MELTDOWN - Chapter One
Since kindergarten, Evan Jorgensen pretended to see ghosts, something his friends and family found amusing. Then came the war, and he met the real thing. Actively searching for a ghost meant he'd crossed the line into certifiably insane territory.
Then again, some risks were worth taking.
As he ventured inside Roomer's Night Club, the back of his neck chilled, but he wiped sweat from his brow, a sensation he'd lived with since returning from Iraq ten months earlier. Memories of the last tour clawed at his conscious like an Adirondack black bear defending her young. Anxious to put the war behind him, he resumed his position with the New York State Police specializing in search and rescue training. The current exercise brought him from his home base in Syracuse, New York, to the cool, rugged mountain ranges of Lake Placid, where his trainees practiced weeks of grueling mountain-range rescues. Now with their training completed, his men were ready for a different kind of action and Roomer's was the best place to pick up hot chicks. Having avoided the bar scene since his return from duty, he made tonight an exception and joined his men.
Tonight, he searched for a ghost from his past.
Surveying the crowd, he apologized to the men behind him. "Crowded," he said gruffly, wanting to add, "the unseasonably warm weather brought tons of tourists to view the changing leaves," but his throat constricted.
The trainees shrugged and headed for the bar. After six weeks his men had picked up his habit of minimal talk. Hiding inside four sweltering bombed out stonewalls with the silence broken only by hovering insects made a man talk more to himself. It took him weeks to form sentences in order to discuss his final raid with his commanding officers in Qatar. At least his operation succeeded requiring fewer answers, unlike other groups unfairly scrutinized by superiors or the media.
Hanging behind he slumped into an open chair, his back against the wall with a view of the entire room. Measuring the space he stretched out his legs marking his territory. An overhead speaker cranked music so loud it thumped uncomfortably in his gut--the only part of his insides that could beat--but he held his position. A stream of people entered, their whispering voices mimicking static discharge in the air. A deep breath shuddered out of him. Feigning normalcy he scoped the room.
He began by counting heads of his men until all were accounted for. One of his young trainees made a move on a sexy brunette. She laughed at something he said and tapped his chin, toying with him. After she'd teased him good she wandered away. The guy trailed behind her like an obedient leashed puppy. Aams knows all about mountain rescues, but is green about women, he thought. The way they could tie up your insides tighter than a tourniquet or leave you to bleed out until nothing human remained inside.
All but one woman.
The one he thought he'd seen on the summit of Mount Jo this morning.
'Course, it couldn't have been her. She'd made a new life for herself in California. A hallucination probably from heatstroke must have caused him to envision her checking the view from Lake Placid's smallest mountain's summit. Mirage or hallucination, another habit leftover from the war but one he never wanted to change. Dreaming about touching her all over kept him sane on those black, bone-chilling desert nights. Imagining her drifting across the hot desert sands saved him from running into a Taliban patrol. While burning with fever on the longest day of his life, the memory of her touch brought him out of his delirium.
If she were in Lake Placid she'd check out her favorite hangout.
"Did you see that?" someone barked from the bar.
A row of guys, mostly his men, swiveled on their barstools to gawk at a petite redhead in a short skirt approaching the pool table. The woman jiggled her breasts to emphasize she was braless. Rolling his eyes Evan turned to talk to his top young trainee, Tony Garibaldi, who held a draft beer to his open mouth and stared slack-jawed. After a slap on the back of the head, Tony unfroze and pointed. "What? The chick's advertising, Ev."
He humored Tony and assessed the action at the pool table.
Tapping a long dark fingernail on the end of the pool stick, she circled the balls on the table, ready to spring into action at her command. Meanwhile guys were adding quarters to the rail stacking a pile higher than Whiteface Mountain. There was a time when he'd have been the first in line to teach her how to play pocket-ball. Nowadays, feeling every one of his thirty-three years multiplied by two, he'd rather be settled in front of a banked cabin-fire finishing Dean Koontz's latest thriller. Deciding her shot and satisfied every guy was watching, she bent over the table.
As he expected, she'd gone commando.
Tony groaned and turned to Evan. "Jeez. Ya know it wouldn't kill ya to smile. We've been dragging hundred-pound dummies across these mountains for weeks. About time we had some fun."
