Playing Dirty (29 page)

She slid the drawer closed, then zipped up the weekender bag and stowed it in the closet before heading back into the bathroom to blow dry her hair. Twenty minutes later, hair dried and her skin perfumed with the scent of her favorite body lotion, she went downstairs to find her husband. After cracking open the bottle of moscato she’d had chilling, she loaded a small platter with various fruits, cheeses and a few snack crackers. Glass of wine and munchies in hand, she joined Ford in the cavernous den where he sat on the leather sofa, iPhone to his ear, television remote in hand.
 

“I love you, too, sugar,” he said into the phone. “No, that’s okay. I don’t want to talk to Austin’s dog.”

She smothered a grin, knowing exactly what was coming next. Ever since Griffen had adopted a puppy, Phoebe had been relentless in her pleas for a dog of her own. And she wanted one just like Austin’s, a high-energy, very hairy, albeit completely adorable, Golden Retriever. She’d been hesitating, but she supposed so long as Ford didn’t object too strenuously, she didn’t see much reason not to adopt a dog. Although nothing was ever considered permanent when it came to duty stations, after what they’d all been through, she held serious hope the Navy wouldn’t be uprooting them any time soon.

When he saw her, he flashed that sexy smile of his, the one that never failed to make her toes curl. “I promise I’ll talk to Mommy,” he said, and patted the cushion next to him. “No, I will. Yes. I already promised.”
 

He looked at her, a huge smile on his face. “She never stops, does she?” he whispered.
 

“Nope,” she said as she joined him on the sofa.

“As soon as we hang up, okay?” He said into the phone. “Say goodnight, sugar.” He chuckled. “Because you’re sweet, that’s why?” He shook his head. “Yes, I’ll tell Mommy.” He let out a sigh. “Okay. All right. Goodnight.”
 

“So? Who was that?” she asked teasingly as she plucked a small handful of grapes from the platter.

He set his iPhone on the coffee table, snagged his near empty glass and took a final swig. “A beautiful, brunette fireball who’s stolen my heart,” he said as he stood. “And I’m finding it impossible to say no to her. Want a drink?”

“I’m good,” she said, then took a sip of the cool, crisp wine in her glass. “So, we’re getting a dog?”

“She really wants one.” He went to the bar to freshen his drink. She admired his ass encased in soft, battered denim, and her nipples hardened. Considering they’d just made love little over an hour ago, sex should be the last thing on her mind. Apparently, her body had other ideas.
 

He grabbed a bottle of Crown from the glass shelf behind the bar. “I take it she’s been begging for a while now.” His gaze momentarily dipped to her breasts.

“She has.” She tugged at her tank, wishing she hadn’t worn something so form fitting. “Do you think she’s old enough? I don’t expect her to take care of it, but she needs to at least share in some of the responsibility.”

Drink refilled, he walked back to the sofa, his expression thoughtful. Her gaze slid from his face to the long, powerful length of his legs and back up to admire his broad chest. The last time she’d seen him in the old, heather-gray Navy Strong t-shirt, the soft, worn fabric had clung to his chest and had emphasized his thick, muscular biceps. While the fabric wasn’t exactly hanging on him now, the fit was nowhere near as snug as it had once been, reminding her of how harshly he’d been treated.

He sat beside her. “You know her better than I do.”
 

Although his words weren’t accusatory, she still winced. “Ouch.”
 

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” He slung his arm over the back of the sofa, his fingers brushing lightly along her shoulder, skimming over her skin to the back of her neck. “But, it is a fact we can’t change.”

She took a long drink of wine. “I know,” she finally said. “What do you say we declare this the part of the conversation where we just say ‘get over it’ and we move on?” Because really, how much longer could they keep rehashing the past five years?
 

His expression turned thoughtful, and for half a minute, she thought he might agree with her. “Do you mean that?” he asked. “Or is it because you don’t want to talk about what you’ve been doing all this time?”

She frowned. “That’s not—”

“Because you never did answer my question.”

They’d both been to hell and back, what more did they really need to say?
 

How about the truth?

She drained her glass.
 

“And what question would that be?” she asked innocently, but knew exactly what he’d meant. She’d badgered him into telling her about his time in the hands of the enemy, but so far, she’d managed to avoid the truth about exactly what she’d gone through.
 

“What
have
you been doing the past five years?” His warm hand cupped the back of her head as he smoothed his thumb up and down the side of her neck. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea about the past two years,” he added dryly, “but what about before that? What are you afraid to tell me?”

She leaned forward, away from his touch, under the guise of selecting a slice of cheese. Because, dammit, she was incapable of concentrating when he touched her, even absently. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
 

He gently patted her thigh before he stood. “We might have been apart for five years,” he said, “but I know you better than that. Is this a conversation that’s going to require more wine?”

“There’s going to be a conversation?”

“There needs to be.” He went to the kitchen and came back with the opened bottle of moscato to refill her glass. “We can’t keep going in circles, Matt. You just said it. At some point, we have to stop looking back and move forward, but we can’t do that if we aren’t honest with each other.”

She took a quick, fortifying sip. “I’ve never lied to you.”

“I know.” He walked to the bar and tucked the bottle into the small, built-in fridge. “But, you haven’t told me everything, either.”

“You’re home. We’re spending the weekend in Jed’s gorgeous lake house. We’re together,” she said, a little alarmed by the panic creeping into her voice. She cleared her throat. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No, Mattie. It’s not,” he said. “And I think you know it, too.”

Dammit. She hated when he was right. She had insisted on the truth from him. She’d pushed and pushed for it. Wasn’t it only fair that he be afforded the same courtesy?
 

“
Quid pro quo
,” he said.

