The Marine's Embrace

He rubbed his chin. He really needed to work on his shaving skills.

“You can leave your bag here,” Fay said, indicating the corner under the stairs. “Or you can bring it,” she continued quickly, as if wanting to cover all her bases. “If you’d like.”

He left it. Then followed her down a short hallway that opened up into a sitting room on the right—more French doors—and a library to the left. “Through here is the dining room and kitchen,” she said, gesturing ahead of them. “We serve breakfast each weekday from seven until ten, weekends from eight to eleven.”

She turned into the library, a huge room with floor-to-ceiling windows and three walls of built-in shelves housing what had to be thousands of books. Cozy, plump chairs were tucked into corners, and a few round tables were scattered throughout. “We offer snacks in the library every afternoon and wine and cheese in the den in the evenings,” she continued, leading him through the room and down another short but wide hallway, this one bright with open glass on one side overlooking a patio, a handrail on the other. “We offer basic laundry services, dry cleaning drop-off and pickup, cable television and free Wi-Fi in each room.”

She stopped at the end of the hall, pulled a key—an actual key, not a swipe card—from her pocket and unlocked the door, the width enough for a wheelchair to get through. She went in, flipped on the light, then stepped aside so he could enter.

The room, and the hall, had obviously been built at some point recently, or at least redone, if the lingering scent of paint was anything to go by. But they blended seamlessly with the rest of the building, the floors new but still hardwood, the ceilings high, the windows long and narrow.

It didn’t look like any hotel room he’d ever stayed in, or how he’d expected a room at a charming B&B to look. It had vaulted ceilings and a large four-poster king bed, again, with enough space for a wheelchair to get around. The walls were neutral, with pencil sketches of Shady Grove hanging in thick frames, the color scheme deep greens and pale creams with some gold thrown in.

Other than the bed, there was a flat-screen TV on the wall, a large dresser, a small writing desk and chair under one window and a fat armchair next to the other window. It was a decent blend of masculine and feminine, traditional and contemporary.

She showed him the closet before opening the door to the bathroom. Spacious, with a tile floor and double vanity, there were handrails in both the walk-in shower and jetted tub, and also next to the toilet.

“This is the only guest room with its own external entrance,” she said, leading him out to the French doors—they must have gotten a deal on them—that opened up to a small patio accessible by either stairs or a ramp. To the right there was another ramp, this one longer and wooden, leading to a back entrance of the building.

“We’ll put an awning up in a few weeks,” Fay said, “and set a table and chairs out here, maybe a seating area?” He had no idea if she was telling him her plans or asking for his permission. “Anyway, this room is not only our largest, but it also affords the most privacy.”

It would definitely work, and having his own private entrance would be a hell of a lot better than having to traipse through the entire building every time he came or went.

“Does Shady Grove have a YMCA?” he asked.

“A YM—” She shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want to stay at the Y? Because I don’t believe they have rooms anymore. Not the one here, anyway.”

“I don’t want to sleep there. I need a place to work out.”

“Work out?” Her gaze flicked to his empty sleeve. “The Y is at least three miles from here, near the river. But if you want to...to exercise, we have a fitness room in the basement.” She crossed to the desk, picked up a brochure and flipped it open. “It’s actually much nicer than anything the Y has,” she said, sounding almost apologetic. “Being a professional athlete, Neil made sure it was top-notch. He even designed it. It doesn’t get much use, though. Most of our guests prefer to relax rather than lift weights while they’re here.”

She handed him the brochure. It listed not only the amenities of Bradford House but also local tourist attractions and restaurants. And the picture she pointed at was of a state-of-the-art gym, complete with everything he’d need to get back in shape.

To get his life back.

He set the brochure down. “I’ll take it.”

* * *

FAY’S FACE HURT from smiling so much.

The cost of always proving to everyone around her that she was mentally and emotionally healthy and just so darn happy. All. The. Time.

She couldn’t let that smile slip, not one bit. Not now.

I’ll take it.

Mr. Castro, of the dark eyes, grim mouth and deep, flat voice, was going to rent a room here. All because she’d chased him down and given him her best sales pitch.

Oh, Lord, what had she done?

“That’s...wonderful,” she managed, cheeks aching, lips stretched wide. And it was wonderful. They were in the business of renting rooms, after all, and they weren’t booked full until the July Fourth weekend. “We’ll go to my office and get you registered.”

As much as she wanted to let him go ahead of her, she knew better. She’d tried that outside and it hadn’t worked so well for her. And despite what Neil and Maddie thought, she really could learn a lesson.

It was just that sometimes it took six or seven times for that lesson to stick.

Not today, she assured herself.

She led him back the way they’d come, sensing him behind her like a dark, limping ghost, silent except for the heavy fall of his footsteps. The sound of his soft breathing.

He’d unnerved her—more than once, actually. Which in and of itself wasn’t unusual. She was often jittery and anxious, especially around strangers. Too often more concerned about what they were thinking about her than what they were saying. Too worried about making sure they liked her.

It was exhausting. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to stop.

But her nervousness around Zach was...different. More acute. As if her skin was too tight and itchy. Her stomach knotted. She didn’t like how he seemed to see right through all her smiles and cheerful chatter. She’d almost stayed in the kitchen when she’d left Mitchell there with Damien. She’d wanted to hide. All because her inner voice had continued screaming at her to let Zach walk away and find another place to stay.

But her heart had overridden it.

She really needed to start listening to her instincts.

“Here we go,” she said, gesturing for him to enter her office. Following him inside, she shut the door.

And realized her error immediately, as the room seemed to shrink. He had a presence that took up a lot of space. He made her feel small and slight in comparison. It was because he was so broad. Wide through the shoulders and chest. So dark and intense and unsmiling.

Nothing at all like her tall, rangy, golden husband.

She pushed Shane from her mind even as her fingers twitched to check her phone again. For some reason, she didn’t want to think about him now. Didn’t want him arriving and finding her in this cramped space with another man. This man.

And she really, really didn’t want to delve too deeply into why that was.

She certainly didn’t want to remember that weird jump in her belly when she’d tried to take Zach’s bag and he’d lifted his head, their faces inches apart. Or how, for a moment, her breath had caught in her throat and she’d had the strangest sensation of...longing.

Only she had no idea what for.

Didn’t matter. Soon, she’d have everything she wanted. Now she had a job to do.

She shifted, only to realize there was no way to get around Zach. Everywhere she turned, she risked brushing against him. And that would not do. She considered leaping over her desk, but good sense prevailed, forcing her to do a shuffling side step around him, making sure to leave a good six inches between them.

“Have a seat,” she blurted out, practically jumping into her own chair behind her tiny desk. She watched, motionless, while he eased himself into one of the two chairs facing her, grimacing slightly, noticeably favoring his right leg.

“Breathe,” he commanded softly and for a moment, she thought he was talking to himself.

Until her lungs burned and she realized she was the one holding her breath.

And he’d noticed.

Exhaling as quietly as possible, she pretended to be very, very busy booting up her computer. But her face was hot—again. And though she was, indeed, taking in oxygen, the air seemed heated. Stifling. As if he was using it all.