"You don't call rappelling one-hundred feet fun?" Evan paused to tip the waitress for his beer.
"Falling down mountainsides is your kinda fun, not mine. You nearly killed us on Wolf's Head Pass. I can barely lift up my arms after yesterday's final drill."
Tony had no problem lifting his arm and slapping Evan on his sore shoulder. Evan bit back a yelp and fought the urge to rubout the pain.
"I can't wait to get back to Syracuse where insects the size of pinheads aren't trying to eat me to the bone," Tony added, still eyeing the redhead.
Evan slouched further into his chair before answering. "A hundred pounds is nothing. Wait until you get a hundred-and-eighty pound hiker." Or have to carry a fellow wounded soldier miles for help...that kid was barely out of high school.
The kid's distorted face still haunted his dreams.
He heard whistles. The horny redhead had leaned over the table for another shot. Moans from the spectators--especially Tony--followed, but Evan ignored them and closed his eyes, yearning to forget the pain of war. The image of another woman appeared, one with green eyes matching the color of Adirondack ferns lining every forest trail and hair as yellow as the delicate mountain butterflies that played tag between them. Recalling her sultry tone and vibrant laugh soothed his soul after a long day eating powdered sand in temperatures hotter than a blast furnace. He'd replayed her voice so many times he imagined conversations with her.
For three years he'd fought for his life, waiting for the day he'd see her again.
Hear her say his name.
Touch her soft skin.
Feel her body shudder beneath his.
One ambush and an IED changed everything.
Easy, he told himself. Bitterness never had been part of his code. He ordered his shoulders to relax, lessening some of the twisting pain. A restless trigger finger absently scratched off his beer label. The other hand twitched, lost without a rifle belly to hold.
Quiet times meant trouble.
The enemy seemed psychic, knowing the exact moment you let down your guard.
Sitting up straighter he rescanned the room. More and more people crammed into the long rectangular room. The barroom chatter amped to a persistent hum.
Some of his men were missing.
Holding his breath, he strained to hear footsteps scuffing over stones.
He dampened the roar of blood rushing in his ears and listened for the sound of commands in Arabic.
He listened.
And waited.
The back of his shirt felt damp and perspiration clung to his forehead. Heat poured off his face and settled around his neck like a noose. He heard the ping of a rifle shot. He fought the urge to throw up as his finger squeezed a phantom trigger. Black and white spots exploded before his eyes. He gulped air until his vision cleared and then glanced around the room. Fortunately no one stared at him. An overturned beer bottle spun on the table. His lips were parched but no beverage would quench this thirst.
Months ago these bouts ceased, at least in public. Alone at night, he lay awake.
Remembering.
He'd been in the mountain too long. He'd feel better once he was back in Syracuse where the city's populated terrain didn't remind him of combat. He righted the beer bottle. Peeled silver pieces from the label floated on a puddle of spilled beer, winking like a cache of diamonds ready to set in an engagement ring. On the bottle, the remaining label resembled a jagged silver heart.
Yeah, he needed to get out of Lake Placid.
Shrill whistles and chuckles all around him brought him back to the present. The redhead retrieved the cue ball from a nearby garbage pail and queerly eyed Tony. Leaning on his pool stick, Tony hunched his shoulders in obvious embarrassment.
"Good shot, man," one of the other trainees shouted to Tony.
Unused muscles tugged the corners of Evan's mouth but a smile never formed. His hands still shook. Restless eyes continued their inspection of the smoke fogged area stuffed with people who were certain of what continent they were on.
No sign of his ghost. Time to call it a night.
He stood, ready to leave until his gaze snagged on a pair of long, tanned legs moving across the dance floor. Shapely with the right amount of muscle tone in the calves and thighs, they were the perfect length to wrap around a man's waist.
He absently scratched the back of his hand.
"Got an itch? This place is filled with beautiful women, Ev. Pick one." Tony returned for his abandoned beer, all smiles for someone who lost a pool game to a girl. "I'm out. Want another brew?"
Evan pulled a bill from his wallet but his gaze never left the legs. They swayed and turned as if she modeled for him.
Other females out prowling tonight wore either high heels or some trendy boot. Not her. Flip-flops. He smiled to himself.
