Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (39 page)

It was a wonder she’d managed to keep herself alive all these years without the watchful supervision of Asher Coleson. The only other item in the bag was a black American Express card with her name embossed on it and a post-it note slapped to it, his messy handwriting telling her it was
In case of emergencies—including the super cute shoe kind
. Quite surprising, considering she had no idea such a wicked sense of humor lay beneath her brother’s tough exterior, nor that the phrase
super cute
was in his vocabulary. And because she’d been oddly curious, Hope had called the the AmEx people to see what her limit was. Apparently Ash had planned for a shoe emergency of the epic kind, with enough left over to buy a new car. But the ridiculously high limit didn’t matter. She hadn’t swiped it once.

The anemic doorbell rang again as her visitor impatiently laid on the button for a second time, the chime sounding like a balloon losing air.

“Sir, yes, sir,” she said, teasing Ash about his gift of weaponry. “I’m ready to take down any criminal who chooses to ring my doorbell before he attacks me.” The laughter caught in her throat when she swung open the door.

The heavy shock of a bitter cold wind slapping her in the face was nothing compared to the stunning sight before her, and she stood there, open-mouthed and staring, as time stood still.

Icy flakes of snow pelted her cheeks, cooling the hot flush spreading through her. A gust of freezing air whipped her hair across her face, bringing the faint, smoky smell of a wood burning fireplace with it. Ash yapped distantly in her ear, demanding to know who her visitor was.

Hope didn’t answer. She didn’t dare move.

She was too busy wondering if he was real or a mirage. A ghost dredged up from the heavy winds of the blizzard, sent to torture her broken heart. Afraid if she moved a muscle, it would break the spell her mind had conjured up and he would disappear, only to return in her dreams.

“You had to pick Denver, huh?” Hands tucked into the front pockets of his well worn jeans, Beck’s broad shoulders were huddled inward, the flannel shirt he’d thrown over his favored white t-shirt severely inadequate considering the inclement weather.

He tilted his head toward the sky with a scowl, as if she’d ordered up the January snowstorm herself.

“Gotta go, Ash,” she croaked into the phone, still motionless but finally finding her voice.

“About damn time,” Ash said, dryly. “Take it easy on him, okay? Hear him out before you bust his balls. And tell him I shredded his letter. It never crossed my desk.”

He disconnected their call but Hope didn’t notice, the hand holding her phone still stuck to her ear.

Beck looked over her shoulder, seeing her apartment in all its dumpy glory, then looked toward her Toyota parked nearby, the burnt orange paint almost completely covered in white.

“Glad to see you’ve upgraded,” he said, with a small grin. “And I’m freezing my ass off here, honey. You gonna let me in?”

Only her mouth moved. “What’s wrong with Denver? I like it here.” No, she didn’t. She hated it. But he didn’t need to know that.

He pointed skyward. “It’s frigid and it’s snowing. Two of my least favorite things. I guess I need to dig out my arctic tactical gear if we’re gonna live here now.”

We’re
.
We
. The magic word.

Stepping back, she motioned for him to enter, watching as he dropped his duffel down on the brown sculptured carpeting, installed sometime back before she was born. A swatch of faded pink fabric was visible between the open teeth of the zipper. Her blanket.

Propping his hands on his hips, he surveyed the large room in one quick glance, the entirety of her apartment no more than a five-hundred square foot box.

“I could do something with this. Needs paint, maybe some crown molding. Definitely updated appliances. It’s a little small, but I’ve bunked down in tighter barracks.” Lips quirking, he shrugged. “My mother used to say that you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Now I know what she meant.”

Hope tracked his body, then searched his blithe expression. He looked a little, well... worse for the wear honestly. Thinner. Still as muscled and fit as before, if not more so now. But, it was less bulk and more whipcord lean. Several days had passed since he’d shaved, and he looked to be a few weeks overdue for a haircut, too. Unfortunately for her, he was pulling it off like a cover model for Men’s Health magazine, and making a strong case for the unnecessary use of razors, too. She perversely wondered how many other women had noticed, as well. Then wondered if he’d dabbled in some break-up sex himself. His aggressive neighbor came to mind, the one who liked to jog with her camel toe showing, and Hope nearly bit through her lip.

