The Marine's Embrace

CHAPTER FOUR

AT HIS ACQUIESCENCE, she smiled, full and warm and relieved, as if getting him to come inside was a personal victory.

Glad he could help her put a check in the win column.

“Thank you,” she said. A car drove past, the driver giving them a friendly beep of the horn. She waved without looking away from Zach. “I promise to do everything in my power to make your stay pleasant.”

He thought again of how pretty she’d looked sitting in the sunshine. How good she smelled. How long it had been since he’d felt a woman’s soft skin. Since a woman had touched him in a nonplatonic, nonmedical or nontherapeutic way.

A long time. A long, long time.

Probably not what she meant by making things pleasant.

“I’m just checking out the room,” he told her, his voice gruffer than he’d intended. Inappropriate sexual fantasies would do that. Especially ones of him rolling around in the front yard on a bright, sunny day with a woman who, moments before, had hauled her screaming kid inside. “No promises I’ll be staying.”

“Of course. But I think once you see the room, you’ll want to.”

Right now all he wanted was to sit down. Or at least get out of the sun. His head was starting to ache, a pounding to match the throbbing in his leg. He shifted to the side, gestured for her to go ahead.

She brushed past him, then waited at the end of the walkway. When he reached her, she moved onto the grass and walked with him toward the house. Took tiny, slow steps so as not to outpace him.

“Bradford House has a long and rich history in Shady Grove,” she said. Seemed this tour came with a guide. “Built over one hundred years ago by local timber baron Reginald Bradford, it was a gift to his third wife, Marjorie, a socialite from Boston thirty years his junior.”

She went on. And on. And on some more. Reginald died of a heart attack in a hooker’s bed... Marjorie passed the house down to their only child, a daughter, who married some guy with a gambling habit...yada, yada, yada...the house was lost in a high-stakes poker game and turned into an orphanage...

He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the house’s history or its past inhabitants, but he let her talk. It helped knowing she was occupied with giving her spiel and not focused on trying to catch him should he fall. Plus, he liked the soft lilt of her voice, the way she spoke so slowly, carefully, as if reciting a memorized piece for school.

“The house stood empty for over five years,” she said when they finally reached the porch, “at which point NHL star Neil Pettit purchased the house and property.”

Neil Pettit. Zach had never heard of him. Then again, he didn’t follow hockey, preferred watching baseball or basketball rather than a bunch of guys on skates. But he was curious—not about the house or its current owner. About her.

“Is that your husband?” he asked as they reached the porch.

She started, as if shaken out of her tour-guide trance. Glanced around, doing a full spin. “Where?”

He looked around, too, but they were the only two people out there. “Neil Pettit.”

“Oh. No.” She checked the street again, then her phone before looking Zach’s way. “Neil’s my brother.”

“You and he are partners?”

“Partners?”

He nodded toward the house. “Business partners.”

Something crossed her face, a flash of resentment gone so quickly he might have imagined it. “I’m not an owner.” Now her eyes widened. “I can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself,” she said, obviously horrified by her oversight. “I’m so sorry. I’m Bradford House’s manager, Fay Lindemuth.”

And she held out her right hand.

Hell.

He shrugged the duffel bag’s strap off his shoulder. As it hit the ground with a dull thud, she seemed to realize what she was doing and started lowering her arm, her eyes wide and distressed. He stabbed his left hand out, took hold of hers in an awkward, upside-down squeeze. “Zach Castro.”

He held on for a beat. Then two. Longer than necessary, but it was nice, having her warm, soft palm against his. When she started pulling away, he immediately let go. But could still feel it, that warmth. Softness.

He curled his fingers, tried to hold on to both for as long as possible.

Her hands fluttered, touching her chest again, then brushing at her hair before floating down to her sides. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Castro.”

“Zach,” he grumbled. Mr. Castro. Like he was her elder when, if he had to guess, she was around his age—thirty.

Another smile. She had an ample supply of them. “Well, let’s get you that tour, Zach.”

The sound of his name in that soft voice blew through him. He should have let her stick with Mr. Castro.

He eyed the four porch steps. Wide and deep, he’d be able to step up, get his balance before moving on to the next. But there was no handrail to hold on to.

And he had to climb them all under the watchful eye of the pretty woman next to him.

Resigned, he leaned to the side for his duffel.

“Oh, I can take that,” she said, reaching down across his body. The back of her hand brushed his knee, and he froze for a moment, her hair tickling his chin, the scent wrapping around him, while she tugged at the bag’s strap.