When the legs stopped moving, his eyes traveled up their length to a tiny waist and generous breasts. He paused to look his fill. She uncrossed her arms. Her hands fisted at her sides. Frustrated about something? He'd cataloged other details--the color of her top, length of her skirt, lack of jewelry or watch.
Attention to details kept him and his men alive more than once.
A tingly sensation raced up his arms. His teeth grated together. Metal blades overhead chased after each other and slowly raised the veil of haze, revealing her form.
He knew that lithesome body--memorized it upon first sight.
She looked in his direction.
Another dream? Or was he lying in some Iraqi prison awaiting torture, or strapped to a gurney in hospital left for dead?
When those gorgeous eyes widened in recognition, a fist of lust punched him squarely in the gut.
Cassie.
Sparks from her eyes torched the air between them.
Angry? Because she still cared?
God, he hoped so.
He stood up, feeling a pull stronger than any whitewater current but his feet were immovable like he'd sunk in quicksand. Prickles roamed his arms in warning, partly because four years ago after her divorce, he convinced himself she'd be happier if he kept his distance. The war had started. As an officer in the National Guard he'd be re-commissioned to Iraq.
All that he yearned to tell her no longer mattered. Odds favored he'd return in a flag-draped coffin.
He had nothing to offer her.
But she came to him the night before deployment, full of fears, arguing he'd gone crazy, ordering him to be safe.
Wanting to make love.
For once, he had a reason for living.
After two tours he returned to Syracuse and learned she'd gone to L.A. to sell real estate. Maybe become a movie star. She didn't resemble a starlet in those flip-flops unless the word stretched across her T-shirt, Juicy, advertised a movie. His scratchy skin intensified. Hopefully, he still packed Benadryl in the first-aid kit.
So, what brought her to Lake Placid?
Engrossed in a conversation with another woman, Cassie paused to glance his way again.
His skin burned like toast.
Damn. He wiped his brows and cleared the itch from his throat. The walls of the room shrank the longer he stared at her. Soon, the darkness would arrive.
Time to greet his ghost.
Before he could step in Cassie's direction, the horny redhead hit on him. A full-body attack. She pressed her fake breasts up against him, rubbed his forearms, squeezed his biceps like she owned him. Whispered the usual in his ear. She smelled lemony, like furniture polish, but he didn't have the heart to turn her down in front of a bar full of guys, so he put her number in his wallet to toss away later.
Tony charged through the crowd. Evan expected him to ask for the redhead's number. Instead, Tony gawked at Cassie. "Hey, will you look at that? Where'd she come from? I saw her on Mount Jo today. She's hot!" Tony's voice went up an octave.
Evan shrugged, trying to act cool while burning at the stake. The same intense heat he'd experienced this morning on Mount Jo. Reaching the summit, his eyes flitted across a familiar scene--treetops like wads of orange and yellow paper carelessly thrown on a carpet of forest green, purple mountain ranges framing the colors, and that peculiar little lake.
Heart Lake.
Compared to the grandeur of Lake Champlain, the little misshaped puddle of water received more attention. People looked for romance in the oddest places. Cassie's image appeared in a beam of sunlight, more mirage than real.
Tony wolf-whistled. "I got some great pictures of her this morning. Ya think she's a supermodel? Picture her in a teddy."
He stepped in front of Tony.
Undaunted, Tony craned his neck. "Here's your brew, Ev. See ya tomorrow."
Biting back a growl, Evan clamped a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Wait."
Tony's head snapped around. With lips pursed to whistle again, Tony's puzzled squint looked comical.
"Listen, I know her." Evan grimaced as he spoke the next words. "She's Jake's ex."
"Great. Gimme an intro, then get lost," Tony replied.
"She's not like that."
Tony's smile read like a Vegas ad. Arguing with Tony never worked.
No matter. Cassie could handle Tony.
****
After finding every stray tree root and slippery stone hiking up Mount Jo this morning, maneuvering through the crowded bar worsened Cassie Hamilton's sore ankle. "I think I'll head back to the motel room," she said to her best friend, Karen Walters.
"Relax. I've been watching three kids and their friends twenty-four seven and I deserve a little fun. I may not go back to the motel until sunup," proclaimed Karen. She flashed a huge, toothy smile while munching on a lime twist.
