Page 33 of Cowboy SEAL Homecoming

There was no reason for her to be worried about him. He’d gotten a little drunk and forgotten some things. It wasn’t like him, but that didn’t make it impossible.

He had come back downstairs for a drink after everyone had gone to bed. He remembered that now. He’d come back downstairs, but there hadn’t been any alcohol in the kitchen, so he’d gone to Dad’s office because Dad had always kept a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk.

Alex glanced toward the desk. There was a bottle on top of the desk, one he specifically remembered pulling out of the drawer. He definitely remembered doing all of these things.

“See?” he said, nodding toward the bottle. “One too many, I guess. Nothing to—”

“Alex, that bottle’s not open.” She visibly swallowed. “I bought it for Burt for his birthday and I… He died, and I put it in the drawer because… But he wasn’t here to open it.”

Alex blinked at the completely sealed bottle of whiskey. Then he looked down at his hands, because that’s where Becca was looking now.

Huh. His hands were shaking. Uncontrollably.

“I’m fine,” he said, though his voice sounded strained and far away to his own ears.

“No, you’re really not.”

“Okay…” There had to be a reasonable explanation. There was a reasonable explanation. He’d come down here and fallen asleep and had a dream. He’d rather admit he had a dream than any other part of this…

It was a nightmare. That was all.

“I have…” God, it killed him to have to say this to her. To anyone. But she was going to think everything was worse than it was if he didn’t explain himself. So… “I have…” He cleared his throat. “Occasionally, rarely, I will still have a nightmare. I came down here to have a drink, and I fell asleep, and I had a nightmare.”

“You fell asleep where?” She gestured around the office. There was a desk, a chair, and not a whole heck of a lot of floor space.

He had no idea. No idea how he’d ended up on the floor, why the bottle was on the desk and still sealed. He had no idea, but he couldn’t let…he couldn’t let anyone know that.

“I was overcome with grief.” Which as much as it pained him to admit, was far better than admitting he had no idea what happened. Grief was acceptable and true. He would always miss his father. Always.

It wasn’t a lie, no matter how hard it was to breathe or how it seemed ghosts and memories slithered in the corner.

Becca took a few steps into the small, cramped room, setting the gun down against the wall. The dogs were with her, flanking her, but at some motion she made with her hands, they stayed put in the doorway as she moved closer. Closer and closer and he wanted to back away, but he wasn’t afraid. And he certainly wasn’t ashamed.

He didn’t know why she was standing so close to him, in front of him, looking sleep rumpled and gorgeous. She held her hands at her stomach in some sort of awkward move as she curled her fingers together and then loosened them.

He didn’t understand what she was doing at all until she finally reached out and placed her hands on his at his sides.

“You’re still shaking,” she said quietly, looking up at him with pained, green eyes.

Her hands were warm and rough. They were sturdy and strong.

“Why don’t you sit?”

“Why don’t you go back upstairs to bed and leave me be?” he returned, afraid of what any more of her kindness might do.

“I’m not going to leave you like this.”

“Even if that’s what I want you to do?”

“Yes. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“So you keep telling me.”

“It was a nightmare. I’ll live.”

She gave his hands a squeeze, but then she released them. He would never admit he wished she would put her hands back on him. Her warm and capable and strong hands.

---