Chapter Thirteen

Carina

IT REMINDS ME OF the Amityville house of horrors. The large wooden house is set back away from the street. It’s a tall, sky blue monster with an octagonal stained glass window at the highest peak in the center. I’m always amazed at how my surroundings change after a short drive. Smith’s parents have a wooded property. We live close to the beach. And we’re both considered SoCal residents.

Smith drove us in his truck and told me all about them on the way. His nephew is turning seven and his younger sister is married to an accountant. They live a few houses down from his parents. “I wish I could take you to meet my parents,” I say, violently twisting the chiffon dress in my hands. “You can never trust a person without any family.” I smile, but it’s wistful. There has to be some truth to that statement. The only person I considered true family, my grandmother, died when I was a teenager. “I’m a broken, orphaned woman.” I’m only half joking.

After I split from Roarke, I spoke with a professional. Because some things shouldn’t be bottled up inside and although I know what’s wrong with me, hearing it from someone who specializes in crazy is refreshing. He told me it could be why I create characters in my stories. It combats the loneliness and fills the void where loving parents are supposed to reside. He also told me it’s one of the reasons I stayed with Roarke after he beat me both verbally and physically. There’s nothing like clinging to attachments no matter how destructive they may be. Smith doesn’t have my same concerns, but when we spoke about it, I think he understood.

“Show me the house you grew up in?” he asks. He knows every sordid detail about my past. When I interview him he always asks questions in return. What’s fair is fair and all of that. “He’s gone now, Carina. It’s just a house now.” Smith knows not to use his name. We know each other well.

I shrug, sigh, and make a grab for his leg. The heated moment in my bedroom turned into a heated hour, and a heated drive, and basically it’s simmering in every pregnant pause and lull in our conversation. “We could drive by,” I say. Thinking of the house I grew up in sets my teeth on edge regardless of my insane libido.

Smith pulls behind a large garage structure and puts the truck in park. He takes my hand in his, but leaves mine on his leg. His need to touch me is as strong as mine to him. “No one is ever going to hurt you again,” he promises. When he smiles and squeezes my hand, I believe him. He’s the type of man who can protect me from anything that goes bump in the night. Smith has my trust implicitly.

“What about you?” I ask. “You have the means to destroy me. Destroying is kind of in your job description if you want to get technical.”

His gorgeous eyes close, shielding me from his true thoughts, and he exits the vehicle to reappear on the passenger side. He opens my door.

Taking my head and neck in his hands, he says, “I would never hurt you. You mean everything to me. You’re like my precious. I’ve wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” I wasn’t the same person when he saw me in that theater.

I smile because the radiant truth I find in his eyes is too much. Also, the Lord of the Rings joke. “Does Gollum live in the basement? It looks a little bit...” I trail off, my gaze flickering to his childhood home.

“Scary?” he asks.

I nod, and he pulls me against his chest. I can breathe here. The monsters that follow me disappear. I’m not truly afraid of the house. Smith knows this. I’m afraid of everything that follows. The future. The unknown. Deployment. Tip-toeing in the new waters of our structurally unsound relationship. “Let’s go. I know a little man who wants to eat cake. He is waiting for us. I’d be scared of him before anything else.”

Smith leads me into the house, one hand securely on my waist. He is wearing a blue, long-sleeved button-up. I observe that he tries to cover his arms when we’re in public, so I notice he’s doing it now when we’re visiting his parents. It says something. I’m not sure what quite yet. When a petite brunette rounds the corner with a stack of teetering, multicolored presents in her arms, Smith tightens his grip.

“Fiona,” Smith says. The house is warm and smells of scented candles and pizza.

She peeks around the gifts. Her eyes light up as she sees her brother, then her face falls when she notices me. “It’s so good to see your ugly mug,” Fiona says, setting her son’s loot down on an empty table and approaching her brother with arms wide. I step away so she can hug him properly. “And who might this lovely lady be?” She’s polite, at least. I expected some magnitude of hostility because of our strange circumstances and because of Megan.

I extend my hand. “I’m Carina. It’s so good to meet you. Smith has spoken so highly of his baby sister.” That garners a smile from her. She takes my hand, says the pleasure is all hers, and excuses herself to tend to the mob of children clamoring for cake. Brief, yet pleasant. If all of the interactions with his family are similar, I’ll be free and clear.