Pains pinched Cassie's chest. It hurt to hear Karen talk about her three children. She swallowed a groan and forced her voice to sound neutral. "You can stay and have fun. I have to get off this ankle."
Karen tilted her head and studied Cassie over the rim of the glass. "If you'd stop pacing it wouldn't hurt so much. What are you so nervous about?"
Cassie stopped. She'd been jittery all week but purposely neglected to tell Karen. At work, her spine felt tingly, like something possessed it. She couldn't shake the creepy feeling of being watched even while hiking up Mount Jo. Certain someone watched her now, she checked around the room. "I'm not nervous. I don't know how you talked me into climbing a mountain to view turning leaves I can see in my own backyard," she declared while shifting to hide behind Karen.
Karen set her drink on a table. "It's the smallest mountain in Lake Placid, only two-thousand feet. The view at the top was breathtaking today, wasn't it?" As Karen sighed, she eyed a row of guys standing at the bar. One waved to her. She giggled and waved back.
"Remember, you're happily married," she said. An unnecessary warning. Unlike hers, Karen's marriage possessed that rare chemistry that would last forever.
"I'm just having a little fun. You're the one who is free to do more than flirt. Take your pick. A lot of mountain men are here, like my Karl. They make the best husbands."
Karen's wink made Cassie more anxious. "I don't want a mountain man or any man right now."
Karen rolled her eyes, linked their elbows. "There's a bunch of cute guys at the bar claiming they're here for rescue training. We can get them to buy us drinks. You can tell them about your shop and make them drool with talk of your sinfully sweet chocolates."
"No," she said, and dug her flip-flops into the floor, abruptly halting both of them.
Karen's forehead folded with concern. "No harm in talking, sweetie. Call it drumming up business."
Business. Although she'd enjoyed seeing Lake Placid in the fall, Cassie regretted closing her shop for the getaway weekend. If it weren't for the catering contract with the large deposit, she'd never have accepted Karen's offer to escape her troubles for one weekend.
"I'd rather go back to the room, where it's safe." She tried to march around Karen, but her flip-flops found a sticky spot on the floor preventing a quick retreat.
"Safe? What are you afraid of? There may be some worry lines around your eyes, sweetie, but you still look eighteen." Worry lines formed brackets around Karen's mouth. Karen had been the only person she could turn to when she'd returned from L.A.
"I feel eighty after Mount Jo," she joked, trying to ease Karen's alarm. No matter how traditional, she wished she ignored Karen's suggestion of a quick drink at Roomer's after dinner. These days when not experimenting on a new chocolate recipe, her favorite way to spend an evening was soaking in a scented-oil bath. Lord knew her sore ankle needed soaking badly.
Cassie unlinked their arms. "I'm heading back." Rummaging through her purse for her room key, her knuckles scraped the edge of her photo key chain. Fingers hugged the rectangular plastic but offered little comfort. What was Heather doing now? Maybe playing with S'mores, her new calico kitten? Or being read one of the dozens of Eric Carle's books she'd bought her.
"Suit yourself." Karen lifted her hands to shoo her away then stopped mid-wave. "OMG!" Karen's eyes popped out of her head.
Cassie looked over her shoulder. "What? What is it?" Turning too quickly on her bad ankle shot pains up her leg. She bit back a groan.
"Over there. By the pool table. I think I see Evan." Karen pointed to a beacon of light through the smoky haze.
A large figure rose from his chair. "Evan Jorgenson?" She whispered. With that telltale gilded blond hair and height, it could be him.
"You remember Evan!" Karen exclaimed. "I wonder what he's doing here?"
Cassie peeked again. Evan. He stared boldly at her. Her traitorous heart skipped a few beats, the way it always did when he stared at her.
He looked great, unmarred by the war.
Thank you, God.
Shamefully after four years she still wanted to run to him. When she'd closed her eyes at night she'd easily summoned his face. Butterflies danced in her stomach every time she thought about him touching her intimately. Imagining dragons swallowing those butterflies helped get her through those long, lonely nights in L.A. and eventually dried her tears.
Without her dragons, she turned away. "I don't see him."
Karen swung her head from side-to-side trying to see around, then gave up and nudged her gently aside. A huge, satisfied smile formed on her face. "Oh yeah. It's him. Wow. They don't make 'em like that anymore."
"Yeah. It's him," she admitted, peering over her shoulder.
