Chapter 1 Lena #2
Every time he finds me, he introduces me to someone he swears I remember.
I don't.
There's a man with a huge mustache insisting he taught me how to whistle when I was five.
Another guy swears he used to give me piggyback rides. I smile and nod and pretend I have any idea who these people are.
I push through toward the kitchen for a refill, the tray getting lighter by the second.
Someone tells me I've grown into a beautiful young lady.
Someone else tells me I should think about saving for retirement.
Men are strange.
The house smells like roasted garlic, beer foam, and the same cologne Dad has worn since the dawn of time.
Voices rise and fall in waves. Laughter roars from the dining room. A football game flashes silently on the TV.
It's overwhelming, but also familiar in a way that feels painfully nostalgic and oddly comforting at the same time.
I'm stepping around a man showing someone a picture of his fishing boat when the front door opens.
Something shifts, but subtly, no drama. It's more like an energy change headed straight for me. I turn toward the doorway.
Gabe Holt walks in.
For a moment, I forget how to hold the tray. My grip slips and I clutch it tighter before disaster hits the floor.
Gabe has always existed in my life like a faint outline. Nothing prepared me for the real man standing in our doorway now.
He's tall.
Tall in a way that makes other men fade out of the frame.
His shoulders fill out a dark shirt that clings to every line of muscle. The fabric strains across his chest enough that I have to force myself not to stare.
There's silver at his temples that somehow makes him even more devastatingly delicious.
His beard is trimmed neat and close, shaping a jaw that could absolutely ruin someone's life in the best way.
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. It's the simplest thing someone could do, but it makes butterflies explode in my stomach anyway.
He looks around the room once, just a sweep of his eyes, but it feels like he's taking inventory of every person, every angle, every possible threat or exit. Ex-military men don't stop being ex-military, I guess.
Then his gaze lands on me.
It's like being pinned without being touched. His eyes are a deep, stormy gray, and when they lock onto mine, something warm sparks in the center of my chest.
I straighten without meaning to and my breath catches. I hope no one can see the way my pulse jumps under my skin.
He doesn't look surprised to see me.
He looks… aware, like he recognizes me from those old photos too, except I'm not the kid in pigtails anymore.
The recognition in his eyes sends a warm rush through me so fast, I have to grip the tray again.
For a split second, I wonder what he sees. The dress. The curves I still don't always know how to carry with confidence. The girl who has spent the last year feeling like her reflection belonged to someone she didn't quite trust.
The intensity in his eyes softens. Dad calls his name from across the room, but Gabe doesn't look away yet.
He holds my gaze for one slow beat longer. It makes my heartbeat thud low and heavy.
Then he smiles, and it isn't a polite, or even a hello, smile. It's a slow, warm smile that curls up one side of his mouth and looks a lot like "where have you been all my life?" Or maybe the breakup really has made me delusional.
Dad gets to him first, cutting straight through the crowd. He pulls Gabe into a rough hug, the kind men give each other when they haven't seen each other in years but refuse to get emotional about it.
Gabe's big hand claps my father's back, and the sound echoes through the hallway.
Then Dad wipes his palms on his jeans and gestures between us like he's presenting a science project.
"Lena," he says. "You remember Gabe."
I do. My body remembers him even more.
Gabe steps forward. He takes my hand like he's claiming the moment instead of stumbling into it.
His grip is warm, firm, just a little too tight, and he holds it a breath longer than necessary.
Long enough for my breath to sit high in my chest, long enough that I have to swallow before I can speak. "It's good to meet you properly," he says.
His voice is warm and rich, smooth in a way that stays with me. It carries without effort. "You grew up well."
The words land softly and heavily at the same time.
A compliment should feel light, but this feels intentional, like he's saying more than he's willing to risk out loud.
My face heats instantly. I can feel the flush rise across my cheeks and down my neck.
Dad laughs at something someone yells from across the room and wanders off, leaving the two of us standing there like he didn't just hand me over to the most dangerous man I have ever seen in dress shoes.
Gabe doesn't release my hand right away.
His thumb presses lightly against the back of it, not enough to be obvious, just enough that my pulse picks up in a place I don't want him to notice.
He studies my face with a look that feels too much for a man I haven't spoken to in years.
I try to pull my hand back.
He doesn't stop me, but he also doesn't help me escape.
