He turned at that comment, surprised.
She shrugged. “I hate shopping. I always have.”
“I have some clothes for you to use.” He didn’t think Callie would mind. Besides, wasn’t there some saying about acting in haste and repenting at leisure?
Somehow Emmaline’s presence in his bedroom was less innocent this time. It had obviously been way too long since he’d gotten laid, because the thought of her spread out on his simple cotton sheets was ricocheting around his skull.
Lucky for him, she didn’t seem to pick up on his I’m horny-as-fuck vibe. In fact, she was still rattling on with questions about what he wanted to do to the cruiser, which he was only halfway tuning into.
At least, until she said, “I could run to the market.”
That broke through his sexual haze pretty damn fast. “Hell, no. The one advantage we’ve got is that your father wouldn’t dream of looking for you here.” He looked at her, eyes quickly assessing her figure.
He had to hand it to her: she was stubborn. “I need something new to wear outside the garage too. I mean, yes, this dress is nice, but it wasn’t exactly designed for cross-country travel.”
She looked too perfect standing there. Too beautiful. Too delicate.
Could he do this? Would it hurt too much? Mind racing, he looked over Emmaline once more. She was gentler than any of the other high class women he’d met. Maybe it would be okay.
“Hold on.”
He rummaged around in the bottom drawer and threw a pair of pants at her. “Try these.”
She looked down at the pants Taggart had tossed to her. They were small. Feminine. “Um, girlfriend’s?”
“Sister.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you—”
“Yeah, not many people do.”
Her mind flashed to the photo above the sink. They’d looked a little similar; maybe that was her…
“Will she mind?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? I don’t want to—”
“She’s dead.”
Suddenly, the smudge made sense. Marks left from placing fingertips against the photo. Like a girl reverently paying homage to her mother’s frozen smile each morning.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t painful.”
“How old was she?”
“Two years younger than me.”
She fiddled with a button on the pants. She couldn’t imagine the swift loss of someone she loved. She’d been forced to watch her mother waste away from gamma poisoning. Three long years of hell. “How did she die?”
“Got caught in an explosion.” His voice was clipped, factual. “She enlisted as a mechanic the same year I did. There was a bombing on our base in Cordova. The garage was hit. I was already out working on a busted convoy. They told me when I got back.”
Emmaline recognised the hollowness of his words. He spoke with the same flippant familiarity with guilt and helplessness that she knew so well. That tiny realisation was the catalyst, sparking and setting ablaze all the thoughts she’d harboured about the man. Everything—her irritation, appreciation, awe, longing—coalesced, leaving her shaken to the core. Because under all the bluster, the swagger, the crude behaviour, the cruder speech, his existence was as empty as hers.
He turned away, digging out another one of his tank tops. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why had he mentioned Callie?