The Marine's Embrace

He thought again of how pretty she’d looked sitting in the sunshine. How good she smelled. How long it had been since he’d felt a woman’s soft skin. Since a woman had touched him in a nonplatonic, nonmedical or nontherapeutic way.

A long time. A long, long time.

Probably not what she meant by making things pleasant.

“I’m just checking out the room,” he told her, his voice gruffer than he’d intended. Inappropriate sexual fantasies would do that. Especially ones of him rolling around in the front yard on a bright, sunny day with a woman who, moments before, had hauled her screaming kid inside. “No promises I’ll be staying.”

“Of course. But I think once you see the room, you’ll want to.”

Right now all he wanted was to sit down. Or at least get out of the sun. His head was starting to ache, a pounding to match the throbbing in his leg. He shifted to the side, gestured for her to go ahead.

She brushed past him, then waited at the end of the walkway. When he reached her, she moved onto the grass and walked with him toward the house. Took tiny, slow steps so as not to outpace him.

“Bradford House has a long and rich history in Shady Grove,” she said. Seemed this tour came with a guide. “Built over one hundred years ago by local timber baron Reginald Bradford, it was a gift to his third wife, Marjorie, a socialite from Boston thirty years his junior.”

She went on. And on. And on some more. Reginald died of a heart attack in a hooker’s bed... Marjorie passed the house down to their only child, a daughter, who married some guy with a gambling habit...yada, yada, yada...the house was lost in a high-stakes poker game and turned into an orphanage...

He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the house’s history or its past inhabitants, but he let her talk. It helped knowing she was occupied with giving her spiel and not focused on trying to catch him should he fall. Plus, he liked the soft lilt of her voice, the way she spoke so slowly, carefully, as if reciting a memorized piece for school.

“The house stood empty for over five years,” she said when they finally reached the porch, “at which point NHL star Neil Pettit purchased the house and property.”

Neil Pettit. Zach had never heard of him. Then again, he didn’t follow hockey, preferred watching baseball or basketball rather than a bunch of guys on skates. But he was curious—not about the house or its current owner. About her.

“Is that your husband?” he asked as they reached the porch.

She started, as if shaken out of her tour-guide trance. Glanced around, doing a full spin. “Where?”

He looked around, too, but they were the only two people out there. “Neil Pettit.”

“Oh. No.” She checked the street again, then her phone before looking Zach’s way. “Neil’s my brother.”

“You and he are partners?”

“Partners?”

He nodded toward the house. “Business partners.”

Something crossed her face, a flash of resentment gone so quickly he might have imagined it. “I’m not an owner.” Now her eyes widened. “I can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself,” she said, obviously horrified by her oversight. “I’m so sorry. I’m Bradford House’s manager, Fay Lindemuth.”

And she held out her right hand.

Hell.

He shrugged the duffel bag’s strap off his shoulder. As it hit the ground with a dull thud, she seemed to realize what she was doing and started lowering her arm, her eyes wide and distressed. He stabbed his left hand out, took hold of hers in an awkward, upside-down squeeze. “Zach Castro.”

He held on for a beat. Then two. Longer than necessary, but it was nice, having her warm, soft palm against his. When she started pulling away, he immediately let go. But could still feel it, that warmth. Softness.

He curled his fingers, tried to hold on to both for as long as possible.

Her hands fluttered, touching her chest again, then brushing at her hair before floating down to her sides. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Castro.”

“Zach,” he grumbled. Mr. Castro. Like he was her elder when, if he had to guess, she was around his age—thirty.

Another smile. She had an ample supply of them. “Well, let’s get you that tour, Zach.”

The sound of his name in that soft voice blew through him. He should have let her stick with Mr. Castro.

He eyed the four porch steps. Wide and deep, he’d be able to step up, get his balance before moving on to the next. But there was no handrail to hold on to.

And he had to climb them all under the watchful eye of the pretty woman next to him.

Resigned, he leaned to the side for his duffel.

“Oh, I can take that,” she said, reaching down across his body. The back of her hand brushed his knee, and he froze for a moment, her hair tickling his chin, the scent wrapping around him, while she tugged at the bag’s strap.

“I’ve got it,” he said tightly and felt her look at him, her face close enough that her soft exhale warmed his cheek.

He kept his gaze down, on the sight of their hands wrapped around that worn, rough strap, her fingers long and narrow with shiny pink nails. Her skin pale next to his, the bones of her hand delicate. He raised his eyes to hers, felt a pull of something—interest, attraction or, hell, plain old lust—deep in his stomach. Any of them would be understandable, he told himself. All of them were natural reactions. She was a pretty woman with her bright hair and clear blue eyes. Sweet with her many smiles, easy blushes and that hint of vulnerability. And he was just a man. A man who hadn’t had sex in over eight months.

Didn’t mean he had to act on those feelings. Didn’t mean he wanted to.

But he did want her to leave him with some self-respect.

“Let. Go.”

At his quiet, rough command, she jerked upright. Blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” Those pretty hands were back to flapping uselessly, her throat working as she swallowed.

He jutted his chin toward the porch. “After you.”

No way was he going first and having her hovering behind him, waiting to catch him if he fell.

She went up the stairs, crossed the wide porch to the front door, her movements quick. Easy.

Envy pinched him, but he pushed it aside. He wasn’t about to start feeling sorry for himself now. He’d get back to 100 percent. Eventually. It would take time, patience and hard work. He had plenty of the first, not nearly enough of the second. And the third? He embraced it. He wasn’t afraid to push himself, was actually looking forward to it. To proving he was more than his perceived limitations. To overcoming the odds and living a normal life—whatever that new normal turned out to be.

He climbed the steps slowly, carefully, leaning to the right to compensate for the weight of his duffel bag on his left. It couldn’t have taken him more than fifteen seconds to reach the top, but it felt like an eternity. Especially knowing Fay watched him, cataloging his every move, nervous and on edge that any moment he might tumble to the ground.

Used to be a time, before his injuries, when women checked him out as he went by, the look in their eyes appreciative. Interested.

Now they either looked at him with pity or their gazes skittered over him, as if it was too painful for them to see him.

He crossed the porch, didn’t miss how pleased and relieved Fay looked, as if he’d successfully scaled Everest instead of conquering a few porch steps.

He reached past her and pulled open the door.

“Thank you,” she murmured, stepping inside. He followed, closing the door behind him.

The foyer was large, bright and airy with a high ceiling, a curving wooden staircase to his left and a set of French doors leading to what looked like a den to his right. The woodwork gleamed, dark and ornate, and wide planks of aged oak covered the floor. Some sort of antique stand with drawers and carved scrolls in the wood was against the far wall, a glass bowl of chocolates on it along with a Welcome to Bradford House sign. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. It still took some getting used to—the missing arm, the long hair. The beard.