God, he looked so good.
Where are those lizards?
"He's staring at you." Karen still whispered like they were in front of their high school lockers, sharing secrets. "Why don't you go over and say hi?"
Soon as a dragon or two wakes up, she wanted to reply. Like an unquenchable thirst she drank in the sight of him. By now she'd expected to run into him in Syracuse. Jake would've told him she was back. Deciding to make the first move, she took a step in his direction. A barely dressed redhead intercepted him.
Pain stabbed her chest so hard she trembled from the force. Her hands fisted. "He looks busy. Besides, he's a player."
Karen pinched her arm. "So, go play. Don't hate the player."
"Get whatever you're thinking out of your mind," Cassie growled. She rubbed the pinch, although it didn't hurt.
Karen stared at her until she squirmed. "Divorced doesn't mean you're dead, honey."
"Karen--"
"You can't pass up this opportunity. Wasn't he always nice to you?"
This time Karen cuffed her on the backside in Evan's direction. She'd never confided to Karen her momentary lapse of reason. Some secrets were better off not shared with a best friend. Luckily, her flip-flops permanently fused her to the sticky floor.
The bimbo still engaged Evan, smoothing her hands all over his muscular chest as she talked. Cassie knew how his chest looked under his shirt, muscular and tanned with soft golden hair, a shade darker than on his head. She knew his legs and taut abs, and the feel of those strong arms clutching her as if the world were ending.
A breath hitched and burned in the back of her throat. Her eyes welled with tears she'd never shed.
No word in four years.
Overhead, a ventilation unit roared to life. It sucked up the air surrounding her. She feigned a cough in order to wipe the beads of moisture from above her lip and pathetically continued to watch. Evan's hands stayed in his pockets as he grinned at something the bimbo said. Her fake breasts jiggled across his chest and stubby hands clung to his biceps like she had the right. Then on tiptoes the skank whispered something in his ear and handed him a piece of paper.
Cassie's breath tasted hot, and she felt a bit seasick. "Did you see that? Probably shoving her phone number in his wallet," she remarked to Karen between her heated lips.
To his credit, Evan remained statue-still.
"Oh, what do you care? Once he sees you he'll forget all about that slut," said Karen.
"Evan's the last person I'd encourage. I'm not going to be a number on someone's list."
The lie set her cheeks on fire.
"I'd kill to be on his list if I weren't already married to the greatest husband in the world." Karen looked regretful as she retrieved her purse and jacket.
"Where are you going?"
Karen continued walking. "To the bar to get a drink. I see Aaron and Gayle Lucas waving. You're on your own, sweetie. I'll see you later...much later."
"Wait!" Cassie yelped.
She tried to follow but only one flip-flop snapped off the floor. The other seemed nailed. She pivoted around on her good foot. Halfway across the room the crowd shifted and Evan disappeared. She sighed, feeling a moment of relief.
Until he broke free.
Dark eyes sharper than any laser-sight found and marked her.
A tingle of excitement neutralized the seasick feeling. Thankfully, Karen encountered him next, buying her time to calm down. He grinned at something Karen said. Not about her. Karen knew how to play it cool. She even made Evan whisper something in her ear. She'd be bragging later.
Cassie glanced at the muck around her feet and remembered what she wore. Why did she let Karen talk her into this horrible outfit? Instead of her comfy shorts and loose cotton top, the Juicy purple T-shirt was too tight, and the faded-denim skirt with the tacky sequined belt, too short. Karen insisted she looked great. Hardly. Cassie drew the line at the sexy heels Karen offered. The blue flip-flops stayed.
Evan's gaze never left her as he chatted with Karen. The way he always looked at her. Intense. What she'd mistakenly interpreted as something more than lust.
All my letters returned unopened.
At last the muck turned slippery and she managed to shift from the spot. She tried a few steps. Ouch! A nearby barstool took pressure off her throbbing ankle. She wished she had some aspirin in her purse. Behind her someone giggled. It sounded like Heather's laugh. Tears pinched the backs of her eyes. Have to get out of here. She tested the ankle, but it ached so much she doubted it would hold her weight. The pain was nothing compared to the perpetual one in her heart.
The young girl laughed again.
When was the last time she'd laughed so boldly or smiled so easily?
