My Starry Valentine

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

LUNA

“ W hat, no pity stare or words?” Ledger asks, a strange fierceness animating his face as if he’s preparing for an argument.

“That sucks.” I shrug.

“That’s all you have to say?” He scrunches his brows together, leaning towards me.

“Life sucks for you. For me. For Naomi and my grandpa. For everyone at some point or another.”

“Yeah, but you have to admit this is a lot of suckage for one man.”

“It is. But it could also be worse.”

“Worse? Do you have an eye problem or something?”

“No, but I’ve definitely seen worse. So, I’m not quite sure why it seems like you’re hiding out from the world. No offense, but that’s not much of a contingency plan…especially for a Marine.”

“Who are you to speak to me like this? And how do you know anything about being a wounded warrior?”

I frown. “I more or less grew up around them, thanks to my grandpa, who was a double amputee. We went to the VA a lot and visited his friends. Some came by the house, too. So, I got to see the full spectrum of how people dealt with their injuries. Some soldiered on despite horrifying injuries. Far worse than yours. Others gave up for far less…too angry at God, life, whatever to keep trying.”

“You sound like you’re eighty years old or something. What the heck?”

“I’m twenty-four,” I correct.

“How does someone so young talk like they’re so old?”

“You’re not the first to accuse me of being an old soul. I’ve seen a lot. What can I say? Since we’re sharing personal information, how old are you, Starboy?”

“Are you really going to persist in calling me that?”

I shrug. “Last time I checked, I have nothing better to do.”

“I’m thirty-nine.”

“Okay.”

Cocking his head, he orders, “So, tell me more about how you got so jaded.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I reply with a shrug. “Grandpa and Grandma raised me because both of my parents were immature deadbeats who never got their acts together. I may not wear my scars as visibly as you do. But believe me, I have them.”

“Is that why you don’t flinch when you look at me? Because you’re used to seeing human wreckage?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, regret clouds his face.

“Human wreckage?” I shake my head. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. My grandfather is a good man, and despite spending all of the time I’ve known him in a wheelchair or trying to get around on prosthetics, he’s never let those injuries keep him down or hold him back. The same goes for many of his friends, though not all.”

“It’s different when it’s your face,” Ledger grumbles with more of the same fierceness. As if he needs to believe with every ounce of his being the lie he tells himself.

“Maybe. But all I know is my grandpa would give anything to walk around or run one more time, let alone ice climb…”

Ledger flinches.

“Look, I’m not interested in comparing one man’s war injuries to another’s. We all have our crosses to bear. Who knows why? And I’ll grant you the selection process for life’s burdens makes very little sense. But what are any of us going to do about it?”

Silence.

Ledger looks down for a long moment as if he’s processing my last statement.

“I don’t know how long you have on that pizza crust. But it’s smelling pretty darn amazing, and I’m hungry enough to eat a horse after the day I had. So, would you mind if I pull it out, top it, and get it back in the oven?”

To my surprise, the big, brawny man closes his eyes, his Adam’s apple working as he swallows hard. When his baby blues flash open again, they’re red, and his voice sounds raw as he says quietly, “Thank you.” Somehow, I feel like he’s saying “thank you” for far more than dressing a pizza, and it makes me long to know him better and to understand the hidden undercurrent of his communication.

Even though I can’t read him, tears well in my eyes, and I beeline for the fridge. Kneeling before the bottom shelf, I spend an inordinate amount of time getting blasted by cold air and staring indecisively at his beer collection as I pull myself together.

He finally asks, “Are you striking out on brews? I have more in the garage if you want to take a peek.”

I shake my head, discreetly wiping my cheeks. “No, it’s just been a long day, and my brain is flat-lining.” I grab the first bottle my hand reaches Uncompahgre Pale Ale. “As for pizza toppings, you strike me as a cheese and pepperoni guy. Simple, to the point, but always delicious.”

“I hope you’re talking about the pizza. Otherwise, you’re going to make me blush, Luna.”

My cheeks flush, and I stand up, holding bags of cheese, pre-sliced pepperoni, and my beer. I close the fridge door with my hip before setting the toppings on the counter. Then, I twist the cap with the bottom of his hoodie to protect my hand. “Guys like you don’t blush. You smolder, right?”

“Hey, wait.” He chuckles, much to my shock. “Is that a reference to the Jumanji reboot with the Rock and Jack Black?”

“Indeed, it is,” I smile, taking a swig from the bottle as I look in his direction. “I love that movie.”

“I love both of them, actually. Tough to beat Robin Williams, after all. That said, I must admit the second one’s better.”

