Return to Glory (Hqn) (14 page)

He’d thought that after the meeting, he wouldn’t feel like talking to anyone, that everything would be raw and painful. It was raw, but it was okay. He was glad Betsy had asked him over tonight, because he needed something normal, something good.

The back of Sweet Thing came into view and he realized Betsy had been living above the shop when she wasn’t helping her mother. A small, flowered deck cradled the back entrance and sported a table and chairs with overstuffed pink cushions. He could picture her there in the early mornings with a cup of coffee, her hair in a bun, wearing a crisp white apron as she watched the sun come up.

He made his way up the stairs and knocked.

When she opened the door, her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. All thoughts of his own needs fled.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not stupid.” He wrapped her in his arms and suddenly, for all of her ferocity and strength, she was small and breakable. Whatever it was, he wanted to fix it for her, take away whatever hurt her and crush it out of existence.

“Would it be cliché of me to ask you to take me to bed?”

“Some things are cliché for a reason. It was a long day for me, too. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask about group.”

“You don’t have to. I’d rather you didn’t. It’s already touched you enough. You don’t need any more of this.”

“But I want it, Jack. I want to help you, support you. If you can live through it, I’ll survive hearing about it.”

“No, Bets.” It was just like her to deflect whatever was going on with her and bring the focus back to him. That was just the kind of woman she was.

“Fine.” She sighed. “Is it really okay that we’re just going to bed early like old people? That you walked all the way over here and you’re not even getting sex out of the deal?”

“Betsy, it will be my honor and privilege to listen to you growl like a baby bear all night.”

“Are you suggesting I snore?” She looked indignant.

“I’m not suggesting it. It’s a statement. A fact. An absolute.”

“Oh my God. I’m such a tool. You’re not going to be able to sleep, are you?”

“Probably not, but I’ll try.” He didn’t care about sleep. Jack was right where he wanted to be.

“I understand. Would you rather go back to your house?”

“No, I want to see where you live. What the space is like that’s only yours.”

“Jack, you’re kind of perfect. Do you know that?”

“I should argue with you, but I’m not going to. You’ll figure it out on your own.” He cradled her close again. Jack wasn’t going to even try to sleep. He didn’t want to take the chance that he’d screw this up. This felt too good. The nightmares could take hold of him when he slept, could stamp out everything he’d accomplished. He wanted to hold on to this for a little while longer. Jack knew he couldn’t hold back the tide of dark forever, but just a bit longer would be okay.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

B
ETSY DIDN’T REALIZE
how much pink she used in her decor until she saw Jack McConnell sprawled in her bed among the hot pink sheets, the pink-and-black rockabilly duvet... He was all hard, delicious man.

What she liked best was that he didn’t care everything was pink. It could be puce, for all it mattered to him. He just wanted to be beside her.

She wasn’t ready to get up; she wanted to stay in his arms where it was warm and safe. Her bed could be a haven for both of them. Betsy knew he’d planned to stay awake, but at some point during the night, he’d felt safe enough to sleep.

Before they went to bed, she’d taken him on a tour of the loftlike apartment. Shown him where the two keypads were for the alarm systems, given him the numbers and explained in detail, with visual aids, how it worked. She wanted him to feel at home in her space. She still felt like a horrible troll for demanding he come spend the night at her place without even thinking about how trying to sleep in a new place might affect him.

Her alarm went off again after she snoozed it, and she turned it off. If she wanted to open the shop, she’d have to rouse herself from her little hideaway. Jack, too. She didn’t want him to wake up without her and be disoriented.

She stole a few moments to study his sleeping form. She was overwhelmed by emotion, so much so that it choked her and she had to blink away unshed tears. She chided herself for being overwrought and mentally ticked off the days.

Oh yeah, she was in serious PMS-ville.

“Jack?” She brushed her cheek against his and she suddenly found herself flat on her back beneath him.

Only there was no terror or rage in his eyes, just lust. “You wake the sleeping dragon...”

She laughed. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone. I’m headed down to the shop.”

“What if I just keep you in bed with me?”

“I guess I can’t fight it.” She gave an ultra-put-upon sigh, as if this wasn’t exactly where she wanted to be. “I’ll just have to deny the masses their doughnuts.” For the first time, she’d rather be doing something else than opening her shop. She could stay like this with Jack and not think about the world outside, or the phone call from Marcel and what it meant.

“Hmm. I’m not sure which I want more. Sugar from your shop or sugar from you.”

“You better think very carefully about that answer.”

He laughed and rolled to the side to let her up. “You’re going to give me both later, so I don’t have to choose. I’m spoiled.”

“You are. You have an assignment while I’m gone.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. I want to hear more about the spying waitress. I expect words on the page when I return.”

“Bossy much?”

“Since when is that new?” She flashed him a grin. “Please? I really want to know what happens to her.”

“Why don’t you write it, then?”

“Because it’s your story. You came up with it. Just write it down.”

“I don’t know how to write.”

“Fine, then be prepared for an oral report.”

Jack smirked. “Now, that I can do.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Heat suffused her cheeks as she thought about him doing just that.

“You remember how you always used to say that your feelings were mixed into your food? I think you should imagine oral-reporting all day and see how it affects your customers.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I’ll write you that story if you do the recon.”

“You think you’re smart.” Betsy couldn’t fight the smile that curved her lips. She was definitely intrigued and wanted to read this one now, too.

“Cagey, maybe.”

“Fine. I will.” She licked her lips. “And while you’re up here all by yourself all day, I’m going to be downstairs. Rubbing and kneading dough, stroking it and working it until it’s just right, and thinking about you doing the same thing to me.”

