Page 114 of Cowboy SEAL Homecoming

“He is a little tiny. Not sure what kind of work he can do.”

“I’m pretty strong,” Colin said. He took a few forward steps. “I bet I can do a lot.”

“Good,” Gabe said with a nod. “Man to man, we need the help.”

Becca sat back and watched as Gabe easily maneuvered the young boy into conversation. She wasn’t the only one who was surprised. Monica was watching wide-eyed as Gabe stepped inside with her son, so he could show him where to put the couch.

When Becca flicked a glance at Alex, he was staring after his friend a little wide-eyed as well.

“Does he have kids of his own?” Monica asked.

“I don’t think so,” Becca returned, looking at Alex for confirmation.

“No. I think he was the oldest of a big family though. Maybe that’s it. Always had little kids around.”

Monica nodded. “Excuse me. I better check on the instruction Colin’s offering and make sure the couch placement makes real sense and not just video-games sense.”

Monica stepped inside and that left Alex and Becca in the yard next to the moving truck. All by themselves.

Which was fine because they had been doing this all week. Pretending like they didn’t love each other, weren’t bleeding all over the place on the inside at being apart. Or maybe that was just her pretending those things.

Whatever. It was fine. She’d gotten quite good at pretending like she didn’t want to cry every time she saw him. She turned to grab something from the truck, but Alex had moved to the same point and they ended up bumping in to each other.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Thanks for coming. I know you’re not jazzed about this, so the help is appreciated.”

He shrugged, squinting into the truck. “It is what it is. It’ll be good for the foundation.”

The foundation. Right about now she wanted to say screw the damn foundation. And why shouldn’t she? Why was she pretending like she wasn’t hurt or broken?

Why should she curl up inside of herself to make him comfortable when he was the one who was refusing to help himself? What a waste to kill himself like this. All the hurt and sadness over the past few days crystallized inside of her into something a lot closer to anger.

Anger felt a hell of a lot more active than depression.

“Yes. That’s what’s most important. The foundation. Not your own mental health,” she muttered under her breath, climbing into the truck.

“What was that?” he asked, climbing in after her.

“Nothing.”

“If you think her being here is going to magically change things…”

She whirled to face him, hands on her hips. “If you think being an ass is going to magically change things…”

“I didn’t come here to fight with you,” he returned through gritted teeth.

But she wanted a fight. She wanted something to explode, because this was no better than when she’d been swallowing down all the I-love-yous and pretending like he wasn’t withering away. “Then don’t. You’re Mr. Fine and In Control of Things, aren’t you?”

“I don’t need a shrink,” he said resolutely, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was cleared. End of conversation.”

She snorted. End? No. Definitely not. “Clearly they were so right about you. You’re looking so good! Healthy. Well rested.”

“I’m starting to think you’re the one who needs therapy, Becca.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she returned, because if she didn’t use nasty words, she was afraid she’d haul off and hit him.

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