LITMIR.BIZ

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      Evan would never forget that phone call. By then, he’d been stationed in Iraq, living apart from the wife he loved, unable to comfort or help her the way he had wanted.

      She hadn’t been hysterical, not his Tatum. Although, no matter how strong she’d tried to be, she had been unable to hide the pain locked deep inside. Or the relief, guilt and anger. Not from him.

      She’d been carrying such a heavy burden at so young an age. And Evan had wanted more than anything to be there for her, to hold her and shoulder some of that weight.

      He’d taken leave, come home and helped her deal with the financial mess her father had left behind. And he’d immediately moved her to North Carolina where he was stationed at Fort Bragg.

      They had been happy. Sometimes she’d fought the guilt of that, but he could always shake her out of the melancholy.

      She had been the perfect military wife, independent, strong, with plans and goals of her own. Unlike some of the wives, she hadn’t struggled when he was gone for long stretches of time. She had missed him, a lot, but they had plenty of experience dealing with separation. She had taken it all in stride, relishing the time they were able to spend together.

      She had started college, eventually earning a business degree and going to work for a tech company. Special Ops had recruited him. Things had stabilized. They had been happy, had even started talking about kids.

      Then, in the middle of an undercover drug op, their informant screwed his team and any hope of a future had crumbled. Their cover had been blown. Well, everyone’s but his. The resulting shitstorm had descended so quickly there had been no way to prepare.

      One minute they had all been fine and the next, several of his buddies lay in pools of blood, with him the only one left standing. He’d thought he was dead, too.

      He shivered. This little trip down memory lane wasn’t helping his mental state. He needed to be clearheaded for the conversation that was coming.

      Purposely turning his focus back to his surroundings, he surveyed the town Tatum had chosen to call home. He could see the appeal of Sweetheart, even if it wasn’t what either of them had grown up with. The place was like the background for a Norman Rockwell painting—everywhere he looked there were Christmas lights, fragrant garlands of evergreen and shiny red, green and gold hanging balls. With the light layer of snow blanketing everything and the huge flakes drifting slowly from the sky, the town looked perfectly ideal.

      What had surprised him almost as much as the fact that Tatum had chosen Sweetheart was the reason she’d moved here—to buy the only florist shop in town, Petals.

      Try as he might, he couldn’t picture Tatum patiently arranging brightly colored flowers. She’d never been the overly romantic type.

      But according to the info the Army had given him, she’d been doing it for about two years, using his insurance money to make the purchase.

      One of the first things he’d done when he’d finally made contact was ensure no one would be able to come after her for that money. The company had paid out and the Army, who’d eventually known he was alive even if it had been several months later, had let them.

      He’d been assured Tatum was protected. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the first soldier to rise from the dead.

      The front door squealed, old wood against old wood, and Tatum slipped through the opening. The dress was gone, replaced by a dark pair of jeans, boots with tufts of fuzz shooting from the top and a heavy coat that enveloped her body, hiding everything else from him beneath a wall of shiny, quilted blue.

      A plastic bag that most likely held her dress was draped over her arm. Another bag was slung over her shoulder, smacking against her thigh with every second step.

      Her steps were deliberate and silent. She stopped several feet away from him. Evan felt the space between them like the gulf of a river, the swirl of their history, her anger and his hope threatening to pull them under if either of them tried to bridge the gap.

      Snowflakes clung to her dark lashes, sparkling in the scattered light from the lamppost close by. She stared at him for several seconds before shaking her head. “Where are you staying?”

      “I don’t know. I didn’t stop long enough to figure that out, Tatum. The first chance I could, I hopped my bike and rode here.”

      She sucked in a deep breath. “The resort isn’t open yet. You could stay at the B and B, but it’s full of guests for Hope and Gage’s wedding. I suppose you could drive back to Charleston.”

      “What about staying at your place?”

      He watched Tatum’s tongue sneak out and sweep across her parted lips. The vein just beneath her jaw pulsed with tension.

      “Dammit,” she muttered, so quiet he almost missed it.

      “Tatum, we need to talk. I’ll sleep on the couch if that’s what you want.”

      Her mouth thinned. And then trembled. “If that’s what I want? What am I supposed to want, Evan? You’ve been gone for three years.”

      Swallowing the huge knot lodged in his throat, he opened his mouth to ask the question he’d been dreading since the moment he knew he was going to make it out of Colombia alive.

      It was the one thing he’d tried not to think about at all while he was down there—because any time he lost the battle, it would make him want to throw up. Even now, his stomach churned.

      He knew she hadn’t remarried. According to the intel he’d browbeaten a friend into getting him while he spun his wheels in Charleston, he knew no one lived with her. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t moved on.

      “Is there someone in your life?”

      “What?”

      “Are you dating anyone?”

      Her head snapped back. Her deep, emerald eyes widened. And then they narrowed.

      “I’m not sure you have any right to ask me that, Evan.”

      The slimy reptiles slithering through his belly began to quiet. He took a single step toward her, and when she didn’t counter with one backward, he took another and another until he stood right in front of her. Toe to toe, he stared into her upturned face.

      Her creamy skin was warm when he reached for her, running the pad of a single finger over the slope of her cheekbone.

      “What I want is to kiss my wife. What I want is to pull her into my arms and taste her mouth. Feel the silky, smooth texture of her skin beneath my hands. To finally experience the memories that kept me alive for three long, hellish, frustrating and devastating years.”

      Neck bent, straining toward her, waiting for the first sign she wanted the same thing, Evan watched a myriad of emotions flash through her eyes—longing, desperation, love.

      But then they were gone, replaced by a blank stare that was worse than even her anger.

      She brushed his hand away. “Well, what I want is to not have been lied to. To not have buried the last remaining person who mattered to me. I want to not have been left devastated and broken. So I guess we’re both going to be disappointed.”

       2

      GOD, SHE WANTED—desperately—to leave him to figure out how to get out of the cold night by himself.

      But she couldn’t do it. A heavy weight had settled right in the center of her chest, a ball of emotion and tears and hope and devastation.

      Walking away should have made it better. Embracing the anger flickering through her should have given her the strength she needed to protect herself from getting hurt—again.

      But less than three paces away from him, instead of relief flooding in, the pain and pressure had become worse.

      Evan had lied

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