SEALed With a Kiss: Even a Hero Needs Help Sometimes... (22 page)

"I think I'll take Tyler and go into Hampstead. If he's going to sleep upstairs, he'll need an air mattress and a sleeping bag."

Pickett nodded in agreement. "That probably would be best. I've had my eye on an antique bed for that room. Unfortunately, right now, I'm not ready to buy it." Her eyes strayed to the clock again. Eighteen minutes.

"When will you be finished with your clients?"

"I have a private client now, then I have to go to Camp Lejeune. I work with a group for young mothers there. I'll be back around four."

"We'll be back then." Jax placed one finger under her chin and tilted her face toward him. He searched her face for a minute as if looking for something. He gave a tiny nod and dropped a kiss, light and quick, on her lips. Then he was gone.

Pickett stood in the mudroom, the dryer rumbling and thumping behind her, touching the lips he had kissed. What did a kiss like that mean? It hadn't felt sensual, exactly, though the sensual promise was never far away. But, on the other hand, it wasn't friendly, exactly.

For what probably wouldn't be the last time, she wished she were more experienced, not so far out of her league. She stood there until the timer in the kitchen gave the fifteen-minute warning.

He could have told her what the kiss meant, Jax thought as he drove the Cherokee south on Highway 17, Tyler strapped in the backseat. It was sheer masculine possessiveness. Territoriality. Jax's brow creased in consternation. Pickett constantly surprised him. She was such a perpetually shifting mix of cool, intellectual precision, and warm, humorous caring. Undeniably sensual yet unawakened. But what gave him pause was that around her, he constantly surprised himself.

He wanted her, sure. That was one sweet package she had put together. She wasn't unusually pretty, but watching thoughts chase themselves across her intelligent face, and humor sparkle in her ocean eyes made looking at her face something he just liked to do.

Jax liked women. He liked their soft bodies, and the way they smelled. After a day around men, he liked women's lighter, softer voices, and the way they laughed. And Pickett was all woman, pure feminine essence from her tumbling curls to her soft, round, pink toes. It was no surprise she turned him on.

But being a SEAL had been his life. Women were a convenience for him, a truth that hadn't changed even when he was married to Danielle. He had never been physically unfaithful to her in their brief twelve months together, but neither had she ever been more than punctuation in the meaning of his life. He had learned his lesson and he made sure he picked women for whom he was equally a convenience. Someone to see and enjoy occasionally without wanting or expecting him to be part of their lives. So the surge of sheer masculine possessiveness had come out of the blue, surprising him so much that he had acted on his feeling without thinking, something he showed an alarming tendency to do around Pickett.

It was that focus thing. She had a way of focusing on what you were saying, or just focusing on the fact you were there, and you knew you had her complete attention. Most people, even when they were really engaged, had part of their mind on other things, what they were going to have for dinner, a report that needed to be written, whether their wife would find out where they had been the night before. Others were busily trying to figure out how they could use whatever you were saying, what it meant to them or about them. Pickett's attention was so simple and pure, so uncomplicated, it had the spaciousness of a Zen temple. At the same time it was so focused that it could hit you like a force.

When she was with you, Pickett gave one hundred percent. He couldn't help but wonder what making love would be like with someone who had that intensity of awareness. How would she kiss him, what would he feel when she took him in her hands? His body tightened at the thought of those soft hands, touching and exploring. Then, when she had looked at the clock and said she had a client coming, the focus had disappeared. And he wanted it back! The kiss was about making sure she didn't lose her awareness of him. Of making sure she knew, no matter who she was with, that her attention was his.

"Where are we going?" Tyler's voice piped from the backseat. Okay. He had his own focusing to do. This was not about getting something started with Pickett. It was about living up to his responsibility to his son.

"We're going to buy you a sleeping bag and an air mattress."

"Why are we going to do that?" "So you can sleep upstairs like you want to." "Why are we going to buy an air mattress?" "I just told you." Jax hoped this wouldn't be one of those 'why' sessions. Learning that they were typical behavior for a child Tyler's age had helped his patience, but he still found them exhausting.

"No. I mean why do I need an air mattress?" "So you'll have something to sleep on."

"Is an air mattress the same as a bed?"

