“This is serious, Tara. Especially the financial stuff. All it takes is one missed payment and—”
“I know. And I’ve been taking it seriously for two hours now. I need a break.” She leapt up from the couch and moved to where he stood, running her hands over his shoulders, digging into the tense muscles with her thumbs just the way he liked. He closed his eyes as he leaned into her touch, letting the list drop to the floor.
“All right, you win. What did you get me? Remember I don’t have much space in my bag for—”
“Lots of personal extras, you told me. That’s why I got you this.” She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and produced a silver business card holder. The front panel had a plastic inset of the ace of spades.
He took it reverently, holding it between two careful fingers. She elbowed him gently. “Open it.”
He did. Tucked inside was the closest thing she had to a wedding portrait, a slightly blurry snap of the two of them grinning beside the fountain in the casino atrium. She’d cropped it tightly to cut out all the people crossing through the background, but a stray leg had still found its way into the edge. Chance had his arm around her and they were dressed in their matrimonial finery—jeans and a flannel shirt for him, a short, tight black dress for her, from which one bra strap was protruding onto her shoulder.
“Oh my word,” he murmured, lips stretching into a slow smile. “Where’d you get this?”
“Our so-called preacher took it on my phone. Don’t you remember?”
He shook his head. “Look at me. I’m so drunk I’m practically drooling.”
“I think you look happy.”
“I was happy. Still am.” He drew her against his side and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you. This is a great present.”
“We can get someone to take a photo of us when you come back with Alpha Company in May. Y’know, one of those tearful reunion snaps. Then you can put that in the other side, next to this one.”
“Sure thing.” But he didn’t sound too sure. He guided her over to the couch and tugged her down beside him, shutting the photo case and putting it on a side table. What little mirth had returned to his expression was gone, and Tara braced herself for some kind of grisly, solemn conversation.
“If you think you get any say in how I bury you, you’ve got another think coming. I’m cremating your ass and taking myself to Vegas with the rest of the funeral budget.” She gave him her most infectious grin, but her joke fell flat. His eyes were dark and somber.
“Will you be here when I get back?”
Her jaw dropped. “Chance McKinley, what a thing to ask!”
“Will you?”
“No, I’m going to steal your money and your car and you’ll never hear from me again. Tara Lambert isn’t even my real name.” She rolled her eyes.
“I had to ask.”
“No, you didn’t. I’ve told you I’m in this for the long haul, and I mean it.”
“I did,” he insisted. “You’re so nonchalant about me leaving, I was starting to wonder if you cared at all.”
“Excuse me for trying to enjoy our last night together instead of moping,” she retorted hotly. “If you wanted me to act a certain way you should’ve given me a script.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to enjoy it, it’s—”
“You know what? Screw you, Chance.” Her temper was roaring at full tilt now, and it was almost a relief. Anger was so much easier than sadness. “You think I’m looking forward to six months coming home to this empty house? You think I give a shit about your measly soldier’s salary and your stupid car? I’m sorry it’s so hard for you to believe that I care about you, but that’s the hard truth. I’m here for you. Nothing else.”
She half-stood from the couch, gearing up for a full-on rant when he grabbed her wrists and pulled her back down, scooping her into his lap.
“I love you, Tara,” he murmured, raising his hands to her cheeks. “Why can’t you tell me the same thing?”
All the fight drained out of her like water in a leaky bucket. She sagged in his grip, her heart sinking. “I want to. I just can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’m scared.” The painfully honest response leapt from her mouth with the ease she wished she could find for those other three words.
“Scared of what, sugar?”
“Losing you. I think it might kill me.”
“You’re not going to lose me,” he soothed, tightening his arms around her.
You don’t know that, she wanted to say. You’ll be dead in an Afghan ditch and I’ll never love anyone else again. Instead she kissed him, pleadingly, hoping he understood.
Soon their tongues were colliding, their hands roaming, their knees bumping in their haste to be closer. Chance shucked off his T-shirt and jeans with such speed that she stilled him with a palm on his chest, needing him to wait and watch.
She undressed slowly, deliberately, baring herself one inch at a time. He sat frozen on the other end of the couch, his eyes never leaving her body. She paused after she removed her bra, and again when she lowered her panties. Then she lay flat on her back and parted her thighs, letting him look his fill.
It was an offering of devotion, of commitment, of a love still unspoken. When he slid inside her she hoped he knew what she meant—when she clenched her legs against his sides she hoped her message was clear. He was inextricable from her, now. She would never be whole without him.
I love you, she told him with the rock of her pelvis. I love you, said the nails dug into his back. And when the end came and she arched and shook and nearly wept with the power of her climax, the ragged, plaintive moan that tore from her lips begged, Come home safe to me. I love you and I’ll never stop.
Nine
Chance woke long before the alarm set for five o’clock. He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other wrapped around his wife, and he watched the shadows that moved on the ceiling every time the wind rustled the tree outside.
This was the first time he hadn’t been full of anxious excitement on the day he left for deployment. Usually he was full of nervous enthusiasm, eager to be on his way, ready to start the next adventure. Instead he was preoccupied and reluctant.