“Yeah, well the roaches and I don’t need another roommate, and I doubt my slumlord is looking to remodel. Why are you here, Beck?”

Because I was just starting to move on without you, she added silently. I spent an entire waking hour yesterday without your face foremost in my mind. And I fell asleep last night with dry eyes, and I dreamed of a day that I didn’t miss you so badly it made my guts turn inside out.

“I made a mistake.” The glint in those green eyes warmed as he held her gaze and the uncertainty in them was something she’d never seen before. “A damn lot of them, really.” He laughed without humor, running a hand over his head. “Now I’m trying to right them.”

Nodding, as if she understood when she really didn’t, she sat in the corner of the sofa, tucking her freezing feet underneath her. Any intention of taking it easy on him went out the window once the vision of him with another woman entered her mind and she waited him out, unsure if he considered kicking her to the curb a mistake.

“I spent September in rehab. And some of October, too.” His tone was deathly serious, his gaze holding hers without shame. “I made it to one-hundred. Just not one-hundred and one.”

A lump formed in her throat, the feeble barrier she’d put up since opening her door melting away. It took all she had not to stand and cradle him in her arms, whispering cliché words of encouragement while giving him every bit of strength in her body.

“It was, without a doubt, the toughest forty-five days of my life. And I went through BUD/S and high risk SERE-C training to get my trident pin.”

Hope had no idea what either of those things were, but they sounded hard. Schooling her expression, she bit back the platitudes, knowing he’d see them as pity. As weakness. Something to be rejected for the ridiculous fear it might make him less a man.

Tilting her head toward a chair, she invited him to take a seat, breathing in his familiar musky scent when he sat next to her instead, his thigh aligned against hers. The cold still clung to his clothes and his dark hair was damp with melting snow.

“On a positive note,” he continued, reaching for her hand, his grip solid and surprisingly warm. “Sam booked a swanky, oceanfront facility with a gym, a spa, and a restaurant. It’s like staying at a five star hotel, except you surrender your mouthwash and shoelaces when you check in. And if you puke anywhere but in a toilet, you have to clean it up yourself.”

Holy shit, he was for real.

He hadn’t just gone to some wellness spa where you did Bikram yoga and ate nothing but vegan green drinks for two weeks. He’d gone to the big boy detox center. Where some nasty Nurse Ratched made you mop up your own vomit.

Imagining a utilitarian treatment facility with flat white walls, blue florescent lights, and straps and buckles on the beds, she squeezed his hand, appalled on his behalf. “Did they let you go outside?”

He snorted in amusement. “It was rehab, Hope. Not prison. A lot like my first few months in the Navy, really. Every minute of the day was set in stone, scheduled right down to when I would eat, sleep, and piss. I spent the first forty-eight hours in the medical ward, where I learned the strictly enforced puke rule the hard way,” he said, lifting a dark brow.

Hope cringed, moaning sympathetically, but he brushed off her concern.

“The rest of the time was mostly about making it through the next hour, then that night, then the next day. The one-on-one therapy sessions with the shrinks sucked and the group meetings were basically non-stop. It was like going to confession every day, only you did it in public. And in front of junkies.” Lifting their clutched hands to his mouth, he kissed her knuckles softly. “But it helped.”

“Oh, Beck.” He seemed so cavalier, while she was dying inside for him. And her already broken heart broke some more. “I wish I’d known. I wish I could’ve helped you.”

“Nobody could’ve helped me, Hope. Except me. Addiction is a solitary thing.”

Rubbing her thumb over his finger, she spoke softly. “How many days has it been?”

“One-hundred thirty-eight,” he answered immediately, not pausing to count. “Some are easy. Some aren’t. But, that isn’t why I humped through knee deep snow to see you,” he said, dismissing his experience. “I owe you an apology, Hope. For the way things ended between us. I’m not proud of the way that went down.”

Her heart plummeted. “So, that’s what this is about, Beck? You’re making amends to the people you’ve wronged? Clearing your conscience and crossing them off an apology list?”

Returning my blanket so you can move on, breaking my heart all over again?

He smiled, shaking his head. “It’s not a twelve step thing, if that’s what you’re asking. I guess it’s more like a baby step thing.” His smile fell, replaced by shock when he suddenly looked toward the window.

