Chapter Four
He sent a picture.
Abby had ignored everything the moment she opened the door to discover the now-familiar envelope on the foyer floor—Darcy and Bennet got vague petting, but other than that, Abby had shed her coat and keys and bag just inside the door, already opening the letter. Tearing into it, more like it, desperate to read his response.
Gleeful that her first attempt at flirting hadn’t sent him running for the hills.
And then she’d seen the picture.
“Oh my God,” she whispered as she brought it closer to her face, as though she might have missed the obvious takeaway from the glossy photo.
Sergeant Theodore LaRoux was gorgeous.
Big as a house and broad as one, too. Dark hair, brown eyes and a thick beard that made her fingers itch to touch it. The beard hid most of his face, so it was tough to judge his age, but the eyes gave him away. Roux wasn’t a boy; he was a man.
He was wearing camouflage pants, slung low on his hips where a desert-brown t-shirt was tucked into his waistband. The shirt was tight around his chest and abs, and Abby was almost certain that she could make out the ridges of a six-pack. And his arms, huge and muscled and covered in tattoos. Big enough to lift a woman up and carry her to bed.
Even one like Abby.
She sucked in a breath.
She stared at him, his tan skin and his strong jaw and his straight white teeth, and she realized that this was insane.
He was one hundred percent out of her league.
She’d known it, of course. When she’d googled Special Forces and read the requirements and looked at the pictures on the Army website. And on all the corresponding sites run by women who were obsessed with Navy SEALs and Green Berets. She’d known he was all muscle and basically a living, breathing Greek god.
Or Cajun god. Whatever. The point was, he was deity-like, and she was a thirty-two-year-old single woman with a collection of dumb animal t-shirts who was too lazy to cancel the gym membership she never used.
This had been a terrible mistake.
She sat down and flipped the picture over on the couch next to her, too intimidated by the way Roux looked to have it facing up. She peeked at the letter inside the open envelope. Maybe she shouldn’t read it. Maybe she should toss it away, along with that insane picture, and go about her life.
After all, she was already feeling way too connected to this guy, and now…he’d never go for her. The whole thing was clearly unhealthy.
But he’d written her a whole letter. It would be rude not to read it.
Oh, please. Of course she was going to read it.
She snatched it from the envelope, like it was a drug and she needed a fix.
Abby,
I thought your apology for cursing was pretty adorable, but what did I tell you about apologizing for being yourself? Not to mention—sounds like the asshole was an asshole. So it’s not bad language. Just fact. I’m very happy that you found Bennet, and that she’s yours now, even if I’m jealous that she gets to steal those covers.
So—Darcy and Bennet, hmm? Sounds like I’ve got my work cut out for me, convincing you that I’m worth the trouble of writing if you’re a Pride & Prejudice fan. Surprised that I know Pride & Prejudice? Grand-Mère was a Colin Firth admirer. I’m realizing that this letter now requires security clearance—if the guys on my team knew any of this they’d never listen to me again.
It isn’t strange that writing feels so good. It’s right. Here’s my secret: I like making you feel good. And here’s another: your letter made me feel a hell of a lot better than good. So much better that I wonder what you-in-person would make me feel. Fucking glorious, I’m betting. (No apologies for cursing. It’s true.)
To your questions:
1) Always Batman. Superman’s just an alien; Batman is a self-made hero. But if you want the truth, I’ve always thought Wonder Woman was worth them all combined.
2) As for dogs vs. cats, I know better than to pick sides. So I’ll leave it at this: I’m very in favor of Bennet and Darcy.
3) When I’m out here, I’m mostly working. As a commanding officer, I’m basically Team Daddy, so it’s my job to make sure my guys get out smart and get home safe. It’s not always easy, so the work never really ends. I have a little time to read, but I’ll be honest, I’m tired of reading the same five books out here. What’s the book that your friend picked for your club? Maybe I should read it and tell you all the ways it’s wrong about the military? (Number one: a green beret is a hat, not a person, cher. But maybe, if you’re very good, I’ll let you wear mine sometime, if you promise to keep it a secret.) Truthfully, though, the first time I’ve forgotten myself on this tour was when I was reading your letters. They’re better than any book I’ve got.
