Chapter 27 #2
“Am I Darcy?” I asked, smirking down at her after a while, her skin soft under my touch as I traced the faint outline of a crescent scar on her knee. A leftover reminder from tripping on a broken beer bottle at her mom’s house when she was eight.
Paisley shifted her head on the throw pillow to a more cuddly position and blinked up at me, half lidded and perfectly kissable.
I adjusted the blanket that was now half off the couch, thanks to Rosie lying in front of us and hogging it the best she could. Our dog hadn’t met a blanket she didn’t try to steal.
“No, you’re more of a Knightley meets Tilney.”
“How so?” Did I know either of those men? Nope. But anything to keep her talking. Opening up to me. And I was desperate to get a peek into her mind—how she saw me now.
She yawned and sagged further into the couch, her voice growing sleepy. “You have Knightley’s honour and nobleness.” She hummed softly.
“And this Tilney guy?” I prompted. I sensed a Jane Austen education might be in my immediate future.
“His beautiful sense of humour and his thoughtful care. I know you hate the word, but that makes you . . . my hero.”
I almost missed the last words, breathed on a soft exhale as she fell asleep, and I didn’t dare move. Paisley had a history of insomnia, so I’d keep still as long as needed if it meant she could sleep without having to struggle.
Hero.
Growing up, I wanted to be one. Maybe it was because I was the middle child, desperate to prove myself and keep up with my three older brothers.
Or maybe it was because Cal and Juliet looked up to me and I accepted them as my responsibility.
Dallas, Brett, and Shane were all wildly successful, and Cal and Juliet had followed in their steps.
But me? Sure, I was a Marine. But I didn’t deserve the moniker or the praise. Not when it was my fault Liam was dead.
Mama was right when she said no one blamed me. Not even Liam’s wife, Nora, did. Of my own accord, I’d taken the mantle of blame and draped it on my own shoulders. But maybe Mama was also right about heroes not being perfect. It was their courage and sacrifice that mattered. Not their flawlessness.
Something in me eased at Paisley’s words. I wanted to be my wife’s hero. I wanted to be the man she depended on.
The third episode of the miniseries had just finished when Paisley jolted with a jerky movement. Like when you’re trying to fall asleep but feel like you’re free-falling instead.
“I should go,” Paisley muttered groggily. “Thanks for tonight. It was . . . fun.”
“Same time tomorrow?” I teased, and she laughed.
Like it had become tradition for us, I walked her to her door and said good night. It was hard not to lean down and kiss her. Soon. Don’t rush it. She’s not ready yet. I went back downstairs to lock up and finish the last bit of paperwork I’d brought home from the shop.
Then I got distracted on my laptop, trying to find a part my buddy, Ben, needed for a job in Spokane. Ben Walker was Paisley’s best friend Liz’s husband and a fellow mechanic.
I lost track of time, and my shoulders were starting to cramp when Rosie’s head popped up with alarming speed, tilting at a hilarious angle.
“What is it, girl?” I asked softly, reaching down to pet her.
The telltale creak of the fifth stair cut the silence. Ah, Paisley was up. Not surprising given her insomnia.
Paisley trudged into the kitchen, hair falling loose down to her hips, her silky maroon housecoat wrapped around her and fuzzy socks poking out from below her sheep-print pajama pants.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked, leaning back against the couch.
She ignored me and opened a lower cupboard before dumping a cup of dog food into Rosie’s bowl, and I grabbed the canine to keep her from ambling off for a midnight snack.
Rosie shot me a look of complete and utter betrayal.
Sorry, girl, but I wasn’t getting up with you at three in the morning for a bathroom break. “Pais?”
She didn’t answer. Going to the small pantry, she pulled out . . . was that canned pineapple?
Yup. There was no doubt now. She was sleepwalking, something she hadn’t done in ages. Though witnessing it the first time on our honeymoon had been the peak of amusement. Just thinking about it made my sternum ache.
She’d pulled out the ironing board in the suite and tried to iron a pair of socks.
Thankfully the iron hadn’t been plugged in.
The part where she’d tried to leave the room in the middle of the night hadn’t been so entertaining, but I’d gotten her back to bed, and she’d turned into a koala, clinging to me the rest of the night.
Not that I minded.
She didn’t bother draining the pineapple can. Just abandoned it on the counter and padded into the living room in all her sleep-mussed glory and plopped down on the couch beside me.
“Whatcha doing?” she asked.
I shifted the laptop off the pillow in my lap. “Just working.”
“Hmm.” She poked my arm, lingering to caress my sleeve. “I like your muscles. And your eyes. They’re pretty.”
“I like you,” I said softly.
She didn’t reply, just tucked her feet up under her, laid her head in my lap, and curled into the fetal position.
I tugged the afghan off the sofa back and draped it over her.
Subdued snuffling told me she was already back in dreamland.
But I’d sit here a little while longer until I knew she was fully settled.
My arm draped over her lightly, her hair pooling between my fingers.
I twisted it gently. It was gloriously soft and always smelled like strawberries.
Leaning my head back against the couch, I breathed heavily. I’d just wait a few minutes and then I’d leave Rosie with her.