Jax was forcibly reminded just how much a four-year-old—even one who was almost five— didn't know. "Not exactly. You put air in it to make it soft, and you put it on the floor to sleep on it. It's like camping out."

Tyler took a moment to think this over. "It's not a bed?"

"No."

"I want a bed."

"An air mattress will work fine."

"I want a bed."

What was he supposed to say? It was the oddest sensation, this pull of knowing his child wanted something. "Why do you want a bed?"

"Because it's not a bedroom if it doesn't have a
bed"
replied Tyler impatiently.

"But we can't just put a bed in Pickett's house."

"Why?"

"Because it's Pickett's house."

"She wouldn't
like
it?"

"No. You can't just go putting furniture into people's houses."

"But she
needs
a bed. I know! We can get a bed Pickett/i£es."

Jax just shook his head. He didn't feel up to explaining subtleties of respecting people's space.

But wait! What was it she had said about an antique bed she wanted?

"That's a great idea, Tyler." Jax was a generous man. He enjoyed buying presents and, since he had a fondness for fancy lingerie, often showed up at his current lady's house with a little something. But this was different. Tyler would be satisfied, and Jax liked the thought of giving Pickett something that she wanted, too.

"You mean we can buy a bed? Yippee!"

Uh-oh. What if Pickett didn't agree?

"Slow down Tyler. We have to talk to Pickett first. She might not want a bed."

"She wants a bed. I know she does." Pause. "She does! She really, really does!"

"We'll see." Like cogs slipping into a different gear, Jax felt himself grow older between one second and the next. Now he knew why adults said
that
to children.

Pickett was almost late to her brainchild and pet project, her at-risk-mothers' group, something she had never allowed to happen before.

Women, identified by the base social workers as being at risk either to be abused or to abuse, were referred to the group to overcome social isolation—the most common characteristic of abusive families.

Research had shown there was something about being in a group with other women that was specifically healing and life-enhancing to women. And yet, tragically, women with a history of abuse were frequently suspicious of other women, and ignorant of how to bond appropriately. Pickett liked to be present when the women arrived to make sure they were greeted by a friendly face.

It wasn't as important now as it had been before the group jelled, of course. Many of the women had become friends with each other. But still there were those who needed to be reassured of their welcome every time. And those who were looking for an opportunity to speak with her privately. Often they needed reassurance it would be okay to bring up a certain topic.

Today she entered the conference room at two minutes to the hour. The room was as grey and utilitarian as ever. For the thousandth time Pickett wished she could improve the ambience of the room to make it a more welcoming, nurturing space—a place that felt safe. However, the women there had already arranged the chairs and made coffee. Regardless of the room's dreary pragmatism, they were making themselves at home.

"Come on in, Pickett," called the irrepressible Faye. "We've got everything ready." Several other women smiled and called out greetings as well.

"Thank you."
They were
welcoming
her.
Pickett smiled, despite the lump in her throat, at the sudden reversal of roles. It was important that the women take ownership of the group, but Pickett had never considered what she would feel when they did.

It awed and humbled her to suddenly be the recipient of the group's energy. The analytical portion of Pickett's mind also noted a new sensitivity in herself that caused her to feel their welcome, and the affection it implied, as she never would have before.

She'd been opening a lot of old wounds lately, allowing them to drain so the process of healing from within could begin. This new keenness of perception was the result. Or was it the result of her relationship (did she
have
a relationship?) with Jax?

The group spent most of the hour trading hurricane stories. As always, they were stories of women coping alone. Several of them lived in mobile homes and so had moved to shelters for the duration of the storm. They had used the group-making skills that they had learned to transform the experience of fear and hardship into one of bonding and sharing. They had all gone to the same shelter and turned the night of the hurricane into a giant camping trip and sleepover for themselves and their children.

"Were you alone during the hurricane, Pickett?" asked Maribeth shyly.

The picture of Jax, sitting on the other end of the sofa, his broad chest burnished by candlelight, rose unbidden. And with it a blush. The women could barely conceal their curiosity about Pickett's love life. Pickett had gently discouraged questions since anything she revealed would become fodder for gossip at the base. Even having been raised in a small town had not prepared Pickett for the intense scrutiny and gossip of a military base. Her position as a part-time consultant was anomalous enough without adding gossip to the mix.