4) Bayou Cajuns come up from trappers and hunters who were too poor to be able to afford to drink straight coffee, so they did what they could and cut the grounds with chicory. It might have been about money then, but it’s about genius now. Adds a spice that makes it taste just perfect.
5) As for gumbo, people will tell you all sorts of things that make it good. But the truth is, if it ain’t got a good roux, it ain’t worth a damn. You start with roux, real slow and real right. And then you get to all the other bits. And I’m not just saying this because it’s my name, but I know a thing or two about making it slow and right.
6) My grand-mère is gone and, like I said, now it’s just me. I joined the Army when I was 20, a few weeks after she died, wanting to do something right for her and wanting to find something right for me. Seventeen years later, I think I’ve done a good job of the first… As for the second, we’ll see.
It’s hard to remember days when I wasn’t in trouble, but I seem to recall Grand-Mère calling me Téo. I’m definitely up for a snuggle anytime you like, béb, but I’m sure you can come up with something better than Teddy. Cher is fine, but maybe you wan’ try somethin’ more? How ‘bout loup? It means wolf. And you’ve already told me how much you like fur.
While we’re on the subject of you imagining me…I’m including a picture in this letter so you can get it right. I don’t want you fantasizing about the wrong guy. This shot is early in this deployment, so my beard is short enough that you can see at least part of my face. These days…well, good thing you like fur.
Now that I’ve shown you mine, it’s time for you to show me yours. Send me a picture, sweet. Something I can keep close. In the bayou, we call good luck charms gris-gris. I think your pretty face would make an excellent gris-gris.
Yours
She shouldn’t have read the letter.
It made her fall even more; that perfectly flirty, incredibly flattering, totally sexy letter made her want to climb into his lap and live there. Forever. He’d even complimented her pets. He was obviously perfect.
And she was totally imperfect.
She flipped the picture over, letting it fall immediately back to the couch, as though it were on fire. He was every woman’s dream—a thousand times hotter than Mr. Darcy. He made young, wet Colin Firth look like an old bulldog with mange.
Abby closed her eyes and threw her head back, groaning aloud. When she opened her eyes again, Bennet had leapt up on the back of the couch and was leaning down over her face, glittering gold eyes judging her silently, as if to say, Dumb human. You should know better than to interact with your own species. Now feed me.
“I am an idiot,” she told the cat.
Bennet’s tail swished and, on cue, Darcy whined for his own dinner.
Abby got up and headed for the kitchen, speaking out loud. “I don’t even know him. He’s halfway across the world. Why should I care what he looks like?” She faced the dog, who seemed to raise a disbelieving brow at her. “I don’t. I don’t care. I’m just doing my duty as a good citizen. Writing him letters to keep up his morale. Right? To thank him for his service and help him pass the boring hours in the desert. Right? What does it matter what he looks like?”
She set Bennet’s bowl on the floor, and the cat lost interest in the conversation.
She looked to Darcy. “What does it matter what I look like?”
Darcy sighed and offered her his paw, in the hopes that she’d reward him with food.
Abby turned to fill the dog’s bowl. “It doesn’t matter. I could be anyone.” She put his food down and lifted his water dish to refill it. “I could be anyone,” she repeated, staring at the faucet, the stream of water filling the stainless steel bowl.
And that’s when the idea came.
She turned off the faucet and tossed the bowl down next to Darcy’s food, ignoring the way the water sloshed to the tile as she headed for the spare room, where she kept a desk for working from home. Pulling out an envelope of photos from Naomi’s second birthday, Abby flipped through them. There was one of her and Kelly that she’d thought was pretty flattering and that she’d been meaning to frame. She put it on the desk absentmindedly, before looking for the one she had in mind. She stopped at it, considering the woman in it: beautiful, petite and blonde, with a wide, pretty smile, happy and having a great time.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said to the empty room. “We’ll never meet.”
They’d never meet. So who cared if she sent him a picture of her sister?
What could go wrong?