Page 19 of Never Yours

Caleb cuts off my words with a searing kiss full of love, pain, and regret. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

I don’t listen. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you.”

Caleb drops to his knees, and my sweet, perfect man who I don’t deserve, kisses my stomach. He looks up at me, and I brush the wet locks off his forehead. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

So much anguish flashes in his eyes that I slink down the shower wall, meeting him on his knees. He wraps his arms tightly around me. Nestling his face in the crook of my neck, he says something that sounds a hell of a lot like ‘I love you.’

He doesn’t, he couldn’t.

Silence passes as steam envelops us until he finally breaks it. “How am I going to leave you for two years when I have you right here, in my arms… You were my everything. I… I can’t lose you when I leave.”

“You’ll survive,” I tease, throwing his words back at him, but don’t let go of him.

“I lied.”

“Cay…”

“No.” He pulls back, and a rogue tear leaves my eye, for the third time in ten years. I just hope it’s masked enough through the shower water. “We were supposed to be a family. Maybe it wasn’t our time then, and sure, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want that with you now. But how am I supposed to let you go when I leave?” He kisses me, but instead of the fire from earlier, it’s full of fear, as if his lips may never touch mine again.

Between kisses, I whisper, “You survived. I survived. We survived, Cay. We will again.” Weighing heavy on my heart, I admit, “I haven’t seen you in years. You were always mine, but I was never yours. Maybe this time, we do things differently?”

Caleb pulls back and tenderly kisses my forehead, breathing a contented sigh. All of this is so heavy, but I’ve never felt lighter. Even though he’s leaving for a couple of years, I can visit, maybe even move closer to the base.

What the fuck am I saying? I’ve been back one day, and I’m forcing myself into his life.

“Get out of your head, Ingrid,” he laughs and I chuckle softly.

“Busted.”

“Let me get you cleaned up and a proper breakfast in you. We can figure out the rest later.”

caleb

. . .

Inormally look forward to Sunday brunch, but I’m worried about what Cass or Pop will say when I come strolling in with Ingrid after they both warned me to take things slowly with her. They have to know I’d never listen. This is Ingrid, there’s no way in hell I’d be able to stay away.

We pull up to the house, and the moment I turn the ignition off, Ingrid pivots to face me. “No faking, no hiding,” she says confidently, but then meekly adds, “Unless”—she chews on her lip and looks down at her wringing hands—“you don’t want to tell them.”

Covering her hands with one of mine, she looks up. “No faking, no hiding. Pop will give me shit about it later, maybe Cass will, too. I don’t care.” I bring one of her hands to my lips, brushing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “Ready?” She lets out a long breath and nods.

Hopping out of the truck, I expect her stubborn, independent streak to shine through and open her own door. I take the small win that she lets me do it for her. As I shut the door, I press her against it, sliding my hand into her hair and bringing her lips to mine—I need one last taste of her.

Ingrid sighs a whimpered moan as we break apart, and I can’t help the grin plastered on my face—she was always supposed to be mine.

She takes my hand, and we make our way up to the front door. As she’s about to knock, I open it wide to the smell of fresh waffles and the crackling of cooked bacon filling the house. “Pop?”

“Get your ass in here. You’re late,” he calls from the kitchen. We continue further into the house, finding him sipping a mimosa in a pint glass that’s more champagne than orange juice and placing a tray of waffles in the oven to keep warm. “I want to talk to you before Cass and Ingrid show—” He turns and spots us. “Oh. You’re here.”

“Need a hand?” Ingrid offers and helps herself to a pint glass from the cabinet. She sets it next to his and pours nearly half the bottle into hers, topping it off with a splash of orange juice. “Cheers.” They clink their glasses and both take long drinks, making Pop laugh.

I clear my throat. They look over, shrug, and continue drinking. “Really?”

Pop finishes his, then does a double-take of my clothes, a scowl now replacing his smile. “Didn’t you wear that yesterday?”

I glance down at my shirt and jeans, raking my hand through my hair. “Oh, yeah, I guess I did.” He looks at Ingrid—who’s flushed from champagne and embarrassment—and back at me, his jaw tight.

“Let me start the waffles,” Ingrid rushes out.

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