The Marine's Embrace

He read it then took a pen from the ceramic holder on her desk, his grip on it awkward. “You’re not very good,” he said, head down as if having to concentrate on signing his own name.

Her first instinct was to apologize for...well...whatever it was she’d done wrong. To beg for another chance.

But something held her back, kept the words stuck in her throat. Something that, if she didn’t know better, she would claim was irritation.

Maybe even the slightest bit of anger.

She pushed it aside. She had no right to be angry. Hadn’t she thought the same thing herself, many, many times? That she wasn’t good enough. Not smart enough. Not strong enough. Never enough.

Which was exactly why she didn’t need him pointing it out. She did an excellent job of questioning her abilities on her own.

She tried to flatten the corner of the invoice she’d rolled. Smoothed it and smoothed it and smoothed it with her thumb. “You’ll find a guest survey in your room.” She sounded a bit...put out...so she softened her tone. Forced her hands to still. “You can fill it out and let us know if you’re unhappy with any aspect of your stay here—including my job performance.”

He lifted his head, eyebrows raised. “I’m not unhappy with your job performance.”

“You said I wasn’t very good at it,” she reminded him, working to keep the hurt, the offense, from her voice.

He put the pen back. “I wasn’t talking about your job.”

She frowned. Don’t ask, she told herself. What other people think about you is none of your business. It’s what you think of yourself that matters.

Not true. It did matter what others thought, how they felt about you. If they liked you. If they loved you. If they were going to stay with you, be by your side no matter what.

It was all that mattered.

“What were you talking about then?” she asked, telling herself the only reason she did so was to prove she was strong enough to handle the truth. Brave enough to ask for criticism. Even as she braced for both.

He hesitated, but then he lifted his right shoulder, shrugging his hesitancy off. “I was talking about you not being a very good liar.”

She frowned. And what was wrong with that? Shouldn’t she want to be known as someone honest and trustworthy?

So why did his words sting?

“I didn’t lie,” she told him, keeping her voice calm as she took the paper from him. “I just hadn’t...advertised the discounted room rates yet.”

She checked his signature. It didn’t match the one on the back of his credit card. Not even close.

What should she do?

Neil would know. He’d do whatever he needed to get to the truth. His competitive nature wouldn’t settle for anything less than getting his own way.

Maddie wouldn’t question her instincts or the proof before her. She’d be laying into Zach, pestering him until she got answers.

Fay was sure there was a simple explanation for it all—the change in address, the different signatures, the differences between him in real life and the picture on his license.

And it was her job as Bradford House’s manager to find that explanation. She had to protect her employees and the other guests. Had to protect her sons.

She couldn’t let them down. Couldn’t make a mistake.

“Your address is different,” she rushed out, her words loud in the quiet room, shocking her and, if the slight widening of his eyes was anything to go by, surprising him, as well. To hide her nerves, she stood, the height advantage giving her the ability to look down at him.

“On your license?” she continued, hating that she’d made it sound like a question. Like she was begging for his response. “The picture on it doesn’t look like you, either. I mean, not exactly like you... And your signature doesn’t match. On your credit card.” She licked her lips. “If...if it is your credit card.”

He stood, wobbling a bit and having to lay his hand on her desk to catch his balance, making her think once again that he’d hurt his leg. “The address is different,” he said, “because I recently moved and, as I’m not sure exactly where I’m going to be, I didn’t bother changing it with the DMV. The picture was taken over three years ago—” He gestured to his hair, his beard. “Long before either of these grew.”

It made sense. It all made perfect, logical sense. But there was still one thing that felt off... “And the signature?”

“I used to be right-handed,” he said simply.

Used to be...

She shut her eyes on an inner groan. Oh, God, she was such a complete ninny, scared of her own shadow. Wasn’t Dr. Porter always saying Fay had the ability to choose her thoughts? Her reactions?

She could have chosen to believe the best in the man in front of her. Instead of giving in to her fears.

He wasn’t even the only person to want to rent a room for longer than a few days. Just last summer Clinton Bartasavich Jr. had stayed here for over a week and returned every weekend while trying to convince Ivy—then working as Bradford House’s chef and pregnant with his baby—to give him a chance.

Fay blinked several times as her brain worked, things clicking into place.

C. J. Bartasavich, of the extremely wealthy Bartasavich family of Houston, had succeeded. He and Ivy were now married and living in his Houston penthouse, raising their infant son together. C. J. Bartasavich, whose brother Kane owned a bar right here in Shady Grove. Another brother, Oakes, had spent a weekend at Bradford House just this past Christmas while in town for Kane’s wedding to local ER nurse Charlotte Ellison.

But she now remembered that there was another brother, the youngest, who hadn’t attended that wedding, who’d been unable to come due to being injured in Iraq while serving in the marines.

Her gaze flew to the man watching her silently. A brother who’d lost his arm and his leg. A brother named...Zach.

“You’re a Bartasavich.”

His response to her blurted statement? The slightest wrinkling of his brow. No denial. No affirmation.

The man sure knew how to do the whole not-all-that-tall-but-still-dark-and-very-silent thing. She envied him—at least the last part. Silence made her nervous. Made her feel as if she had to do her best to fill it. As if she’d said or done something wrong to cause it.

“I mean, you’re not a murderer.”

She winced. Wished the words back, but if there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that all the wishing in the world couldn’t turn back time. Couldn’t erase your mistakes.

“I’m sorry,” she continued. “I...I have a wild imagination. My mom says I have a tendency of letting it get the best of me.” Before she could make this entire scene worse, she took his room key from her pocket and held it out to him along with his credit card and driver’s license. “I hope you find your stay with us enjoyable. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to contact me or anyone on staff.”

Not her usual happy welcome-to-Bradford-House spiel, but right now, she didn’t want to be polite—she just wanted to send him on his way and forget this entire humiliating episode ever happened.

She wanted to get back to her life. To waiting for Shane.

Whom, she realized with a jolt, she’d rarely thought about since the man in front of her walked into the yard.

Zach took the items and she quickly pulled her hand back before their fingers had a chance to brush. “Thanks.”

Touching her necklace, reminding herself of her ultimate goal, she sidled past him to the door and opened it.

“Oh,” she said to the very beautiful, very pregnant, very young woman who stood on the other side, her hand raised as though she’d just been about to knock.