He lets my fingers slip from his like he's memorizing the shape of them.
"Careful," he murmurs close enough for only me to hear. "If you keep looking at me like that, I might forget I'm supposed to behave."
My breath catches. "I wasn't looking at you in any particular way."
He tilts his head slightly, and the corner of his mouth lifts just enough to qualify as a sin. "Are you sure about that?"
Heat rolls up my neck. I try to find something smart to say when he leans a fraction closer, not enough for anyone to notice, yet enough that I can feel the warmth of his body through my dress.
"Let me give you one warning," he says. "You shouldn't look at me the way you're looking right now, Lena.
Years in the military, and still…" What he doesn't say lingers in the smoke and space between us, and yet, the burn in his eyes and the way he smiles a little crookedly make goosebumps erupt all over my arms.
My knees almost buckle.
His tone is so quiet, so sure, that there is no room to pretend he means anything innocent.
This is a line drawn only so he can step over it later. I swallow. "You shouldn't say things like that."
He holds my gaze without blinking. "I shouldn't. But you'd want me to if you were honest with yourself."
My heart pounds so hard that I feel slightly dizzy. The room is loud, but nothing reaches me.
It feels like the whole party has been pushed back ten feet, leaving only this man and the heat building between us.
Then someone on the other side of the room calls his name. Gabe straightens, and the spell cracks.
He doesn't step far, but the space feels colder when he puts it there. "Duty calls," he says, still in that calm voice that makes me feel like I've been pinned to the floor without a hand being laid on me.
The noise of the party kicks back in, wild and oblivious. He nods once, slow enough for only me to notice the hesitation, and then he turns toward the crowd.
I try to stay busy, but Gabe makes that impossible.
He drifts and always somehow ends up in my orbit.
When I bring out another tray of appetizers, he takes the opposite end to help me carry it without my even asking.
When I squeeze past a group of men blocking the hallway, his hand rests at the small of my back without thinking, guiding me through the narrow space.
The touch is light, but it sends heat straight through me.
When I take the trash out, I push the back door open with my hip. Before it even swings fully, he's there, reaching past me to hold it open with one hand.
His body heat brushes my shoulder. His scent hits me in a quiet wave. "Thank you," I say, trying not to look like a girl who forgot how to stand.
"No problem," he answers, leaning close enough that my hair lifts slightly with his breath. He laughs quietly, and it's a deep, short sound that tugs at something low in my stomach. Before I can do or say something stupid, I bolt back inside.
Back inside, the party gets even louder. Someone starts a drinking game. Someone else yells about a song that came out when I was a toddler. I keep pretending to be busy, wiping counters that aren't dirty and moving napkins that don't need moving.
But every time I look up, he's watching me like he is trying to memorize something and doesn't want to be caught doing it. Near the end of the night, the noise hits a point where I can't breathe through it anymore. I slip outside for air.
The porch is quiet except for the faint hum of crickets. The railing is cool under my palms. The night air settles over my bare arms and cools the heat crawling across my chest.
I take one deep breath.
Then another.
The door clicks softly behind me.
My pulse jumps. I don't need to turn to know who it is.
Gabe steps out a few seconds later.
He walks to the railing and sets two bottles of cold beer down before resting his hands on it, close enough that I feel his body heat through the space between us.
The porch light sitting above us hits the silver at his temples in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
He looks older, stronger, like a man who has lived through storms I haven't even imagined and has somehow become sexier for it. Gosh, does this mean I'm superficial? I think as I panic inside.
"You alright?" he asks.
His voice is softer now, quieter than it was inside, and it slides into me like a warm hand.
"I'm fine," I say. "Just needed a minute."
"You looked sad for a second."
I shrug. "It's been a long year."
He turns his head slightly so he can see my face. "Someone hurt you."
I look out over the yard. "I broke up with someone not too long ago." The words begin coming out in a jumbled mess. He doesn't ask for details or offer hollow comfort.
What he does is listen fully, without glancing at his phone or scanning the yard or drifting into his own thoughts.
The attention is too much, direct and warm, and I feel exposed in a way that's almost intimate. I push off the railing and clear my throat. "I should get back inside."
I take one step toward the door.
"Lena." He speaks my name so softly, I freeze mid-step and turn slowly. His eyes hold mine and the attention in them is simmering hot. "If you want company out here, I can stay."