Evan rarely smiled but from the distance she felt the heat of his stare. The first time he gave her a sexy half-smile it felt like she'd spent hours in the sun. She used to pity the poor women who tried to resist his unforced charm.
She shut her eyes to catch her breath. One step at a time
Karen scooted aside. Evan resumed his march. Someone trailed him, a dark-haired man at least a head shorter, deeply tanned, with shoulders almost as wide as Evan's.
Evan's gaze never left his target. At least the chill up her spine disappeared.
Swinging her hair over her shoulder, she exhaled through her nose and then licked her lips. The absence of letters or phone calls from Iraq reminded her the night four years ago meant little more than a hook-up.
He probably never thought of her again.
Schooling her face she thought of frozen chocolate Haagen-Dazs.
She could handle Evan Jorgenson.
****
Evan stopped when close enough to see the ring of amber fire in those unforgettable green eyes. He covered his mouth to hide the breath he sucked in. For so long he imagined her, wearing swimsuits, teddies, even in jeans and T-shirt, but mostly naked. No memory or fantasy matched the flesh and blood woman. He wanted to grab her and kiss her senseless. Instead, he tucked his hands in his pockets.
"What brings you here?" he said, relieved he got the words out before his breath caught. He waited for her to vanish into thin air.
"The Flaming Leaves Festival," she stated flatly.
Chilly welcome, but at least she still looked him in the eyes. One slender eyebrow lifted, impatient for his reply.
"All the way from L.A.?"
Her arms crossed over her breasts. "No. From Syracuse. I've moved back."
"Why'd you leave L.A.? Too much sun, or stars?"
"Neither." Her eyes blazed like twin green torches.
While he struggled for a charming comment someone bumped into her causing her elbows to poke his chest. The hit ricocheted to the balls of his feet.
Definitely not a ghost. Say something. "Working or taking it easy?" he said, wishing he owned an ounce of charm.
"Working."
"Your old job?"
"No."
"Something new?"
"Yes."
Christ, he sounded like an interrogator. Six weeks barking orders at his recruits hadn't help. Plus, he tiptoed around a minefield of emotions. Sweat trickled down his back as if the situation were reversed.
Some communication expert. Never had this much trouble talking to suspects. Or terrorists.
Why didn't he pump Karen for information? Everything about her, from board-straight posture to clipped speech and fiery gaze said she was angry and with good reason. When he arrived in Baghdad he learned his covert mission prevented contact of any sort including Clay, the only family he had left. Orders prohibited even a message explaining there would be no communication of any sort. But on the worse day of his life, he was allowed to compose a letter to her.
By the frosty reception, she never received it.
Now wasn't the time to go into it.
Switch to a safer topic. "So, how's Heather?"
"Heather's as good as she's always been."
Did she wince? The corners of her mouth trembled like she wanted to add more, but what? And were those sparks in her eyes really tears?
Her reply hung in the room's stagnant air. He wanted to question her further but something warned him not to go there. He searched her face for an answer and came up empty. "Glad to hear that."
She swallowed and swiped the corner of her eye before looking away. He didn't know how to respond. He wanted so badly to hold her, but set his hands on his hips and drank in her profile.
Tony's breath scalded his neck. A well-aimed elbow in his ribs forced Evan to grunt out an intro. "Ahh...Cassie, this is a buddy, Tony Garibaldi."
At the mention of his name, Tony slithered in front of Evan. "Nice to meet you, Cassie. Are you familiar with the MRT program?"
Her head tilted. "I'm not sure. Are you a doctor?"
Yeah right, Evan thought. He couldn't stop another grunt from escaping. Besides sweating profusely his pulse raced like some middle school adolescent in puberty and his skin itched. It was like he caught the "Cassie-flu" whenever she was near.
"No. MRT stands for Mobile Response Team. I finished my training here this week. I work for Ev's Syracuse Unit."
"Oh. Congratulations, then."
He envied the small, shy smile she gave Tony, who danced from foot to foot, explaining something about MRT and trying to "impress to undress." Cassie nodded politely, encouraging Tony to ramble. It was his opportunity to check her out.
She looked twenty, but he knew she was about thirty. Tanned, probably from some California beach, definitely too golden-brown to come from a bottle. It looked real good on her, too. He wondered if she sunbathed naked.