I search the drawer behind him for oven mitts, finding two I can use. Donning the gloves, I say, “You’re behind the times, Ice-Climber. There are three movies out now if you include The Next Level . Although I still agree with your assessment that the second one’s the best.”

The brawny Marine moves to the side, allowing me to open the oven door and pull out the first crust.

“It’s too bad the blizzard’s so nasty outside. We could try streaming the movie. Is the internet back up?”

I pull my phone from my pocket, glancing at it and shaking my head. The wind howls violently outside, punctuating my answer.

“Well, maybe when the storm blows over, we can give it a shot,” I reply, making the surly man’s eyebrow climb his forehead.

“When that happens, you’ll leave, though.”

An artless grin captures my mouth. “When the weather improves, yeah, I’ll have to think about getting to Montrose. But I imagine we’ll be friends by then. So catching a movie together or returning to visit you won’t feel that strange. Right?”

The Marine looks conflicted, blustering, “I don’t do public theaters.”

“No worries. I meant your place anyway.”

He bites his lower lip, trying not to smile. “That could work…”

“If you’re not too busy…”

“If I’m not too busy.”

I turn my attention to topping the pizza while he flattens the second piece of dough on a new pan before poking it with a fork, sprinkling it with Italian seasoning, and putting it in the oven.

He washes his hands at the sink, side-eyeing me as I finally let my neurotic flag fly. I order the pepperoni slices over the mozzarella in a perfect spiral formation, slightly overlapping the slices like a deck of cards, radiating out from the center to the edges.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think this means something,” he remarks in low, growly tones.

“Only when I‘m working with mashed potatoes,” I counter, drawing another unexpected chuckle from him as he opens the fridge door, pulling out a bottle and opening it.

“ Close Encounters of the Third Kind . You know your movies, girl.”

I shrug. “Grandpa and I watched a lot of films together. Are you freaked out by my neuroses yet? Believe me, this is only the beginning.”

He takes a draw from his beer, shaking his head. “I’ve got my own issues when it comes to compulsions. Maybe not perfectionism like you, or whatever you call this, but certainly painfully meticulous attention to detail.”

Ledger stands next to me, and I savor his cologne’s spicy, woodsy smell, declaring, “You smell amazing.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do,” I reply, straightening up and leveling my gaze on his face. My cheeks heat because he’s a drop-dead gorgeous man despite all he’s endured. Maybe even more so because of what he’s gone through. He may not realize it, but there’s a gravity of strength to him that only comes from great suffering. I wish he could see this about himself. “Now, back to that previous comment about meticulous attention to detail. I imagine it helps with ice climbing.”

“That’s for sure.” He runs his free hand through his brown hair, inadvertently making it stick up in the back. It gives him a bit of that irresistible bedhead look. It also gives me an insatiable need to touch him. Not only because of my neuroticism but because something about the man continues to draw me irresistibly.

That said, my hands are covered in pepperoni oils. No bueno. So, I turn to the sink to wash them, calling over my shoulder, “And astronomy?”

He nods.

I dry my fingers on the hand towel on the counter before returning to stand by the moody mountain man, my heart pounding at what I contemplate. Before I hesitate, or he makes things awkward, I stand on my tiptoes, running my hands through the back of his long waves to smooth them. The moment I touch him, he pulls back with a sharp exhale.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, his eyes flashing with an unnameable emotion.

“Sorry, but your hair was ruffled in the back. It was cute and all, but after what you said about meticulous attention to detail, I assumed that meant having nothing out of place, including your hair.”

He furrows his brow, his eyes swimming with too many emotions to translate.

I add, “I’m sorry. I should have warned you first or asked for permission. If it makes you feel any better, my day job is as a hairdresser. So, I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m just not used to this ,” he says, the muscles bouncing in his jawline as he clenches his teeth and gestures large with his hands.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.”

“Not you. Just everything about this situation. Your age. Your gender. You touching me. You being in my cabin. You looking at me the way you’re looking at me now.”

“No offense, but that answer was pretty much all you, you, you…”

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you with my presence.”

“It’s not that.” He shakes his head, and his eyes find mine, his face unreadable. “I don’t know that ‘upset’ is the right word, and your presence is good. I really like it. More than I care to admit, honestly. But this is all very unexpected.”

“For me, too,” I say with a bittersweet smile. Only I would find a gorgeous cowboy-mountain-man rescuer with wounds so deep and shields so high a hand in his hair is too much.

My mind spins the dialogue to come with Naomi, where I describe the culmination of my sad love life with an impossibly romantic rescue by a guy I could easily fall for. If he could ever get over the rough hand fate dealt him…