Smith tells me he’s going to help and says I should make myself at home. I wave him off and keep the lump in my throat under wraps. The foyer has childhood photos in every direction. I spot Smith in most of them. Watching him grow up from year to year makes me giggle and swoon at the same time. He went through the bowl cut, crooked teeth, chubby bunny phases like most children who grew up in the ’80s and ’90s. I see the strapping man he would grow up to become when I get to the wall that houses their high school years. My heart drops when I come upon Megan in a glittering prom dress, and then again clutching his hand sitting on the tail of a truck and several more. I have to remind myself she’s been the only one. She’s his only one. From first kisses to bedroom acrobatics, it’s been Megan.

“He was quite the handsome fellow back then, wasn’t he?” a voice chimes from behind me. Smith’s mother is beautiful. She’s petite like Fiona, but holds more authority. Her graying hair is swept up into a neat chignon and her face is free of any deep wrinkles. She’s aged well. Her smile, though? I see where Smith got his from. It dimples on one side and her white, straight teeth are on full display.

I shake her hand. “Carina,” I say. “He’s quite the handsome fellow now as well.” I return her grin and in an unexpected move, she wraps me in her arms, hugging me tightly. When she pulls back her mascaraed eyes are brimming with tears. “I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time, Carina. Thank you,” she whispers, looking both left and right to make sure we’re alone.

I clear my own throat. She’s skipped all pleasantries. No weather, no work talk, straight to the core of why I’m nervous to be standing here. “Please,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t thank me. Smith is the most incredible man I’ve ever met, Mrs. Eppington.”

“Margaret, please, dear. Call me Margaret,” she corrects, waving one hand. “He is indeed incredible. We’re lucky to have him with us. I remind myself of that daily.”

I hear children chattering and Smith laughing in the kitchen. The sound reassures me that everything is okay. I’m safe here. He’s safe.

“He wasn’t this incredible after his accident, though.” She smoothens her hair back on both sides even though it’s already perfect, not a hair out of place. “The man you know is the best version. Hearing that excitement in his voice when he talks about you is something I feared I’d never hear again.” She looks behind me at the photos of Smith and Megan. “Not even back then was he this smitten.”

How is that possible? And what does she have to gain by telling me this tidbit? I know she loves Megan like a daughter. Smith has told me as much. I know she still speaks with her too. There isn’t a woman in the world that would be this okay with her ex-fiancé moving on. And with such severity and haste. We’re living together. If Megan is at peace with this situation, she’s truly a better woman than I ever gave her credit for. I resume twisting the sides of my dress.

“I find that hard to believe, but appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.” I nod, trying as hard as I can to keep my posture straight and my chin up. Subconsciously, I always shrink into myself, warring with feelings of self-loathing.

“He is a good man. Perhaps a little confused right now, but he’s a good man. I hope you realize what a treasure you have.” It’s very sweet. I hear the threat behind her words, though.

Crossing my arms, I let it roll off my back. This is what mothers do. They protect. Seeing it firsthand is odd and reassuring. There was one time when my own mother, God rest her soul, tried to save me from Greg. She snuck into my bedroom early in the morning and told me to run. She didn’t stand up to him or shield my body with her own, she told me to get out of Dodge because he was angry. I went to my friend Jenna’s house for two whole days. When I returned, she was on a liquor run and my stepfather was home, waiting for me. That was the first time he raped me. I always wonder what would have happened if we never went down that road—if I hadn’t listened to my mother. If I’d stayed, perhaps Greg would have locked me in the shed for a few hours—maybe a night. He was upset I couldn’t get the blood stain off his favorite button-up. The memory forces a shudder.

“I couldn’t possibly hurt him, ma’am. I’m not that kind of woman.” I open my mouth to tell her that I love him, but I can’t. I haven’t admitted my feelings to Smith yet. “He’s important to me.”

“Because his story is your next bestseller?” she asks, avoiding eye contact.

I shake my head. “Because he’s the single most amazing man I’ve encountered in my life. He’s a man with qualities I don’t take lightly. Trust me that he’s in good hands for as long as he’ll keep me.”

His mother smiles. I force my own, my heart hammering in protest. At the reminder of the book my palms begin to sweat. It will be impossible to explain my pseudo romance, non-fiction, fiction novel to his family. With the ending still up in the air, the mere thought of my book makes me cringe and wish I were in front of my laptop toiling.

Margaret pats my shoulder and excuses herself into the kitchen. I return to studying the photos on the wall, the ones with Megan and his high school friends. He wasn’t as happy then, I remind myself. It’s a small victory in the big picture, but a victory nonetheless.

