The Boy in the Painting (Meadowbrook Duet #1)

Chapter 1 Before

BEFORE

ALICE

I’ve found that the best time to cut onions is when you’re already crying.

My knife slides into the crisp white flesh as tears drip from my chin and splatter onto the cutting board. I’ve diced five onions already. Five. I don’t need five onions, but why waste a good cry, right? If I’m going to get all puffy-eyed, then I might as well take advantage.

I suck in a disgusting sniffle as my blade reaches the root, the pungent aroma burning my sinuses. My head tucks to my shoulder, and I wipe my dripping nose with my sleeve.

Damn Costco and their industrial-sized bags of produce.

Strong arms wrap around my middle, tugging me flush to a warm body. Ryan’s bony chin pokes the top of my head and my breath hitches; a new wave of sadness chokes me, tightening my throat until it’s physically painful.

“I can hear your chopping all the way in the bedroom. What did those onions ever do to you?” Ryan asks, lips punctuating his question with a kiss to my crown.

“Nothing,” I say. “They’re just an easy outlet for all of this.” My hands circle the air in front of my face—knife included. I huff a laugh, though it sounds pathetic, wet and broken between my sobs.

I grab another onion, but before my blade can pierce its layered skin, Ryan’s hands wrap around mine, forcing the knife down.

His sigh is a hot rush of air down the crook of my neck, and it pulls another swell of emotion to my throat.

The counter goes blurry and I blink hard, trying to rid myself of the stinging tears.

“Alice,” Ryan murmurs my name. It’s not so much a scold of my neurotic tendency to find distraction in menial tasks as it is a reminder that I don’t actually want to spend the last hours I have with him for the next nine months cutting fucking onions.

Calloused fingers dip under the hem of my shirt; they grip my waist with gentle reverence and urge me to turn around. Ryan’s forehead meets mine, and I peer up at him through dampened lashes. Rich brown eyes stare back at me, shiny and red-rimmed.

He’s been crying too.

I’m the crier in this family, not him, so the sight of his sadness so clearly etched across his face makes my soul keen. Deep within my chest I ache; it hurts me to see him hurting.

“What if I kidnap you?” I say, entering the bargaining stage of our goodbye. “If they call, I’ll simply tell the Navy ‘Sorry, Lt. Raine can’t come to the boat right now, his wife is holding him hostage.’”

The faint beginnings of crow’s feet deepen into sharp crinkles around Ryan’s eyes. “You can’t do that.”

“But, here me out, what if I did?” I try again, grasping onto any bit of humor I can so I don’t sink to the kitchen tile under the weight of my worry. “Do they really need another helicopter pilot out in the middle of the ocean?”

I never intended to marry someone in the military.

But when one thing led to another in college…

Let’s just say I came to love Ryan more than I was inconvenienced by the Navy’s need to steal him away.

Except now, he’s not jetting off to a school in bumblefuck Florida or a cushy detachment in Sigonella where I can visit.

They’re putting him on a boat. For nine fucking months.

Ryan’s hand cradles my cheek, and the rough pad of his thumb catches an escaped tear. “Tell me what’s wrong. Besides the obvious.”

My hand comes up to rest over his. I lean into the warmth of his palm, cut through only by the cool platinum band on his ring finger.

“I’m scared,” I admit.

“Scared of what?” he asks.

“Losing you,” I choke out. “I know it’s irrational, but this feels different than before. I won’t get to call you. And I can’t help but freak the fuck out every time I think about you being so far away for so long.”

“Babe,” Ryan sighs. “You can’t think like that.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make this harder than it already is.”

“You’re not making it harder,” he says, a sad smile toying at his full lips. “It’s a shitty situation all around. But, think of all the painting you’ll get done without me distracting you twenty-four seven.”

I can’t help but snort. “That’s certainly one way to spin it.”

Ryan hums, thumb mindlessly swiping over my cheek. “How about this? I help you finish dinner and then we play a board game before you drop me off.”

“Okay.” I take a deep, stuttering breath. “Okay, yeah. Let’s do that.”

I try to turn away, but Ryan clicks his tongue.

“Come here first,” he murmurs.

His grip goes firm on my jaw before sliding around my nape and pulling my face to his.

My heart skips, and on instinct I melt into him.

Any space between our bodies disappears, all my soft curves pressed against his hard edges.

My feet arch to lift me higher and his head dips, our mouths meeting in the middle.

They’re too soft, his lips—and entirely at odds with the way he uses them.

I’m kissed breathless, and for a moment all my worry is forgotten.

Ryan pulls back, pecking my nose before his forehead finds mine again.

“I’ll be fine,” he promises. “And when I’m back, it’ll be like I was never gone in the first place.”

I reach up and hold onto Ryan’s wrist like a lifeline, giving it three squeezes for three words, unspoken in this moment, but always known.