Page 19 of Matched

Chapter Seven

Tony

Is it just my imagination or is the couch getting more comfortable? Almost as soon as the question occurs to me, my leg cramps and I roll off the edge of the torture device and onto the floor with a curse. The setback does nothing to diminish my good mood, and I bound to my feet without once insulting the couch’s mother or intelligence.

And who’s getting credit for my good mood? Inara. My beautiful, multifaceted wife.

All night, I dreamed of touching her, kissing her, hearing those little whimpers at the back of her throat as I explore every curve and plane of her body. I expected to spend another night struggling to turn my mind off, but sleep had come quickly and the dreams were a bonus.

And while I’m tempted to stick around and make a nuisance of myself, since Inara doesn’t have to work today, I need some time away before I do something stupid, like get down on my hands and knees and beg for the kiss—or more—she’s been denying me. I head toward the bathroom just as Inara is coming down the hall and we stop short, momentarily blocking one another.

“Morning.” She’s fresh-faced, in shorts and a tank top, as if she’s going for a run.

One side step and she brushes past me. I twist to glance over my shoulder and it’s a sight that’s going to make the shower ten degrees cooler than I planned. That woman has a walk that could make a priest sigh, and there’s a little purple butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder that I’m dying to kiss.

Twenty minutes later, I have yet another cold shower under my belt, have folded the blankets and put them away, and I’m now ready for a few hours at the gym. Sweats, a T-shirt, and gym shoes. My mini-break from training has been nice, but I can’t afford to fall out of shape, unless I want my ass handed to me during combat exercises. And I most definitely don’t want to be the weakest link.

I’m almost to the front door when my mother-in-law, wearing a yellow sundress and a full face of makeup, calls my name while simultaneously knocking. I open the door to find her standing on the porch, cradling two square aluminum baking dishes to her chest. They’re both covered in foil, but the scent wafting my way is still heavenly.

I bend down and kiss the woman’s cheek, catching the newly risen sun peeking from behind a cloud. “Let me carry those for you.” I reach out to take the containers, which she gratefully pushes toward me. “Inara is in her, um, our room. Do you want to come in?”

“Gracias. I’m in a rush but wanted to drop these off. One of them is for you, but save some for Inara. I know how hungry you men can get for your sweets.” She shakes a finger in my direction. “The other is for Bennett, and he’ll tell me if they come up short.”

I bite back a chuckle. Maybe Inara will be just as feisty thirty years from now. The grin melts right off my face a second later. No need to get carried away and envision Inara in thirty years because I won’t be around for that.

I need a distraction from the weird pang in my chest. “Who’s Bennett?”

Mrs. Ramirez cocks her head and frowns. “Inara’s father. Her stepfather anyway. She hasn’t told you about him?”

I grunt and shake my head, wishing my wife and I were as close as her mother assumed. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to bake flan for a man you’re in the middle of divorcing.”

She laughs again, a more full-bodied sound of amusement. “No, Bennett is number three. We’ve been divorced for years. He’s the only one of the lot I would bake for. He and Inara have always been thick as thieves.” Her brows furrow when her gaze lands on Inara’s tactical boots. “You know, it’s smart the two of you skipped the big expensive wedding and just went for the civil service. My daughter has to be good with her money since she only works at the restaurant so she could run around in the woods.”

The note of disapproval in Inara’s mom’s voice makes me bristle. “You mean search and rescue? The program where Inara risks her own safety to help people who are lost and potentially in danger? I think that’s a pretty worthwhile reason for giving up some extra salary, don’t you?”

She sighs. “Sí, of course. It’s just... I worry. It’s hard surviving on your own these days.” Mrs. Ramirez rests her hand on my forearm. “But now she has you, so at least she’s not alone.”

My throat tightens. It’s not my place to mention the program to her mother, or the fact that Inara and I will only be married for a year. Especially when I haven’t told my own family. When my gaze lands on my mother-in-law, my stomach flips once more. Four husbands, four failed marriages. And I would bet Inara was the one picking up the pieces after vacating her ringside seat to the failures. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her—practical, passionate, Inara—to go through all of that as a kid.

“Bennett and his church group are rebuilding houses for the some of the families who lost their homes during the last tornado. Whenever Inara gets free time, like today, she likes to head over to the worksite to help out.” She nods to the pan I’m holding. “I like to assist where I can, every now and again. Speaking of, if you’re not busy, why don’t you swing by for a few hours? I’m sure Inara would appreciate the support.”

Not a bad idea. And it’s not like I have other Sunday plans outside of going to the gym.

Mrs. Ramirez waves goodbye and drives off only minutes before Inara comes into the hallway. She glances from the pans to me. “Where’d those come from?”

“Your mom,” I say, then head into the kitchen to place one of the trays into the refrigerator. “She was in a rush, but she told me you were going to help your stepfather today.”

“Oh.” Inara ducks her head and busies herself putting on her boots.

Grabbing the second tray of flan, I slide my feet into my own shoes and grab my keys. When Inara looks up, I shoot her a beaming grin. “I’m going with you. I want to help.”

I could inform her about my background in construction, assure her I probably know more about building houses than a licensed contractor, thanks to the work I did both before and after I joined the military, but instead, I follow Inara to her car and slide into the passenger seat placing the pan of dessert on my lap. She doesn’t try to get rid of me and simply backs the car out of the driveway and heads toward the worksite.

Thirty minutes later, we are in a neighborhood where trees line the road and rise behind the newly built and skeletal remains of the houses like silent sentries keeping guard over the middle-class families that had laid claim to this place. There’s a school bus stop sign at the end of the road next to a terminal made from an old school bus, complete with bench and rain guards. The tornado must’ve shredded pieces of the shell as a bright-yellow panel stabbed through a wall across the street. A house two away from the bus stop hadn’t been touched, and a woman is watering a grouping of plants as we drive past.

Such random devastation.

A team of volunteers is already hard at work when Inara pulls onto the street where the church group is working. A red dumpster the size of a semi-trailer is stationed in the driveway of one house and two men are hauling a piece of furniture to tip over the top. A woman carries a window over and drops it in while I survey the debris field. There are pieces of the roof, both collapsed inside the house and on the lawn. Shingles lie beside a tree that looks about a hundred years old, and a group of workers is sawing away at it with a couple of chainsaws and some smaller handsaws. And still another group is busy assembling a pile of what I presume is salvaged goods from the house next door.

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