Conversation is pleasant with his family. His father looks like an older, carbon copy of Smith, and he is very quiet and reserved. I get the feeling that when he does speak, everyone listens and appreciates it. He’s a little less rough around the edges than Smith. As an introvert and people watcher, I’m comfortable going out on a limb and assuming that Smith’s career path was a shock to his family. Now that it’s stolen parts and pieces of him, I’d fathom neither parent is as glamorized by his SEAL status as the rest of the world.

As we hang out, Smith always makes sure to touch me, or kiss the side of my head, or include me in conversation even when I’d be better left out. He says my name like a praise passing his lips into a world I’m unfamiliar with. The way he talks about me is almost embarrassing. It’s the first opportunity I’ve witnessed how highly he regards me. I blush. I fidget. Especially when he speaks of my novels and accolades.

“But no one will know it’s about Smith?” Fiona asks after sipping coffee. The children are loud, sticky with sweet smelling candy, and buzzing around with youthful fury. “Kids, outside!” she finishes, pointing a finger into the air.

The children go, their pounding feet resembling the noise of drunk cattle.

“No one will know,” Smith answers when quiet settles.

I clear my throat. “I’ve changed everything. His facts are in there, but they’re twisted in a way where his identity could never be uncovered. No matter how much someone sleuths,” I say. Taking a sip of my own coffee, I let the heat burn my throat on the way down. “I truly think this novel will help someone. Not because I’m writing it, because Smith’s life is spectacular and relatable.” Over the time that we’ve known each other, he’s given so much of himself to me in his stories. It’s helped me to open up too. It happened unexpectedly—he caught me off guard. At this point I’ve told him my darkest secrets and he knows my life driven desires. In divulging his darkest nightmares he’s helped me heal my own demons.

“I can’t wait to read it,” Fiona says. “He never tells us anything.” She smirks in Smith’s direction. Smith balls up a napkin and tosses it at Fiona’s face. She swats it away, laughing. The banter is light, unforced. It’s like I’ve been sitting at this table, with these people for a long time—not meeting them for the first time.

Margaret’s cell phone rings. She raises one brow and takes the call in another room. Fiona looks uneasily at her mother’s retreating back and continues talking to her husband about books.

“Want to go play a game of hide and seek with the kids?” Smith asks. He takes my hand and doesn’t wait for a response. “I’m sure adult supervision is required after that much sugar.”

I laugh. “It’s the equivalent of an adult having four cocktails,” I say. I’m trailing behind him as he guides me down the porch steps and around the house to the thin copse of trees the children are circling. “Why the hasty exit?”

Smith runs his free hand through his hair. I notice the scars on his hands as I admire his strong, large physique. “Megan called my mom.”

I raise my brows. “I’m glad you see no need to lie,” I reply. “I should be sad, but after listening to you sing my praises for the past hour I’m confident nothing else matters.” It stings. I can’t erase his or his family’s past. Megan has every right to call. To visit. To wonder how the birthday party is going on without her presence.

“Sad? I was afraid you’d get pissed.” Smith yells at the kids to get ready for the best game of hide and seek the world has ever seen.

Furrowing my brow, I try to bring anger to the surface. Most women would be mad or self-conscious at the very least. “How could I possibly get angry?” On the contrary, most women haven’t received a beating by life. I know whom I should appreciate and trust. I squeeze his hand. Smith shrugs, shakes his head, and licks his lips. I smirk as the children disperse through the yard. “Turn around and close your eyes,” I whisper into his ear.

When he chuckles, I peck his check and take off in the opposite direction, heading for several large trees that might conceal me. He calls out after me, but I don’t stop my hurried pace. Echoes of laughter fill the air and eventually I hear Smith’s booming voice call out, “Ready or not, here I come!”

“That was not twenty seconds,” I huff under my breath. I pin my lips together between my teeth and as slowly and carefully as I’m able, I peek out from behind the tree. Smith is chasing a little boy, his pace indicating he’s giving the child the benefit of a head start. My heart thumps loudly as I watch him, the man I love, play. He looks so carefree, innocent, and unassuming. This isn’t the war torn soldier shouldering loss, tenuous responsibility, and memories that invoke the worst kind of nightmares. He’s opening my eyes to a softer side. A side I’ve always known has been inside, but hasn’t had the opportunity to come to light. Flashes of a future I never dreamed of having start flickering in the part of my brain untainted by Roarke. It’s like magic. Like healing. Like maybe sometimes miracles do happen.