“I’ve got it,” he said tightly and felt her look at him, her face close enough that her soft exhale warmed his cheek.

He kept his gaze down, on the sight of their hands wrapped around that worn, rough strap, her fingers long and narrow with shiny pink nails. Her skin pale next to his, the bones of her hand delicate. He raised his eyes to hers, felt a pull of something—interest, attraction or, hell, plain old lust—deep in his stomach. Any of them would be understandable, he told himself. All of them were natural reactions. She was a pretty woman with her bright hair and clear blue eyes. Sweet with her many smiles, easy blushes and that hint of vulnerability. And he was just a man. A man who hadn’t had sex in over eight months.

Didn’t mean he had to act on those feelings. Didn’t mean he wanted to.

But he did want her to leave him with some self-respect.

“Let. Go.”

At his quiet, rough command, she jerked upright. Blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” Those pretty hands were back to flapping uselessly, her throat working as she swallowed.

He jutted his chin toward the porch. “After you.”

No way was he going first and having her hovering behind him, waiting to catch him if he fell.

She went up the stairs, crossed the wide porch to the front door, her movements quick. Easy.

Envy pinched him, but he pushed it aside. He wasn’t about to start feeling sorry for himself now. He’d get back to 100 percent. Eventually. It would take time, patience and hard work. He had plenty of the first, not nearly enough of the second. And the third? He embraced it. He wasn’t afraid to push himself, was actually looking forward to it. To proving he was more than his perceived limitations. To overcoming the odds and living a normal life—whatever that new normal turned out to be.

He climbed the steps slowly, carefully, leaning to the right to compensate for the weight of his duffel bag on his left. It couldn’t have taken him more than fifteen seconds to reach the top, but it felt like an eternity. Especially knowing Fay watched him, cataloging his every move, nervous and on edge that any moment he might tumble to the ground.

Used to be a time, before his injuries, when women checked him out as he went by, the look in their eyes appreciative. Interested.

Now they either looked at him with pity or their gazes skittered over him, as if it was too painful for them to see him.

He crossed the porch, didn’t miss how pleased and relieved Fay looked, as if he’d successfully scaled Everest instead of conquering a few porch steps.

He reached past her and pulled open the door.

“Thank you,” she murmured, stepping inside. He followed, closing the door behind him.

The foyer was large, bright and airy with a high ceiling, a curving wooden staircase to his left and a set of French doors leading to what looked like a den to his right. The woodwork gleamed, dark and ornate, and wide planks of aged oak covered the floor. Some sort of antique stand with drawers and carved scrolls in the wood was against the far wall, a glass bowl of chocolates on it along with a Welcome to Bradford House sign. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. It still took some getting used to—the missing arm, the long hair. The beard.

He rubbed his chin. He really needed to work on his shaving skills.

“You can leave your bag here,” Fay said, indicating the corner under the stairs. “Or you can bring it,” she continued quickly, as if wanting to cover all her bases. “If you’d like.”

He left it. Then followed her down a short hallway that opened up into a sitting room on the right—more French doors—and a library to the left. “Through here is the dining room and kitchen,” she said, gesturing ahead of them. “We serve breakfast each weekday from seven until ten, weekends from eight to eleven.”

She turned into the library, a huge room with floor-to-ceiling windows and three walls of built-in shelves housing what had to be thousands of books. Cozy, plump chairs were tucked into corners, and a few round tables were scattered throughout. “We offer snacks in the library every afternoon and wine and cheese in the den in the evenings,” she continued, leading him through the room and down another short but wide hallway, this one bright with open glass on one side overlooking a patio, a handrail on the other. “We offer basic laundry services, dry cleaning drop-off and pickup, cable television and free Wi-Fi in each room.”

She stopped at the end of the hall, pulled a key—an actual key, not a swipe card—from her pocket and unlocked the door, the width enough for a wheelchair to get through. She went in, flipped on the light, then stepped aside so he could enter.

The room, and the hall, had obviously been built at some point recently, or at least redone, if the lingering scent of paint was anything to go by. But they blended seamlessly with the rest of the building, the floors new but still hardwood, the ceilings high, the windows long and narrow.

