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She repeats this cycle one more time. Before I know it, she’s stepped away. I immediately miss the warmth of her hands.

“So? Any better?”

I blink. Holy shit. My headache is still there, but it’s more bearable now. I roll my shoulders and groan. “Yes. Better.” I turn to look at her and offer a faint smile. “Thank you. You must have magic hands.”

She grins back and wiggles her fingers at me. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She freezes the moment the words come out of her mouth. Her eyes go wide with shock. Meanwhile, my gaze wanders to her hands while my dick throbs once more at the lurid fantasies her teasing words conjured. I clear my throat.

No. Not awkward at all.

When she darts for the safety of the couch, I grab the remote to turn the TV on. Anything to kill the mood.Law & Orderis on, one of those late-night marathons they do every weekday. The perfect antidote to lust.

“Oh good, it’s one of the older episodes.” Without looking at me, she settles herself more and moves the bowl out of the way with her hand to get a better view of the screen. It slides on the shiny cover of the magazine and tilts, one side of it touching the table. “Mike Logan is my all-time favorite character on this show.”

I grunt and stand from the couch, snap up the bowl and wipe the table with the back of my hand before carrying it into the kitchen. I don’t care about the show. I just want some peace while I’m doing my work and my body’s reaction to her touch offered me anything but. I tighten my grip around the sponge, the foam spilling from between my fingers. I clean up her dish, and run my wet hands over my face, pressing on my temples with my thumbs before remembering that my head feels better. I use the little kitchen towel to dry my hands, and walk back to the living room, hoping that by some miracle, she will have puffed up to her room. But sure enough, she is still there. Right where I left her.

I drop down on the couch and turn my laptop back on to continue my work. I turn the TV volume down a bit and look over at her. The blue light of the TV reflects on the wet surface of her eyes and her eyelids droop until they are fully closed. She remains unflinching, even when loud gunshots and sirens wail through the speakers.

The back of my neck prickles. Are these the kind of sounds she fell asleep to back home? I count at least three different explosions, four shootings and a handful of screaming matches coming from the TV. She manages to sleep through all of them. I mean, I know her dad is a police officer and that she’s from New York City. I’ve never been there and don’t want to draw conclusions, but maybe it is as noisy and busy as television makes it out to be.

The background noise of the TV isn’t as annoying as I’d thought it’d be. The act of blocking it out allows me to focus on the task at hand. Compartmentalizing is something I am used to. Had to do lots of it when deployed.Andafter I got back. It’s the only way to get through stuff. Cutting them into sections, shoving the bad ones deep into a dark corner of my mind, and placing all my attention at what needs to be done.

My fingers move swiftly over the keyboard, and I’m done with the presentation in record time. The show is still going. I sneak a peek at Taya. She is fast asleep, shoulders rising and falling rhythmically. Peacefulness on her pretty face.

Pretty?

Yeah, with those large doe eyes, the hint of olive in her skin tone, and thick brown hair, she is very pretty. Stunning, actually, even in a plain, threadbare, gray T-shirt and not a trace of makeup. Her cheekbones are particularly impressive. Perfectly rounded and high on her face. My gaze falls to her lips. They are thin and rosy and delicate. I swallow hard when my mind drifts to wondering what they would feel like against my own lips.

I stand and physically shake myself to chase away the thought, before walking over to grab the throw blanket that her feet have already found their way under and covering her with it. It’s hot as hell during the day, but the temperature has been dropping quite a bit at night. She’ll get cold like this. Last thing I want is having her sniffling and leaving her germ-infested tissues everywhere.

I pick up the remote control, and the tip of my finger hovers over the plastic of the red power button. But I don’t push it. This ridiculous show is the closest she can get to home. I won’t take it away from her, as much as leaving the TV on will eat up at my insides. And my electric bill.

I clutch the glass tight in my hand and shuffle to the kitchen. Taya is getting under my skin, and I don’t like it one bit.

Chapter Six

Taya

Igrasp thethick blue mug, three fingers poking through the stubby handle, and inch it toward my face. I squint my eyes, contemplating whether or not to drink the inky-black liquid. I can smell the stale bitterness as I bring it closer to my lips. It’s tasteless, as expected, but the smoothness calms my soul with every horrible sip. The smoldering Colombian brew swirls around my tongue. I finally decide to swallow and warm vapors ooze down my throat.

Tossing the throw blanket over my legs, I lean against the side of the bay window, inhaling the steam rising from the mug like mist off a lake. A chill crawls up my spine as a cold dampness seeps into every crack of the house. Virginia Beach weather lacks any sort of consistency in March. While yesterday, I could ride in a tank top, today is in the low fifties and overcast. As gray clouds pass above an even grayer sky, I just want to curl up and read a book.

Taking another sip of coffee, I admire the scene outside. The meticulously manicured grass of the backyard, the perfectly aligned PVC fence, the hedges trimmed at impeccable angles. The sun pokes through a pocket in the clouds, and a ray of light comes to focus on the ground.Come here, come here.As if it heard my plea, the sunshine travels toward the nook, warming me through the window. I lean my head back and soak up the temporary heat.

Dust motes float across my eyes, the light refracting off each particle. The warmth on my skin brings me back to the other day in the kitchen. There had been an unexpected electricity in Jim’s touch the other day. I can’t quite put a name to it.

“Ouch.” I look down to see I’ve managed to rub my wedding ring, pinching the sensitive skin between my fingers. Stupid hands. I lean my head back and groan. Why am I thinking about this? Jim was forced into the program. No way does he plan on staying past the annulment deadline. If only he’d volunteered, then I wouldn’t have to worry about where I’ll be in a year. And if I’ll be back in Maspeth, constantly looking over my shoulder.

I inhale deeply, then exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Most of the week, Jim’s hardly been home, working long hours, so when I woke up this morning, the house was empty. Quiet. Again.

Before he left to go to work three nights ago, he gave me a crash course about his life and what that means for me now that we’re married. He informed me he isn’t just in the Navy, which his application already told me, but that he is a SEAL. He explained how his schedule is inconsistent, he could vanish for work at any minute, and he ran through all the security and secrecy aspects of what that meant for me. He called it OPSEC. Pretty much, keep my mouth shut.

I set my coffee aside when another chill consumes me, and I yank my blanket up to my chest. I’ll never have a family again and every time a sliver of annoyance glints in Jim’s eyes, the knife twists a little deeper, reminding me this marriage has an expiration date.

My stomach somersaults and the bitter black coffee creeps its way up my throat. Oh my God, was Jim dating someone when I was assigned to him? Was he forced to give someone up? How much of his life did the program—did I—really upset?

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