I hear when his footsteps approach my hiding spot. They’re quiet at first, and then almost silent when he realizes I’m near. Reaching behind me, I lay my palms against the rough bark of the tree and think about Smith’s ability to blend into any circumstance. The sense of touch grounds me in the here and now. “Olly olly oxen free,” Smith says, rounding the tree. Tossing my head back, I laugh.

“That easy?” I ask. My smile fades when I see the intensity of his gaze. His body is lithe yet solid as he approaches.

With one hand on the tree he shakes his head. “Quite the opposite actually. Difficult. You’re difficult,” Smith growls. He rubs his fingers over his top lip.

I frown. “I resent that. Fully. I pride myself on being easy. Wait, that didn’t come out right,” I say, smirking.

Smith places both of his palms on the tree on either side of my head.

“I could be easy right now if you wanted, though,” I coax.

He leans closer, his nose brushing the side of mine. His scent—the mouthwatering, fatally toxic scent of him—enters my body. I inhale deeply just as he blows out a breath.

“Difficult in that I don’t think I can hold out another second,” Smith says, his lips brushing mine on the last word. It would be the easiest thing in the world, to lean up and press my lips against his. I want him to want me as badly as I want him. The feelings are so intense I have to close my eyes to block out one sense.

“Don’t hold out,” I whisper. “You can’t hide forever.” When I feel his hands on the sides of my face, I open my eyes. “Smith,” I finish.

Instead of responding, he nods and rubs his thumb along my lower lip and ends by pulling it down to open my mouth.

I’m hyper aware of this moment. I know it’s when everything changes. The setting sun plays peekaboo through the trees next to us, and the sounds of the children’s shrill laughter lift on a slight breeze. Smith leans down and brushes his lips against mine back and forth. I taste his breath as mine mingles with his. My head, held still in his hands, is at his mercy. When I’m sure it’s going to happen, I wrap my hands around his waist and pull my body against his. The muscles he’s worked so hard to rehabilitate mold against me as if they were made to fit with mine.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says. And then he does. Before I can respond. Before I can scream at the top of my lungs, Yes! Finally. Please. Kiss me and never stop. Our lips crash together in a hurried violence. It’s a large amount of pent-up sexual frustration culminating in our mouths colliding—becoming one. After all of our interviews, my mind wandering to his perfect moving lips I could only dream about tasting, I finally get them. His tongue seeks mine out as his hands tilt my head to the side to ease us into a better angle.

I clutch the back of his shirt, tugging him into me until I think I may be hurting him. He releases my head and picks me up, turns so his back is against the tree, and continues his assault from here. My legs wrap around his waist, and in the midst of this frenzied lust filled with stolen breaths and shared emotions, his erection pressing against me, I decide that Smith Eppington is the only person I want to kiss for the rest of my life.

He’s my morphine, the solitary reason my heart beats fast and slow in any single moment. I might as well be stringed like a puppet and marched into an arena naked. This is how I feel when he asserts his control—his dominance—over me. There are so many things I want to tell him, but neither of us wants to be the first to break away from this moment of pure bliss. I’ve never been kissed like I’m oxygen, like I’m the reason one lives, kissed like I alone can keep a heart pumping. This is what I feel when Smith finally moves from my lips and trails his wet mouth down the side of my neck. Jutting my hips further, I seek out his hard bulge and wish we were naked. I wish we were back home in the one bed in our house.

I wish he were my first. I wish he were my last. I pray he will be the latter. He lets me slide down to my feet, but keeps me against his body. Our kiss is broken, but emotions are running so high I can scarcely catch my breath. Gazing into his eyes, I find myself lost and found at the exact same time.

“And right before my eyes, one kiss tilted the Earth,” Smith says, flicking his gaze to different spots on my face, like he’s cementing it to memory. “I don’t know what it is,” he says. His breathing is ragged as he drags a hand through his hair and promptly returns to touching me—light touches on my arm, my neck, the sides of my face, and ever so gently grazing his palms over my breasts on top of my dress.

“I know,” I say. Licking my lips, I lock my arms around his neck. “This is what it’s like in romance novels.” When it’s real. Smith smiles and shakes his head, still entranced with gazing at me piece by piece.

Because he can, he leans down and kisses me once more. And it’s sweet this time—bittersweet. He doesn’t, but I know, how some romance novels end.

And it’s not always with happily ever after.