It didn’t look like any hotel room he’d ever stayed in, or how he’d expected a room at a charming B&B to look. It had vaulted ceilings and a large four-poster king bed, again, with enough space for a wheelchair to get around. The walls were neutral, with pencil sketches of Shady Grove hanging in thick frames, the color scheme deep greens and pale creams with some gold thrown in.

Other than the bed, there was a flat-screen TV on the wall, a large dresser, a small writing desk and chair under one window and a fat armchair next to the other window. It was a decent blend of masculine and feminine, traditional and contemporary.

She showed him the closet before opening the door to the bathroom. Spacious, with a tile floor and double vanity, there were handrails in both the walk-in shower and jetted tub, and also next to the toilet.

“This is the only guest room with its own external entrance,” she said, leading him out to the French doors—they must have gotten a deal on them—that opened up to a small patio accessible by either stairs or a ramp. To the right there was another ramp, this one longer and wooden, leading to a back entrance of the building.

“We’ll put an awning up in a few weeks,” Fay said, “and set a table and chairs out here, maybe a seating area?” He had no idea if she was telling him her plans or asking for his permission. “Anyway, this room is not only our largest, but it also affords the most privacy.”

It would definitely work, and having his own private entrance would be a hell of a lot better than having to traipse through the entire building every time he came or went.

“Does Shady Grove have a YMCA?” he asked.

“A YM—” She shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want to stay at the Y? Because I don’t believe they have rooms anymore. Not the one here, anyway.”

“I don’t want to sleep there. I need a place to work out.”

“Work out?” Her gaze flicked to his empty sleeve. “The Y is at least three miles from here, near the river. But if you want to...to exercise, we have a fitness room in the basement.” She crossed to the desk, picked up a brochure and flipped it open. “It’s actually much nicer than anything the Y has,” she said, sounding almost apologetic. “Being a professional athlete, Neil made sure it was top-notch. He even designed it. It doesn’t get much use, though. Most of our guests prefer to relax rather than lift weights while they’re here.”

She handed him the brochure. It listed not only the amenities of Bradford House but also local tourist attractions and restaurants. And the picture she pointed at was of a state-of-the-art gym, complete with everything he’d need to get back in shape.

To get his life back.

He set the brochure down. “I’ll take it.”

* * *

FAY’S FACE HURT from smiling so much.

The cost of always proving to everyone around her that she was mentally and emotionally healthy and just so darn happy. All. The. Time.

She couldn’t let that smile slip, not one bit. Not now.

I’ll take it.

Mr. Castro, of the dark eyes, grim mouth and deep, flat voice, was going to rent a room here. All because she’d chased him down and given him her best sales pitch.

Oh, Lord, what had she done?

“That’s...wonderful,” she managed, cheeks aching, lips stretched wide. And it was wonderful. They were in the business of renting rooms, after all, and they weren’t booked full until the July Fourth weekend. “We’ll go to my office and get you registered.”

As much as she wanted to let him go ahead of her, she knew better. She’d tried that outside and it hadn’t worked so well for her. And despite what Neil and Maddie thought, she really could learn a lesson.

It was just that sometimes it took six or seven times for that lesson to stick.

Not today, she assured herself.

She led him back the way they’d come, sensing him behind her like a dark, limping ghost, silent except for the heavy fall of his footsteps. The sound of his soft breathing.

He’d unnerved her—more than once, actually. Which in and of itself wasn’t unusual. She was often jittery and anxious, especially around strangers. Too often more concerned about what they were thinking about her than what they were saying. Too worried about making sure they liked her.

It was exhausting. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to stop.

But her nervousness around Zach was...different. More acute. As if her skin was too tight and itchy. Her stomach knotted. She didn’t like how he seemed to see right through all her smiles and cheerful chatter. She’d almost stayed in the kitchen when she’d left Mitchell there with Damien. She’d wanted to hide. All because her inner voice had continued screaming at her to let Zach walk away and find another place to stay.

But her heart had overridden it.

She really needed to start listening to her instincts.

“Here we go,” she said, gesturing for him to enter her office. Following him inside, she shut the door.

And realized her error immediately, as the room seemed to shrink. He had a presence that took up a lot of space. He made her feel small and slight in comparison. It was because he was so broad. Wide through the shoulders and chest. So dark and intense and unsmiling.

Nothing at all like her tall, rangy, golden husband.

She pushed Shane from her mind even as her fingers twitched to check her phone again. For some reason, she didn’t want to think about him now. Didn’t want him arriving and finding her in this cramped space with another man. This man.

