Page 19 of Engaging with Her Enemy

“Good thing baking helps with depression,” he mumbled.

Becky sat down at the table, opening a bottle of water and watching his eyes track over the page as he read. “You're such a dork.”

“Still?” He faked like her comment had offended him. “I've tried really hard to become the cool kid, too.”

“You're an engineer. Should have picked a different major.”

He lifted a leg of his pants. “But I'm like bionic now. That's cool, right?”

Her lips twisted to the side, still uncomfortable to think about what he went through. “Yes. That's very cool.”

“I have muscles now.” He flexed his bicep. Although he meant it as a joke, she looked away and took another sip of water to cool her throat. Damn. How did the cuff of his shirt not rip?

She tapped her finger on the book. “Okay, Mr. Muscles, let's start.”

They worked for an hour, started at the beginning twice, both got frustrated with the other one, and then settled on the sofa with a plate of cinnamon roll cookies and her first glass of wine. Like magic, she understood the concepts the way Hudson explained them.

“Thank you again for the wine.”

“You're welcome. Thank you for the cookies.”

“Those are a bribe. I want to know about your leg.”

He took a second cookie and settled back into the couch. “What do you want to know?”

The change in his voice signaled that he didn't want to talk about it. No matter how heartless it sounded, she didn't care. If he knew all the ugly past, and present, of her life, she could at least hear how her friend was injured.

7

Telling the story wasn't the issue. Hudson retold it a dozen times already and had relived that moment, the second he knew something was wrong with his leg, thousands of times in his mind. He sometimes still woke up in a cold sweat from the memory of the pain. Shock. But he didn't want Becky's pity. The entire world could give him that sad, puppy dog look and tell him his sacrifice for his country was worth it, but with Becky, he needed something different.

He needed her to see him as a man. The way she never saw him when she was the center of his universe, and he’d been too chicken to follow through with letting her know it.

“I wish the story was more exciting. People tend to think that when you say you were in a war and have lost a limb, that there is an exciting combat story to go with it.

“I was out on an assignment, taking measurements near an airfield in Iraq. I took a step, and then the bomb detonated. The IED could have killed me. From all accounts, it should have killed me. It didn't.” He lifted the side of his shirt, showing her the skin that would always be scarred. “Burned the side of my body.” They were worried about an infection killing him and not the injuries sustained by the physical explosion.

She reached out to touch his skin but stopped. The hesitation gripped his stomach tight. Did it disgust her that much? A couple women in his past had been turned off by it, but that didn't bother him the same as it did with Becky.

“How long were you in the hospital?” she whispered.

He didn't want the sad emotions. Not now. He'd lived through it once. Once was enough. Sitting on a sofa with a beautiful woman was all he wanted to focus on at this point. That, and trying to feel thankful for Becky being a friend again. Just a friend if that’s what she needed from him.

He sat still while her hand still hovered between them. “Nine months.”

Her ice-blue eyes, now irritated, flicked to his. “And you never thought to let us know?” He shouldn't love that snap of fire she gave in a glance, but he did.

“I was unconscious for part of that. The concussion lasted a while as well.”

“I don't know whether to be pissed or upset. You don't let me know that you were almost killed—”

“You weren't talking to me, remember?”

She flicked her hand in his direction, her lips tilted to one side in a little smile. “That doesn't matter.”

Hudson reached for another cookie. At least she'd moved past the sympathy. Hard to feel like a whole man when she only saw the injury. “When do you want to study again?”

“I have class every Tuesday and Thursday night. They test us on Thursdays. I have a midterm in a few weeks. The professor said if we don't pass that, there's no point in coming back to class.” She leaned back against the sofa, her hands falling into her lap. “I'm not too optimistic I'll pass. I really don't want to take this crap over again. I'm so close to finishing.”

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