She once wore lots of gold necklaces, bracelets and rings, like some kind of Egyptian princess. No jewelry or rings on her fingers. Her blonde hair still cascaded in a thick waterfall to her waist. He always liked her hair that way best, a silken cape ready to unveil the lady's charms. She looked thinner than he remembered, dropped about twenty pounds on an already great body. Probably an L.A. requirement. Diet to the point of anorexia.
She crossed her arms under her Juicy breasts, nodding at something Tony said.
He definitely recalled her breasts being larger.
As Tony rambled she raised a hand to push back her bangs and snuck a glance his way. Her vibrant eyes torpedoed him right in the area where his heart used to be, still having the power to paralyze a man. Full-lashed and exotic they were the kind of eyes you could stare at for a lifetime and never grow tired of their beauty.
He wanted to join the conversation but the way his skin itched he was certain he'd sprouted hives. "Good seeing you. I've gotta go," he said and stepped back.
Without waiting for a reply he angled his shoulders through the crowd. Outside, he let out a big phew and then took several breaths of the crisp, fall-scented air. After all this time, he still appreciated he no longer breathed air permeated with powdered sand. The first sign he'd made it home. The next sign, hot food and showers and no bullets whizzing by his ears.
One by one his muscles uncoiled but the itchy skin persisted.
Damn. Still condemned to the same old itch.
He looked at the closed door and then at blinking neon signs in the window. A yellow palm tree centered on a green island swayed back and forth advertising Imported beer. A blue mountain range blinked on another sign. There was a time when all he cared about was hiking these mountains and drinking drafts with Clay.
Before the war.
Before the accident.
Before his life changed forever.
The bar door crashed open. A couple came out hand-in-hand, eyes only for each other and brushed past him. He stood still for a minute listening to the laughter of the girl until it was silenced by her lover's kiss.
He remembered Cassie's last kiss. The best kiss of his life.
Tattooed on his heart.
He had to talk to her. One of the coffee shops in town stayed open all night. Over coffee they could discuss what happened that night. How a kiss goodbye led to more. How one night forever etched in his mind comforted him when all seemed lost. Tell her about the letter. If he thanked her face to face for giving him a memory that kept him sane, maybe it would be easier to say goodbye, again.
She deserved more than a shell-shocked soldier.
Relieved to have a plan, he yanked open the door. A woman was trying to exit as he tried entering. Her hands grasped air. Before tumbling backward down the stairs he caught her around the waist. "Didn't see you coming. You okay?"
The face looking up at him was two shades of red, but he'd know those eyes in the darkest cave.
Cassie was in his arms, and looked relieved.
His grasp tightened until he molded to every part of her body. Still fits like she was made for me. He bit back a curse.
"Evan? Ah, thanks."
He focused on those kissable lips and squeezed her closer.
One kiss...to make certain she's real.
She cleared her throat. "You can let go. I've got my footing."
On cue, he looked down her long legs to her perfect toes exposed by the sexiest pair of blue flip-flops. At his downward gaze, she maneuvered away. His arms instantly cooled. "Leaving? I thought you were talking to Tony."
She nodded. "Talked me into canoeing on Mirror Lake tomorrow. I thought I'd turn in early. Get a good night's sleep." She cleared her throat and took an awkward step as if testing her chance at a clean getaway.
"Alone?" She gave him a petulant look, and he expounded. "You can't walk around the streets this time of night by yourself."
Nearly knocked off his feet when she not only smiled, but also let out the sweetest sounding laugh, he barely registered her reply. "I don't have far to walk. My motel is a few blocks away. Goodnight, Evan."
He blocked the sidewalk. "You sure? Think of all the sex offenders running around."
She scowled at him like he was the FBI's Most Wanted.
No time for charm. He decided to be honest. "There's a coffee shop down the street. It's a quiet place to talk."
She held up both hands. "What's there to talk about? I'm glad to see you made it home safely. Truly." She hesitated, biting her lower lip. "But I'm tired."
She pushed past him. His chest tingled where her palms made contact. Swaying as she walked away made other parts of him come to attention.
You're not going anywhere without me, Mrs. Hamilton.
If she didn't want to talk tonight, fine, but he'd escort her to her motel room.
And not go inside, even if it killed him.
Unless invited.