And she really, really didn’t want to delve too deeply into why that was.

She certainly didn’t want to remember that weird jump in her belly when she’d tried to take Zach’s bag and he’d lifted his head, their faces inches apart. Or how, for a moment, her breath had caught in her throat and she’d had the strangest sensation of...longing.

Only she had no idea what for.

Didn’t matter. Soon, she’d have everything she wanted. Now she had a job to do.

She shifted, only to realize there was no way to get around Zach. Everywhere she turned, she risked brushing against him. And that would not do. She considered leaping over her desk, but good sense prevailed, forcing her to do a shuffling side step around him, making sure to leave a good six inches between them.

“Have a seat,” she blurted out, practically jumping into her own chair behind her tiny desk. She watched, motionless, while he eased himself into one of the two chairs facing her, grimacing slightly, noticeably favoring his right leg.

“Breathe,” he commanded softly and for a moment, she thought he was talking to himself.

Until her lungs burned and she realized she was the one holding her breath.

And he’d noticed.

Exhaling as quietly as possible, she pretended to be very, very busy booting up her computer. But her face was hot—again. And though she was, indeed, taking in oxygen, the air seemed heated. Stifling. As if he was using it all.

Selfish of him, really.

Ridiculous, she told herself as she opened a new registration form on her computer. There was plenty of air in the room. Air tinged with the scent of sunshine and spring and something spicy—his aftershave? She sneaked a glance at his face, most of it hidden by either his shaggy hair or his beard. Okay. Not his aftershave. And he didn’t seem like the type to use cologne. Whatever it was, it was...nice. Clean and masculine.

And she had absolutely no right to be thinking about the man’s scent. Or liking it. She was a married woman.

She touched her wedding ring, the slight bump of it under her shirt reassuring. She would be a married woman again soon.

Clearing her throat, she forced a smile. “Let’s get you registered.” She bit back a grimace. Well, that had come out quite...enthusiastically. And loudly.

She tried again, softening both her tone and expression. “Is it Zachary?” At his nod, she typed it in, followed by his last name. “Address?”

He hesitated and shifted in his seat. Both actions so subtle, done so quickly, that as he gave her an address in Houston, she wondered if she’d imagined his unease.

“How many nights will you be staying with us?” she asked.

“How many nights are available?”

She felt her brows drawing together at the odd question. Smoothed her expression as she checked future reservations. “That room is open until mid-May.”

“That’ll work.”

Her hands stilled. “You want to stay here for four weeks?”

“Is that a problem?”

She wasn’t sure. “No problem at all.”

But it was strange. Most guests booked Friday to Sunday with the occasional weekday visit thrown in by a rare business traveler or day-trippers wanting to immerse themselves in the local flavor.

Unless...

Unless he wasn’t looking for a place to stay. He was looking for a place to live, for however long he could get it.

He was homeless. That had to be it. And the reason he’d been so uncomfortable when she’d asked for his address was because he didn’t have one. So he’d made one up.

Her heart went out to him. How had he gotten here? What had happened to him? She was curious, as anyone would be, about how he’d gotten those scars and lost his arm. Had it happened a while ago, long enough for him to be used to his limitations? For acceptance?

Maybe it had happened recently and he was still railing against the unfairness of it all. Did he curse his fate? Or blame himself for the choices he’d made that had led to that one moment when his entire world had changed?

Like she blamed herself for her choices. For her world imploding.

Whatever had happened to him, he was here now. Giving her the opportunity to help him try to put that world back together.

Or at least give him a place to stay.

It would be nice to give back. To be the person giving help instead of needing it. To be someone else’s strength. Maybe then she’d be able to figure out how to be her own.

“I’ll need to see photo ID,” she said, adjusting the room’s rate on the form to give him a significant discount. Bradford House wasn’t the most expensive place to stay in Shady Grove, but even their reasonable rates would stretch someone of limited resources.

He handed her a Texas driver’s license along with a second card.

She frowned at it. “What’s this?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “A credit card.” When she stared at him blankly, he added, “To pay for the room.”

She typed in the card information and printed out the form for him to sign. He had a credit card? How was that possible? Where would the bill be sent? Confused, she did what she did best: second-guessed herself.

Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe he wasn’t some homeless drifter in need of help. The address on the driver’s license was different from the one he’d given. And while the man in the photo had dark hair, it was short, the face clean shaven, showing an angular jaw and sharp cheekbones. So different from the man in front of her now.