At the sound of Chance’s voice she bolted up from her seat, two years’ worth of letters clutched messily in her fist.
She’d suspected he might be a lot of awful things—a gambling addict, an alcoholic, an incurable commitment-phobe—but she’d never guessed Chance was the two-timing type. She’d known so many of them and he seemed so different, but she supposed life had a way of keeping you in check, making sure you were wrong every once in a while. She just wished she could’ve been wrong about something else.
She stomped to the top of the stairs and froze. His broad smile, the slightly crushed bouquet in his hand, the incredible cut of his body in those ACUs nearly melted her fury into anguish.
Then he opened his big, dumb mouth.
“Is something burning?”
“You bet it is, you cheating sack of shit,” she hissed, racing to the bottom of the stairs and flapping the letters in his face. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about your little piece on the side? Then again, since she’s been writing you love letters for years, maybe I’m the other woman, huh? Is our marriage even legal, Chance? Have you got another license from another state tucked in with these letters? What are you, a freaky bigamist?”
She could hear the hysteria rising in her voice but couldn’t stop it, couldn’t seem to do anything except step closer and closer until his back was against the door, his hands were on her upper arms and the flowers were forgotten on the floor. Too late she realized she still had a towel wrapped turban-like around her head, too late she wondered whether she should’ve read all the letters before reacting, too late she saw the warmth drain from Chance’s expression until he stared at her like she was a crazy woman accosting him on the street.
Too late. Way too late.
“Slow down. What love letters? What are you talking about?”
“These.” She thrust them against his chest and spun away, leaving him hustling to keep the papers from scattering across the floor. “Two years of love and devotion from Jessica in McCordsville, Indiana. Or have you forgotten about her already?”
He frowned, tilted his head, and then—to her utter indignation—he rocked back on his heels and laughed.
She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “What’s so funny?”
He laughed even harder, angling down to prop one hand on his thigh. She scowled, really wishing she’d remembered to take the towel off her head.
“I’m glad all this two-timing amuses you,” she managed around gritted teeth. “Because I’m fixing to walk out that door and never look back if I don’t get an explanation in the next thirty seconds.”
“You got the wrong end of the stick, sugar.” He straightened, still grinning as he held up the bunched envelopes. “Jessica’s in high school. She’s sixteen years old.”
“You pervert,” Tara gasped, sending him into another fit of laughter.
“Go on and untwist yourself, don’t look so cross,” he cajoled. “Jessica and I have never met, and we never will. She started writing to me years ago when her church youth group signed up to the Adopt-a-Soldier Program. She pulled my name out of a hat, that’s all.”
“But those are love letters, Chance. She says so herself, they’re all full of dreams and handsome this and brave that and fighting for our country, blah blah vomit.” She rolled her eyes.
“Girl’s a romantic. She’s homeschooled, and I think her parents are serious lockdown religious types. I haven’t replied to her in months, but she keeps writing. Maybe I should’ve stopped it, but the content is pretty wholesome and I haven’t encouraged her. It seems like an outlet she enjoys and she’s not bothering me, so I left it.”
“Why should I believe you?” she asked, but the words had no bite. She already knew the answer.
“You’re welcome to read every last one if it’ll reassure you. They’re the innocent fantasies of a sheltered teenage girl, written to a fairy-tale soldier prince she’s dreaming will turn up on her doorstep and whisk her away from her overbearing parents. I’m just his stand-in. She’s never even seen my picture—she wouldn’t know me if she fell over me in the street.”
“Oh.” Sheepishness froze her in place, her elbows pinned tight to her sides. She glanced at the discarded bouquet with a deep pang of regret. “I probably should’ve guessed she hadn’t met you. No one who had would write sappy stuff like she does.”
His lopsided smile was full of forgiveness she didn’t deserve. “Guess I shouldn’t expect any lovey-dovey letters from my wife when I deploy next month, huh?”
“How about I cross out Jessica’s signature and write my name underneath?”
“Topless photos would be better. No writing necessary.”
Her breath caught in her throat. That was the most overt reference either of them had made to the ferocious sexual attraction that had pulled them together and held them there when they first met, and it punctured the uncomfortably polite wall standing between them.
It was only a bullet-size hole—not a window, or even the jagged opening left by a fist—but it was enough to let a little light shine through.
For the first time all day, Tara smiled.
Chance scooped up the bedraggled bouquet and handed it to her. “Feels kind of obvious to say these are for you, since you’ve probably guessed I’m not in the habit of buying myself flowers.”
“I figured. But thank you, they’re beautiful.” And they were, all yellow and orange blossoms and dark green leaves. She thought some of them might be marigolds—she knew zilch about flowers. After running the pad of her thumb across a couple of silky petals she leaned in to sniff them, but came up frowning.
“Do these smell kind of…burnt?”
“I think that’s coming from the kitchen.”
She smacked her palm against her forehead, then pivoted so fast her bare feet squeaked on the floorboards. “The damn meatloaf’s burning.”
“It can’t be that bad.” Chance was on her heels as she hurried into the kitchen. “The smoke alarm hasn’t gone off.”
“I took the batteries out.”
“Uh, why?”
“Call it a hunch.”
She dumped the flowers on the kitchen table and wrenched open the oven, unleashing a billowing cloud of smoke. Immediately her throat itched and her eyes burned and she instinctively jerked backward, slamming against the hard wall of Chance’s chest. He wrapped one arm around her waist and stretched the other to shut the oven door, then turn off the thermostat.
He felt solid and still against the spluttering, wheezing coughs juddering through her ribs, his touch both comfortingly familiar and exhilaratingly new. He turned her to face him and put his hands on her cheeks, his grassy green eyes fixed on hers.
“Are you okay?”
