JALYNN

All day, I’ve been trying to fight back tears after sitting and listening to Sergeant Miller tell the story of when he’d saved twelve men’s lives, including a certain man that I find myself falling for more every day.

I was in shock as I started putting things together. When our eyes met, every question I’d had was answered. One expression of sorrow begged me to both understand what he’d been through and not change the way I looked at him, all in a matter of three seconds.

I’m emotionally drained, and all I did was sit and listen. I can’t imagine what’s going through Austin’s head.

When everyone said their good-byes, Austin briefly glanced up to me, making sure I knew to come with him.

Though he hasn’t said a word since we got in the car three minutes ago. I’ve done all I can to fill the time, and when I finally turn to see him, his head is back against the rest, and his eyes are closed. I watch as he slowly takes deep breaths in and out.

I reach my hand to cover his, and when I do, I see his eyes clench tighter for a brief second before he opens them to meet with mine. Nothing is said, but I’ve never felt so at peace, sitting with someone in such close quarters.

His lips tilt up in a small smile as he reaches his other hand around the nape of my neck, bringing me to him and kissing me with a sense of urgency and relief, all wrapped into one.

My body melts in my seat as I let him explore my lips, my tongue, and my soul. I’d give him my world right now; all he’d have to do was ask.

He slows our kiss by closing his mouth, but he leaves his upper lip wrapped around my top. Taking a shaky inhale, he kisses me like this a few more times, tasting the difference between my top lip and my bottom. A man’s mouth has never felt so sensual, pressed against mine.

When he pulls away, he presses his forehead to mine, taking a deep breath in, like he’s trying to gain his strength from me. I’m more than willing to give it to him. To give him anything he needs. In this moment, I want to be his strength. I want to take all the pain he’s experienced away.

“Come home with me,” he whispers, keeping his eyes closed like he’s scared for my response.

I wrap my hands through his hair, slightly pulling back so that he can see me. I want him to understand the switch I felt coming but know now for sure. I won’t fight him anymore. Once he lifts his long lashes, I nod before saying, “Okay.”

Relief washes off of him as he leans in to kiss me again before starting the car and backing out of the parking spot.

He holds my hand the entire drive back to his place. It doesn’t matter one bit that he’s completely silent. The way his thumb rubs over my fingers says everything he needs to say.

I’m surprised when Austin drives down Market Street, heading away from the Embarcadero and the Financial District. I assumed he either lived in a high-rise apartment downtown or in the Marina with all the other wealthy people. Instead, he drives past the Tenderloin, Van Ness, and even Castro. I glance out the window, surprised when such a major street as Market suddenly turns into a residential area as we start to climb a hill.

We come to a Stop sign, and he makes an extreme sharp right, almost turning around completely before ascending an even steeper hill.

The way he works the clutch in his Corvette is flawless as he maneuvers through the narrow street. We turn onto Panorama Drive and go even higher up the hill until we’re on Mountview Court. Both street names are spot-on descriptions for the landscape of San Francisco—from its burnt-orange hills in the foreground to the pinkish sky of the West Coast sunset—providing a view that is seemingly on top of the world.

At the end of the court is a small house that looks like it was built on the side of the cliff. He drives up to the garage door and parks in the driveway.

As he puts the car in park, I admire the art deco facade that was once popular in the 1950s yet looks quaint today. While I assumed Austin lived in an expensive bachelor pad in the center of the city, now that I’m here and looking at the brown-and-white stucco, I find it’s actually quite perfect.

To my surprise, the inside is not extravagant at all with a low ceiling and wall-to-wall wood flooring. There’s a standard kitchen with espresso-colored cabinets and stainless steel appliances. The front room has family photos on the wall, many of them are him with his two brothers.

I easily recognize Bryce, and the other man with shoulder length blond hair in one photo that’s pulled back into a man bun in another must be his younger brother, Tanner. Edward is in a few of the photos along with a woman with light-blonde hair and blue eyes, who I can only assume is his mother. I stop and look at her kind smile while she hugs all three boys, and they beam from their mother’s embrace.

I step away and walk around, further inspecting his place. There are soft chenille couches and angular furniture with knickknacks and mementos from vacations, award ceremonies, and various life experiences that he brought back with him, including a vile of sand that sits on his end table with a piece of duct tape on the outside and the word Fallujah written on it.

This is a home. A home that anyone would have, not at all what I would expect from a multimillionaire bachelor living in a city like San Francisco.

While everything about the home seems to be understated, one thing that is not is the back wall, which is lined completely in windows that overlook the entire city.

Austin walks past me, and he takes his suit jacket off, laying it on the back of the couch before removing his cuff links. He heads straight into his bedroom but leaves the door open.

I’m not entirely sure what he needs from me right now. I sit on the edge of the couch and wait for him to come back. The bottle of sand is sitting on the table, so I pick it up and tilt it, watching each grain roll to one side and then back to the other.

I’ve never understood why people kept sand as a token. The best part of sand is the feel of it, yet I bet no one ever pours it into their hands, for fear they’ll lose a precious grain.

To look at sand in a jar is like looking at a picture. You see the place you’ve been, but you can’t see or smell or feel. The details get faded—sometimes, for the worse. Sand needs to be free. You should crush it into your palm and remember the warmth of the sun as you slid your feet into the heated sand and breathed in the fresh sea air.

I place the bottle back on the table and look over to Austin’s open bedroom door. I pad over to peek in, but he’s not there. The sound of running water has me looking toward the master bathroom.

When I glance in the room, he’s sitting on the side of the bathtub, his hands covering his face and his body shaking.

