

The dream would come back.

It always did.

The Blackhawk. The pass through the mountains. The flames. The explosion. The smoke and the screams and the sight of men being blown apart, and all because he hadn’t been where he knew, goddammit, he knew he should have been …

A pair of arms wrapped around him from the rear.

Jake spun around, hands fisted, lips drawn back in a snarl … and saw Addison, her face gone white.

“I’m sorry, Jacob. I didn’t mean to startle you….”

“No. I’m the one who’s sorry. I don’t know why—”

But he did. He knew why, that the nightmares, the trigger-sharp reactions, the need to keep moving before everything caught up and took him by the throat …

All of it had become part of him.

Walk away now, Jake told himself. His Adoré deserved a man who was whole.

Instead, he held out his arms. She went into them. He drew her close and buried his face in her hair. And when she lifted her face to his, he bent to her and kissed her and kissed her until nothing mattered but them.

The morning’s darkness faded away.

They drove into town.

At first, Addison was uneasy.

People recognized Jake’s Thunderbird.

They stared. And stood stock-still, taking it all in when Jake parked in the supermarket lot, took Addison in his arms and waltzed her to the door as music poured from the store’s loudspeaker.

“Jacob,” she blurted, “people will talk!”

“Let ‘em,” he replied, and he dipped her back over his arm when they reached the door, brought her upright and dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose.

Somebody cheered.

Addison blushed.

And then, without warning, she thought, He’s right. Let them talk. Let everybody talk. I don’t care.

Amazing.

That she didn’t care.

She always had, before.

A girl whose mother tipped over the edge of reason with breathtaking swiftness, who went from being a grieving widow to being the town joke in the pink trailer down by the railroad tracks, was a girl who grew up wanting to avoid being looked at by anybody and everybody.

She’d only gone home once after she left for college, and that had been to attend her mother’s funeral.

Nobody had recognized her. Or talked about her. Why would they? She’d learned to blend in.

Anonymity was her armor, until Charlie.

But she’d endured the talk and pointed fingers because she’d loved him.