Needing space, she set her glass on the table, then walked to the wall of windows to look out into the night. The lights behind her prevented her from seeing much but darkness and her own terrified reflection. “It’s been a really long day. Can’t we do this another time?”

He came up behind her and slipped his arms around her. “Let’s do this now.”
 

She tried to take comfort from the feel of her back pressed against the warm, solid length of his body, but instead, a coldness crept into her bones and chilled her. She wasn’t ready. They weren’t ready.

“Pick a day, babe.”

She would’ve smiled at his choice of words, but her insides were a jumbled mess of nerves. “Wouldn’t you rather I start at the beginning? Isn’t that where all good stories begin?” she asked, unable to disguise the tremor in her voice.
 

Dammit, she didn’t want to turn the discussion into an argument. He’d asked her a legitimate question, but that didn’t mean her defenses hadn’t immediately come into play in order to protect herself. He deserved an honest response. Too bad the truth still scared the hell out of her.

“Sure.” He loosened his hold on her, and she stepped away from him. “Start at the beginning.”

There was a guarded quality to his voice that had shame and regret crawling all over her conscience, looking for a place to set up shop. She went to the table and snatched her glass of wine, hoping for a dash of courage. After she downed a sufficient amount, she asked, “What would you like to know first? How I can’t even remember the words Paul Ravelli used to tell me your plane had been shot down and there were no survivors? Or maybe how I went into labor, because I was in shock? Or how I was so out of it, I have almost no memory of Phoebe’s birth?”

He snagged his own drink from the bar and went back to the sofa. “I want to know all of it.”

Out of morbid curiosity? Or because he was trying to be supportive?
 

She told herself it didn’t matter, but she knew better. And because she needed the warmth of his body to chase away the deep chill inside her, she sat beside him. “Do you, Ford?” she asked quietly as she turned to face him. “Do you really want to know that I barely survived? How if it weren’t for my mom and Griffen...” She shook her head. She really didn’t want to tell him how weak she’d been. Wasn’t it better that he hold onto the erroneous illusion she’d survived by sheer strength of will despite the excruciating heartbreak losing him had caused her?

He took hold of her hand and laced their fingers together, as if his mere touch held the strength she needed to tell him the truth. “If it hadn’t been for your mom and Griffen, what?”
 

She shook her head again, but the memories she’d kept deeply buried threatened to rise to the surface despite her fervent wish to the contrary. The pain, the agony she’d gone through weren’t emotions she cared to revisit, and she sure as hell didn’t want to enlighten the one person whose opinion mattered to her the most, how badly she’d failed. They’d had enough pain between them to last ten lifetimes. Why add more?
 

Because he deserved the truth, regardless of how painful. Regardless of how much more hurt it caused.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “If it weren’t for your mom and Griffen, what?” he prompted again.

She drew in a long, unsteady breath, then briefly lowered her lashes as she let it out slowly. “I wanted to die,” she whispered, then opened her eyes.
 

Apprehension highlighted his features. “Babe,” he said, “I know it was hard, and I’m—”

“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

Concern deepened the intensity of his eyes. “Understand what? Tell me. What aren’t you saying?”

Shame bit into her. Hard. How did she explain that the darkness had swallowed her and she hadn’t been able to find a way out of it? Worse, she hadn’t wanted out, and instead had welcomed the heavy shroud of nothingness and the sweet promise of ending the excruciating pain. “I almost succeeded.”

She knew the instant he understood, because he pulled away. Slowly. Inch by hurtful inch.
 

He released her hand and stared at her. Shock preceded hurt, followed by abject disappointment as her words sank in and he realized exactly what she was telling him. He stood and walked to the floor to ceiling windows, putting distance between them as if he couldn’t bear to be near her.
 

She wanted to cry.

He dragged his hand down his face. “Jesus, Mattie,” he said, his voice rough and tortured.
 

“I gave up,” she admitted, still ashamed that she’d just stopped caring—about everything. “Nothing mattered. Without you, nothing made sense to me any longer.”

He let out a long slow breath, then turned to face her. “You’re telling me you tried to kill yourself?”

She winced at the harshly spoken words, at the anger and hurt, the accusation in his voice. “Not consciously. It wasn’t something I’d planned. I hurt. I hurt so deeply I couldn’t breathe. I just wanted the pain to stop.”

He looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time since coming home. He shook his head, went to the bar and poured himself another shot, then downed it before he walked out of the room.
 

Tears burned her eyes and clouded her vision as she watched him climb the steps to the foyer, then disappear from view. She understood he might need time to process what she’d told him, but she hadn’t expected him to walk away from her. Not like that. Not without a word.

As she finished her wine, hurt eventually gave way to annoyance. She swiped at the moisture in her eyes. Disappointment settled over her. How dare he judge her? She wasn’t proud of her fall from grace, far from it, but she had found her way back. That had to count for something. She just hadn’t expected him to turn away from her as if he couldn’t stand to be near her.

Fine. She’d give him time, more for her own benefit than his, because she needed a few minutes to pull herself together and get her head on straight. If she went to him now, they’d fight. This was a fresh wound. Raw. Open and bleeding. She knew enough about herself to know she’d lash out like a wounded animal, protecting itself from more hurt.
 

Her glass empty, she gathered up the mostly untouched fruit and cheese platter and went to the kitchen. After tucking the leftovers in the refrigerator, and snagging herself a bottle of cool water, she considered going in search of her husband, but decided they both needed some space. Until she went to the staircase to head upstairs to the bedroom, and a gentle breeze blew in from the opened glass doors, bringing with it the remnants of the heat of the hot summer day. Against her better judgment, she walked out to the deck and found Ford, his hands on the railing, his head down, shoulders slumped. He looked...defeated. Dejected. Knowing she was responsible, made her heart hurt.