After softly closing the door behind me, I walk to him, wrap my hands around his head, and bring his face into my stomach, praying to God I can give him the strength he needs right now.

After he takes a few breaths, his arms work their way up my legs, and he tightly holds on to me as he sobs into my body. Tears run down my cheeks for this man who must have been through so much and seems to have kept it all in this entire time.

Once he’s able to calm down, I lean over and plug the bath, hoping, if we get him inside, it will help relieve the tension of today.

I adjust the water temperature and watch as the steam rises. Austin keeps his vision straight forward, staring into my shirt, as I loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt.

He tilts his head up, and when his red-rimmed eyes meet mine, I have to take a deep breath to keep my composure. He looks so scared, so tired, but mainly … broken. I’ve had my fair share of dealing with broken men, but never before have I been in love with one.

Falling for someone is an exhilarating ride. Not knowing whether you’ll crash at the bottom or be caught in a forever kind of love is absolutely petrifying.

Right now, I’m not entirely sure how I’ll land.

After removing his shirt completely, I put my hands under his arms and motion lifting him to get him to stand. His eyes meet mine as I unbuckle his pants and drop them to his ankles. The hunger, sadness, and fear I see reflecting back at me gives me the strength I need to be here for him.

I’ve known him only a short time, but what I do know is, he has no one he can truly lean on, and I want to be that person.

I reach down, taking off each shoe. Then, I slip his pants and boxers off completely before guiding him into the bathtub.

As he turns to climb in, I see his beautiful back, which is scarred with dark red marks going all the way down his spine. He drops to his knees, facing me, and places his arms on the side of the tub with his head down.

The tub has a shower wand attached to it, so I lift it up, running water down his back. He lifts his head, placing his hands on the sides of my arms, and pulls me into him, so his forehead is lying on my chest.

The grip he has on my arms and the slight shudder of his shoulders almost break me. I close my eyes and pray I can be everything he needs.

I grab a loofah and dip it into the hot water. Then, I raise it to his back and squeeze the water onto one of his scars.

“How badly were you injured?” I say barely above a whisper.

I can’t see his face, but I can feel his back rising and then freezing.

“Shrapnel from the IED lodged into my back. I had the best doctors in the world, making sure I was okay.”

I watch the water trickle down the next scar. It’s jagged and raised, a badge of courage on my wounded veteran. Now, I know why he wore his shirt to bed. “I didn’t see these last night, but I wish I had. They’re beautiful.”

His breath hitches as I lean forward and lay a kiss on his shoulder.

“Missy came with my father to see me in the hospital. She told me she had the best plastic surgeon in New York who could make my back smooth again.”

My knees press into the tiled floor as I lean further, and I squeeze more water on his lower back. “She’s an idiot.”

“I told her no. They’re my scars. My penance.”

“Why don’t you want people to know you were one of the men Sergeant Miller saved?”

He takes a deep breath and shrugs. “I just needed to process everything on my own. I didn’t want all the attention or people looking at me differently. I didn’t want to drive attention back to him when he’s been in hiding all this time.”

“How do you feel now?” I run the loofah over another scar.

Deep breaths come and go from his lungs until he finally says, “Tired.” His entire body deflates. “I’m so fucking tired.”

I grip his shoulders and lay my cheek against his skin. “From what?”

“Running. I’ve been running for so long. When my mom died, I ran away to college. I stayed away from my family just so I wouldn’t have to be reminded of what had happened. Tanner was only fourteen years old, and I left him to deal with it himself while I drank and screwed my way through school.

“When I graduated, I moved back home, and my father announced that he was marrying Missy. The day after the wedding, I enrolled myself in the Marines. I was enlisted for two years before I got hurt. When I was discharged, I went straight to work and found myself at the one place with the exact people I’d been avoiding for years.

“That’s when I started racing. I needed an escape. Something dangerous. Something I could control. It gave me an outlet for all this anger I had in me. I don’t want to be angry anymore. I’m tired of it, and I’m ready to just be.”

This man, this beautiful man who wears so many masks, can be anything. If he only knew what I wished he could be to me.

He lifts his head to look at me. In his eyes, I see him—Austin Sexton, son of Marina and Edward Sexton. Race car driver, Marine, and the man of my fucking dreams.

“Who do you want to be?” I ask with a shaky breath.

“A guy who is crazy about a girl who smells like peaches.”

The expression he’s giving me makes butterflies go wild in my belly.

I lick my lips and try to tame my racing heart. “If you’re ready to stop running, then I’m willing to sit with you.”

Those gorgeous blues eyes smolder, simmering in the heat of the tub, lighting my skin on fire. He slowly lowers his hands to grip the hem of my shirt. Without thinking twice, I allow him to remove it completely and then stand to unzip my skirt. The high heels follow my clothes into a pile on the floor.

His gaze slowly rises from my toes, working its way up my legs to my chest and finally to meet my eyes. There’s nothing sexual about what’s happening between us. It’s pure appreciation—appreciation for being here, for giving him strength, and for my love.

I see it all clearly written across his face, and when I remove my bra and panties, his mouth parts with desire for all of me. I crawl into the bathtub and lower myself on top of him. He leans back, sighing my name, giving me a place to curl up into him and hold him until he’s put back together again.

And I do.

With every kiss, I let him know it’s okay to mourn the loss of his mother.

With every roll of my hips, I take away his fears of losing everything he holds dearly.

With every tug of his hair, I give him the release to be angry with his memories.

With every call of his name, I let him know that I am his forever.