“I need to know what that tastes like.”

“Come down for a treat, then. You can see how it affects the customers, too. Nothing better than firsthand information, right?”

“That’s a deal.”

Betsy kissed him one last time, her lips lingering over his. “See you soon.” She grabbed her apron and went downstairs and into the shop.

It was still dark outside and Betsy was glad for the solitude. She wanted to replay what had happened with Jack over in her head until she was sure she’d committed each nuance and sensation to the forever stone of her memory.

She didn’t know where any of this would take them, but wherever they ended up, she wanted to have the good times outlined in her head more thoroughly than the bad.

Betsy considered Jack’s proposition, to think about all the delicious things she knew he could do to her while she worked the dough. She wondered if it was something as simple as working her pheromones into the dough.

Emotions were chemical reactions, so it made sense that whatever the chef or baker was feeling was transfused into the end product. Another chemical reaction, just like baking.

Donuts were first on the list. She decided to do something a little different today. Instead of the usual batch of glazed, she was going to do glazed, maple-glazed and vanilla-glazed. The vanilla were for Jack, and she was going to call them Better Than Sex donuts.

Her mother had a recipe from an old PTA cookbook called Better Than Sex cake, but Betsy decided she was just going to borrow the name for now.

Of course, she’d only let that slip to a few select patrons. She didn’t dare paste that out on the display case. Someone would have a stroke, she was sure.

Betsy considered Jack while she worked.

His tongue. Most definitely his tongue. He was good with all of his body parts, but if ever there were to be some culinary ode to any body part, it would be that particular thing. He could wound with it, heal with it, tease with it and make her come so hard she saw comets and nebulas. It could be soft, it could be hard, it could be sharp—but it was always what she needed it to be.

His hands were next on the list. There were so strong and broad, but elegant somehow, too. She knew those hands had brought others pain, sorrow and even death. There was no doubt Jack McConnell had blood on his hands, but they were gentle tools, too. He used them for building, for protecting, for wringing pleasure from her as he would water from a sponge.

Jack’s eyes could strip her as effectively as his hands, laying her bare and vulnerable with only a glance. His arms were amazing, too. She loved the feel of them wrapped around her....

Betsy meant to catalogue him from his head to his toes, but there was one particular bit of him that demanded her focus. Part of her wanted to take a picture of it and mail it to Marcel to show him that even a woman like her could catch a man like Jack.

No, no.
She couldn’t think of Marcel. She was only thinking about good things. Things that made her hot and wet. She focused on Jack, what it was like to cling to his shoulders while he drilled into her.

Betsy didn’t know it was possible for her mouth to go dry and water at the same time. She breathed deep, imagining him there with her, taking her from behind while she worked on the dough.

He was right; she was naughty. She wondered what he’d say if she told him that was what she’d been thinking about. If he wanted to follow through on her fantasy, too. The table was just the right height for him to bend her over it like the most wanton of women.

She remembered the shower with him. Betsy loved the way his corded muscles bulged as he fought for control of himself while she pushed him higher, harder and faster. Betsy shivered thinking of it.

Finally she thought about the first time there in her bedroom when she’d ridden his mouth to completion. His face had looked very much like a glazed donut.

Her thighs clenched and her core contracted and she wondered if she was ever going to be able to look at donuts in the same light again.

She ached for him, more than just in her panties. Betsy wanted to go spend the morning lounging in his arms. She wanted to drink coffee with him over the morning paper, go for another round in the shower and curl around him like a cat to be petted and indulged.

Betsy stayed lost in her dream world until all the donuts were finished and the shop was ready to open. She wondered if her desire had transferred itself to the product. If she opened late and went upstairs to have Jack sate her every need instead, she might never know.

She went to the tiny bathroom and changed her apron, freshened her makeup and snapped two clip-on earrings into her hair net. She made a food safety and fashion statement.

Betsy opened the shop and she had a line out the door. She didn’t have time to see any of her customers’ reactions while she handled the rush. Around nine it started to slow down and India walked through the door, in uniform.

“Something new?” she asked, looking at the counter.

“Yeah. Vanilla-glazed and maple-glazed.” She motioned for India to come closer. “The vanilla-glazed ones? They’re experimental. Better Than Sex donuts.”

India eyed her. “Oh you think so?”

“I don’t know. I need another opinion.”

“Hit me with two. And two maple, just in case.”

“You know Caleb doesn’t like the maple.”

“None of these are for him. If he stays in the car, he misses out. I’m not fetching his beer, his sandwiches and most definitely not his donuts.”

“You know he just doesn’t like that whole cop/donut stereotype.”

“That’s because he would eat ten if we’d let him. He’s going to get so fat when we’re old.”

“And you’ll love him anyway,” Betsy teased.

“Probably.” India snorted. “But I won’t have pity on him when his knees go.”

“Should we start planning the wedding? Wasn’t it by thirty you two decided that if you hadn’t met anyone else, you’d marry each other?”

“You can drop that like a hot potato.”

Betsy laughed and handed her the vanilla-glazed Better Than Sex donut.

India accepted the wax-paper-wrapped treat and sniffed it delicately before taking a small bite. Her eyes widened and she looked at Betsy as she chewed. She took another, bigger bite, and a small sound that was almost like a moan issued forth. “Sweet baby Jesus, Betsy.”

“Good?” Betsy bit her lip.

“Better than good. Better than sex.”

The shop had gone quiet and the people eating stopped what they were doing to look at India and Betsy. “Yes, people. