Hidden Scars (28 page)

       He wasn’t about to argue. They hurried through the halls and out the main entrance, and she held the chair steady as he hefted himself up and into the passenger seat of her car.

       It took him a while to figure out she was taking him back to her house, rather than to his apartment. Not that he was complaining. It guaranteed he’d be with her.

       The trip from the front door to her bedroom stretched on, and he almost tripped over his own feet to get to the bed. He’d spent who knows how many hours sleeping off the anesthesia, stayed the night in the hospital, and her bed looked like heaven incarnate.

       He winced and hissed out a breath as he tried to pull his shirt off, fiery jabs of pain bolting from his shoulder down his arm.

       “Need some help?” Sara stepped between his legs, her hands skimming over his chest to the hem of his sweatshirt. Gripping it tightly, she worked it up and over his head. “Lie down, Taylor,” she said quietly. “You should rest.”

       He shifted until he was able to lie down, smiling when her nimble fingers went to the fly on his jeans. “Impatient?”

       “Oh, hush. You heard the doctor. You’re not supposed to exert yourself.” The stiff fabric got caught around his hips, and he lifted them so she could drag them down.

       He wasn’t about to argue. He ached all over, a combination of his body dealing with the sudden invasion of the bullet and having lain around for too long. “You’re staying, right?”

       Her kiss was a tease, the barest hint of pressure on his mouth. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

       True to her word, Sara was propped up against the headboard, the e-reader he’d given her clasped in her good hand, when he woke several hours later. The covers were over her legs, her upper body obscured by one of his sweatshirts, and a heady, possessive spike of love scored his gut. His. Forever his. He was going to make sure of it.

       His hand crept under the sheet, searching for her leg. When he came into contact with bare skin, he grinned. Stroking up, higher, higher, his grin widened as her hand came down on top of his. “Friskiness isn’t good for your recovery, bud.” She glanced down at him and lifted a brow.

       “I think I’m a better judge of that. C’mere. And as much as I love seeing you in my clothes, lose the sweatshirt.”

       She set the e-reader on the bedside table, and he remembered he’d intended to go back and get the tables she’d had her eye on at the furniture store. As soon as he could walk for more than five minutes at a time, he was going. He’d surprise her.

       “The sweatshirt’s staying on.” She slid down and curled into his side, holding herself stiff.

       “What is it you always tell me? I’m not fragile? I’m fine, Sara.”

       He rubbed his hand up and down her arm, waiting as she relaxed against him, the weight of her head on his shoulder a welcome one. “How was your trip home?”

       “Not as productive as I wanted.” He told her about the meeting with Tony. “Agent Nance wanted me to wait to tell Tony no until they had a chance to go through the recording. I’ll call him in the morning.”

       She glided her fingers along his abdomen. “Detective Fallon called. They’re charging Patrick with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.” She snuggled closer. “I talked to your mom, too.”

       He stilled.

       Sara kept talking, oblivious. “She was very concerned. Wanted to rush right out here to take care of you. I told her if she did that, I wouldn’t have anything to do. She mumbled something about treating her baby right and hung up.” Her smile carried more than a hint of mischief. “So? Am I treating her baby right?”

       “Getting warmer.” He nudged her closer, lifting his head to capture her mouth. He’d missed this, missed the taste of her, missed the warmth and tantalizing combination of soft and firm.

       He pulled back. His stomach was growling at him. He ignored it. He wanted to talk to her first. He had a question to ask her.

       Questions. Plural.

       He wound a lock of hair around his finger, tugged. “Ever thought of having kids?”

       Her head popped up, expression guarded. “Yes…”

       The corners of his lips kicked up. “You remember I told you I don’t care much for labels?” Her head bobbed up and down. “I think I’ve found a few I’d be good with.”

       He saw the instant she started to pick up on it, the faint gleam piercing through the wariness. “Oh? Which ones might those be?”

       His gaze traced over her face. Had he really thought she’d be better off without him? There was no way he was better off without her. Her smile was puzzled. “Taylor? You going to answer the question?”

       “Got distracted,” he murmured. “How about husband, father, yours?”

       Her breath hitched, and she sat up completely, blankets pooling at her waist. Her cheeks paled and her eyes went wide with shock. “I think you should probably spell that out. Use small words so I can understand you, because I don’t think my brain’s working quite right.”

       He worked a hand under the hem of the sweatshirt. The skin of her belly was smooth and hot to the touch. “I want to marry you, Sara. Have children with you. Spend the rest of my life sneaking up on you.”

       Tears welled and wobbled, spilling onto her flushed cheeks, and she rubbed them away. “I never figured you for a traditionalist.”

       “Neither did I. Come back?” He lifted an arm, and she melted down, stretched out along his side. She was a beautiful fit. Made for him. “Yeah. Traditionalist. Right down to the ring.”

       “No diamonds,” she said immediately. “Or gold. Not a fan of either.”

       He chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I can pick out a suitable ring.” His stomach rumbled. “Probably ought to get up, get some food.”

       She sat up and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Stay here. I’ll bring you something. What do you want?”

       “Surprise me.”

       She slid out from under the covers and snagged a pair of yoga pants lying across the foot of the bed and dragged them on. “Give me, oh, fifteen minutes?” She darted around, kissed his cheek, and hurried out of the bedroom.

       She was back about ten minutes later balancing two plates between her good hand and her broken one, and she set them on the bedside table while he worked himself into a sitting position. She handed him one and left the other on the table, disappearing down the hall once more. He dug a fork into the mound of scrambled eggs, burning his tongue on the first bite.

       “Done to your satisfaction?” She walked in and handed him a glass of water, her own filled with something fizzy and golden.

       He jerked his head at the glass. “What’s that?”

       Sara flushed. “Sparkling cider. It’s one of my comfort things. I drank a ton of this stuff as a kid.”

       He held out a hand for the glass, and she gave it to him. The bubbles zipped over his tongue. Swallowing, he gave her back the glass, and picked up his own. “So why do I only get water?”

       Her laugh had him smiling, and she took his glass and retreated from the room. She came back a minute later, carrying the bottle and his now empty glass. After pouring him a generous serving, she placed the bottle on the floor and climbed onto the bed, folding her legs into a lotus position and taking the plate he handed her. He followed her gaze to his shoulder, and the bandage over his wound. When he glanced at her face, he was surprised to find her frowning. “What?”

       “It’s so dumb, but I’m mad the bullet went through your shoulder. It ruined your tattoo.” She grinned at his snort. “What? You know that’s how this whole thing started. I couldn’t stop thinking about the damn thing.”

       “I knew it. You just want me for my body.”

       Her laughter rang in his ears. “Well, duh.” She lifted a forkful of egg. “I guess that means my labels would be wife, mother, yours?”

       
Mine
. “They’re whatever you want them to be.”

       She leaned forward and kissed him. “As long as you’re mine, that’s all that matters.”

       “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

       Sara jerked to a halt next to Taylor, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the glaring July sun. The thick, sticky humidity made her feel like she was breathing syrup, and the tendrils that had escaped her topknot stuck to her neck.

       Milwaukee in the middle of summer was disgusting.

       “Is this it?” They stood in front of a café. A handful of tiny, two-person tables shaded by red umbrellas spread across the front of the building, and to her surprise, most of them were full. Why anyone would sit outside when there was lovely air conditioning
inside
was beyond her.

       “I think so.” He stared at the front door for a long, long moment, his thumb absently brushing the backs of her fingers. When he didn’t move, Sara took a step forward and tugged him after her.

       Cool air washed over them, and she stifled a whimper. She could do heat. She’d grown up in Arizona. Humidity turned her into a total wimp.

       She scanned the dim interior, searching for someone who looked like Taylor. The picture she’d seen showed Matt had brown eyes and gorgeous auburn hair she was immediately jealous of.

       “He’s not here.” At Taylor’s quiet statement, she looked up at his face. The disappointment on it hurt to see, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to make it better.

       The bells over the door jangled, and someone brushed past them. She spotted an empty table toward the back. “C’mon. Let’s grab a drink and wait a few minutes. Maybe he’s just running late.”

       One side of Taylor’s mouth kicked up, the sad grin not meeting his eyes. “Maybe.”

       They claimed the table, and Taylor went to the counter to place their order. Her phone buzzed in her purse, and she pulled it out, reading a text from Krista. She’d moved to Portland recently, after her brother landed himself in rehab for the third time. Now she wanted to know the best place to park if she was going to Powell’s.

       
Skip the one downtown. I like Hawthorne better
.

       
You’re just trying to get me lost, aren’t you?

       
Grinning, she typed in her response and dropped her phone in her purse as Taylor wandered back to the table. “Do you want to text him?”

       Taylor shook his head. “I’ll give him another fifteen minutes or so. If he’s not here by then, I’ll try calling him.”

       He pulled his chair around and sat, draping an arm across the back of her chair. He’d taken a risk, coming out here without telling his brother first, and it looked like it was slapping him in the face. But he wanted his little brother at their wedding, and Matt had shot down all his apologies in the past. Coming to him on his own turf was the closest Taylor would get to forcing Matt to deal with him.

       Their drinks arrived — an iced mocha for her, iced coffee for him — along with the biggest piece of strawberry shortcake she’d ever seen. “What the hell is that?”

       Taylor picked up a fork and speared a berry, offering it to her. “Resistance is futile.”

       She stuck her tongue out at him and ate the strawberry, keeping her eyes on his. There was hurt hiding in their depths, along with resignation. Despite the lingering threat of Tony and his anger of Taylor’s refusal to play ball, the last few months had been happy. He’d moved in and they’d painted the rest of the house. Her new job was going well, and she’d heard Larry had been replaced. The wedding plans were coming along, even with the short notice. There’d been hiking and surprise books and sex. Tons of sex.

       But this wasn’t a hurt she could soothe. She wanted to march out into the humid Milwaukee afternoon and find Matt herself, kick his ass into the café so he would at least
listen
to his older brother.

       Leaning forward, she kissed him, the bitter taste of coffee lingering on his lips. “I’m sorry, hon,” she murmured.

       “Not your fault.” He handed her the fork and the two of them dug into the cake.

       By the time the plate was clean except for a few crumbs and streaks of whipped cream, Taylor didn’t look quite so unhappy. He placed a hand at her lower back and guided her out of the café. The gesture made her smile, reminding her of their early days of dancing around their attraction.

       She pulled her sunglasses off her head and slipped them on. “Where to next?” When Taylor didn’t answer, she glanced up to see him staring off at a point in front of them. She followed his gaze down the sidewalk, landing on a guy about his height with dark red hair and broad shoulders. He held hands with a dark-haired woman who came up to his shoulder.

       “Matt,” he whispered.

       They moved forward, and as Matt and his girlfriend — Courtney, that was her name — drew closer, Sara noticed his limp. It was slight, something the average person likely wouldn’t notice at first, but it was a constant reminder of what he’d been through because of Taylor’s teenage mistakes.

       The four of them stopped with about a foot of space between them, Taylor tense at her side.
Please let this go well
.

       “Taylor.” Matt’s voice was rough and low, almost lost to the noise of the street around them.

       “Matt. You look good.” Taylor dropped her hand and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “My fiancée, Sara. Sara, Matt.”

       “Nice to meet you. This is Courtney.” Courtney flashed a wide, welcoming smile, then turned to her boyfriend and murmured something in his ear. After a quick kiss, she pointed at Sara and jerked her head to the side.

       “Hey, Sara, how ‘bout we leave the two of them to their manly make up fistfight?” Courtney asked.

       “Works for me.” She followed Courtney down the street, waiting until they were out of earshot of the brothers. “I’m glad you came.”

       “Withholding sex works wonders.” She glanced at Sara. “He’s got a lot of anger to let go.”

       Sara stole a peek over her shoulder. Taylor and Matt still stood in the middle of the sidewalk, and Matt’s mouth was a grim slash. “He’s here. As long as he listens, that’s all Taylor cares about.”