The Marine's Embrace. Beth Andrews
before facing her. “I’m already down to half a tank of gas and I don’t know how long it’ll be before my last paycheck catches up to me.”
“I have money,” she assured him quickly, reaching for her robe on the end of the bed. “In my purse in the living roo—”
“I’ll get it.” He stepped toward her and she lifted her arms in relief—only to lower them when he brushed past her to pick up his wallet from the nightstand. “I’ll call you.”
He left, without a goodbye kiss or a backward glance. Without the words she needed to hear—that he loved her.
That he needed her.
Like she needed him.
He just...walked away. Walked out on her like he had so many times before.
Feeling more exposed than she could ever remember, she started shivering violently. From the chill in the air, she was sure. The chill and her nudity. But when she put on her robe, the tremors continued. She sat on the corner of the bed and rocked back and forth. Back and forth.
Her eyes stung, but she fought the tears. She wouldn’t cry. Not today. Today was a good day. A turning point in her life.
Today she got back everything she’d lost.
She wouldn’t speculate about what Shane hadn’t said or why he’d acted so distant. He was stressed, focused on acing the interview so he could come home for good, that was all.
But...oh, God...what if it wasn’t? She leaped to her feet, began pacing as she chewed on her pinkie nail. What if he was mad at her? She’d been clingy. Needy. What if...what if she’d said something she shouldn’t have? What if she’d upset him or...or disappointed him in some way? What if he’d found her lacking last night?
No, everything was fine. She was fine.
Except she didn’t feel fine. She felt anxious, as if her skin was too tight. Wound up and terrified, her heart pounding, her stomach churning.
She had to talk to him. Apologize for whatever she’d done. Promise to do better, be more adventurous in bed, give him more space. To give him whatever he needed. Whatever he wanted.
She burst out into the short hallway, peeked in on the boys—still asleep, thank God—then hurried down the stairs, her fingers trailing over the banister, the wood steps cool beneath her bare feet.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, she chanted silently. She had to get to him in time, had to apologize for overreacting.
She hit the second floor and slowed. Tried to quiet her breathing. Only two of the guest rooms were occupied and their doors were shut, the entire floor silent. She rounded the corner and took the back stairway down to the kitchen. Why did she have to upset Shane? She was so stupid. She should have been more understanding. Should have kept quiet and just let him go with a smile and a kiss.
She’d make it up to him. First with her apology and then, when he came back tonight, with her body. She’d go downtown that afternoon, pick up some slinky lingerie. Reaching the kitchen, she raced across the tile floor to the back door and whipped it open.
“He’s gone,” a deep, male voice said from behind her.
She whirled around, her hand at her throat. “Damien,” she breathed, noticing Bradford House’s chef at the six-burner stove on the other side of the room. It was a testament to her focus on getting to Shane that she hadn’t seen Damien. Huge, bald and heavily tattooed, the man had presence.
Not to mention his yellow do-rag and matching T-shirt were bright enough to rival the rising sun.
She glanced out at the small parking lot, but Shane’s truck was nowhere to be seen. She was too late. She’d pushed him away.
Again.
The darkness inside her head grew, pressed against her skull, thick and insistent, tempting her to give in to it. A sense of sadness, of hopelessness overcame her so swiftly, so sharply, it took her breath. She wanted to collapse right there on the cold floor, lay her head on her knees and weep.
But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She no longer gave in to the thoughts whispering in her mind, telling her she was useless, that no one loved her. They were horrible, terrifying lies, and she refused to listen to them.
Most of the time.
Swallowing the despair rising in her throat, she shut the door, knowing Damien watched her, ready to catch her if she fell. Ready to tell Neil if she slid into one of her moods—as her mother had deemed them when Fay had barely been ten and would slip into quietness, curl into herself.
When she’d all but disappear.
“You okay?” Damien asked.
She hung her head for a moment then inhaled deeply. Forced a light laugh as she faced him. “Yes. You just...surprised me.”
“I’m sorry.”
His gentle tone and the sympathy in his dark eyes told her he was sorry for a lot more than nearly giving her a heart attack. He was sorry for her. Because she couldn’t hold on to the man she loved. Because she was weak. Damaged.
Curling her fingers into her palms, she pulled her shoulders back and pasted a smile on her face. “It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Everything was her fault. Her fault Shane left. Her fault her family treated her with kid gloves. Her fault she couldn’t get rid of the dark feelings. Couldn’t live in the light. Couldn’t be whole.
Suddenly exhausted, her legs heavy, her body aching, she shuffled toward the stairs, wanting only to go back to bed. To sleep and sleep and sleep.
Small steps count.
She frowned. How did Dr. Porter’s voice always know when to pop into her head? It was disconcerting, to say the least.
Small steps count, the voice repeated stubbornly. Take enough of them and you get where you’re going. Win enough small victories and you’ll eventually win the war.
Well, the man did make sense. And while she wasn’t sure she’d ever be completely cured, she could get better. Dr. Porter told her all the time that she was smart enough, strong enough to take her life in a new direction. She just needed to work harder at living up to his confidence in her. To making it true.
And she’d start today. Right now.
It took willpower—surely more than it should have—but she turned to the right instead of heading upstairs, then skirted around the huge center island and crossed over to the coffeepot next to the industrial-sized stainless steel fridge.
“Honey,” Damien said softly, “what are you doing?”
Winning the battle.
“Getting a cup of coffee.” She poured some into a mug, added a small amount of cream and sipped it before grabbing a napkin and helping herself to one of the cranberry–white chocolate scones cooling on a wire rack.
Even small victories deserved to be celebrated.
“No, I mean what are you doing with Shane?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, all faux serenity and innocence, popping a bite of scone into her mouth.
Damien frowned, which, for some reason, brought out his dimples. “You’re not fooling me. I know a walk of shame when I see one.”
It was then she realized that she was still in her robe and hadn’t even bothered to wash her face or brush her hair.
Heat washed up her neck and into her cheeks. With her fair skin, there was no way Damien could miss her blush. Hoping she could ride it out—at least until she wasn’t glowing red—she ducked her head, pretended great interest in pouring more coffee into her already almost-full cup, adding a drop of cream and stirring.
Damien inhaled deeply then heaved a long, drawn-out sigh—as if