Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Hey now, honey goes with almost everything if you try,” I say pointedly.
“Don’t know why I ever thought anything else.”
My ears burn, still stuck on double meanings.
“Smart-ass.” I take another small sip of wine, knowing if I have too much, it’ll lower my defenses dangerously.
“Not the first time someone’s called me that.”
Maybe not, but I can’t imagine many people have insulted him to his face.
The more I get to know him, the scarier he seems, especially with the big dark military tattoos creeping down his arm.
With the wine putting courage in my blood, I reach out and trail one finger along them.
“I like your ink. Says you’ve got a good reason for being such a grump,” I say, and he stiffens. “An eagle and a…”
“Caduceus. For medicine,” he answers roughly.
“Huh.” I tilt my head as I consider. “You were in the army?”
“Special Forces Medic. Almost drove me to medical school when I was younger.” He puts the pizzas in the oven and leans against the counter, facing out into the kitchen.
From downstairs, Colt and Evans yell something unintelligible, probably caught up in their video games.
“Impressive,” I say, watching his face as a shadow crosses it. “How come you didn’t stick with being a doctor? Real estate seems more boring.”
“Because I learned to make the pizza.” There’s a gruffness in his voice that makes me blink.
“Come again?”
There’s a sadness in his eyes now as he slowly looks away.
“I’m not such a hardass about making the pizza perfect just for Colt’s sake. For me, it’s about honoring a mentor—a friend. We called him Big Frank. He was a Chicago guy, and he made the best goddamned pie I ever had, working miracles in mess halls from a few ingredients and MREs. If you tasted it, you would’ve had to strap yourself down not to take flight. He was killed in an ambush. Syria was fucking chaos, too many different sides and special ops the public never knew about. Officially, we were never there when it happened. He took shrapnel to the neck. I tried like hell before we were extracted, but I couldn’t save him.”
My heart crumbles.
Even now, there’s a hint of panic on his face behind the brave, stoic mask.
I see this young, wide-eyed, heroic Archer coming out who’s so human it hurts.
He’s always been like this, I guess. The natural protector, and when he couldn’t do what he does best, when he let his fallen friend down…
God.
“So that’s why you have the tattoos.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “As for the rest of it, why I came back—” There’s a fraction of a pause where he bites back whatever he was going to say. “I had to come home and figure life out fast. Being a father wouldn’t wait ten damn years to finish medical school. I couldn’t be away from Colt that long, not with the situation with his mom.”
He looks away.
I have so many questions. But I’m also not stupid or cruel, and now obviously isn’t the time to pry at his marriage.
“I’m sure you did the right thing,” I whisper.
I hate that my eyes are stinging again.
I’ve always been a huge sucker for these wounded warrior stories, though. It’s the only thing that ever seemed real in politics, the times when we’d show up so the senator could pay his respects to military families.
The flag-draped coffins always tore my heart out.
Especially the ones that came back from the places just like he said—the invisible, background wars and special missions no one thinks about.
The ones where good men die for mysterious causes.
Nothing changes the tears, hot and real and shed by loving families.
Even now, I want to flipping hug him, but I don’t know where the boundaries are anymore.
I just know they’re blurred like staring into murky water, and I kinda wish they’d just get messier.
“That’s really kind, you know. Making food to honor Frank and keep his memory alive. I’m just sorry you had to go through—”
“That was that, Winnie.” He cuts me off. “You can’t change the past, and there’s a certain point where there’s no use in crying about it either. Me, I’d rather fucking eat.”
Somehow, that makes me laugh.
“Well, I’m no expert on parenting, seeing how my parents never did much when I was a kid. But from what I can see, Colt’s a very lucky young man.”
“He’s not a proper man yet, but he’s on his way. More wine?” He smiles and refills my glass. I’m a little shocked when I see I’ve finished it. “We’ll just see how well he handles it once he figures out you’ve moved in.”
Scrunch.
There go my toes again.
And I ever-so-slightly regret the hot honey sauce I mixed up when my body temp must be well over a hundred degrees.
According to Archer, the kids don’t usually stick around to eat with adults.