“Aw, fuck.” Dropping his head back against the sofa, he groaned. “I just realized I’m gonna have to teach our kids how to snowboard now, instead of surf. All right, so along with the strictly enforced puke rule, I’m enacting a policy that all family vacations take place on the coastline of an ocean. You can pick which one.”

Huh? Hope blinked slowly. “Okay, maybe it’s the overwhelming smell of mildew in here,” she motioned around the room, “but I’m having a hell of a time following this conversation.”

He smiled, his teeth perfectly straight and white. Jesus, his mother must have paid an orthodontist a fortune. It was worth every red cent, though, because it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

Squeezing her fingers, he stared at their clasped hands, tracing the pad of his thumb over her bubble gum pink painted fingernail.

Swallowing, he spoke quietly. “I would see the same therapist at the facility, day after day. We had a standing appointment at three o’clock sharp. A real asshole in a sweater vest and crease pleated khaki’s. Kept an hourglass the size of a soda can on the corner of his desk. Kept pounding the same damn words down my throat, too. I would sit there, watching the sand sifting down through the narrow tunnel, and he would say, ‘feel the feelings, Mr. Smith,’ over and over again.” His lips twisted, but he didn’t look up. “It would take one-thousand, eight-hundred seconds for all the sand to drain, give or take a few depending on my level of concentration that day. Once it did, he would reach out and flip it over, and our battle of wills would begin again.” He inhaled sharply, exhaling emotion he couldn’t put into words. “Eventually his will won.”

Slanting his head sideways, he looked at her with beautiful green eyes. “My life since you came into it, since that very first night, has been like a dream. A really good dream. I know it sounds cheesy, Hope, but I’m thankful, and so fucking grateful to you. And if this is what it’s like to be with you? This dream I’ve been in?” He opened her hand, flattening his much larger palm against hers, sealing them together. As stall tactics went, it was a good one. “The one where I’m happier than I’ve ever been, because you’re with me and I’m with you?” His eyes met hers. “Well, then I never want to wake up.”

Holy shit, Hope thought. Coming from Beckett Smith, those words were like delicately crafted poetry. “Who are you and what have you done with Beck?”

He barked out a laugh, shaking his head sheepishly. “I know. I’m turning into a real fucking pansy in my sobered old age.”

“You’re not old. Older, yes,” she teased, grinning when he winced. “But, I like this side of you. All hard muscle and alpha male on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside.”

He didn’t debate her assessment.

“Come back to me, Hope.” Whispering the words she’d been dying to hear for months, he added, “We can live in Siberia if you want, I don’t care. Just give me a chance to make this right. Tell me you still want me. That you still like me.”

“Where have you been the last few months?” she asked, instead of answering him. Because according to her math, there was almost three months of missing time.

“Working. First in South America, then Northern Africa. And a month in the place where everything is beige. Just got back yesterday.” He pursed his lips. “Your brother has a mean streak. Holds a grudge, too.”

Warmth heated her cold body and she grinned. “Then I guess I still like you. And honestly, if I tell you it’s probably a lot closer to love, are you gonna head for the hills?”

“Only if you’re coming with me, princess. I’ll get a white horse, if necessary.”

“Well, speaking of coming.” Her smile was sinful as she shifted, clutching his shoulders and straddling him. With a knee on each side of his thighs, she aligned their bodies up just so.

Hard to soft. Cold to warm. Heart to soul.

Pressing her lips against his, she inhaled his relieved sigh, taking a deep breath of her own. Deeper than she had since he’d left her standing in his living room. His strong arms banded around her, pulling her against him for a hug so tight, it nearly cut off her airway. Dipping his dark head, he nosed her hair aside and buried his face in her neck. Warm lips met her tender skin briefly, the rough abrasion of his stubble sending a jolt of purely female pleasure through her body. He stayed like that. Not moving, not speaking. Just holding her too tightly and breathing her in. The abrupt heave of his shoulders, followed by a stuttered shudder, surprised her.

She gasped, and without thinking, said, “Are you crying?”

His snort was muffled by her hair, but there was no denial. “Fucking pansy,” he grumbled uncomfortably, his tone sheepish. “I’m feeling all the feelings, okay?”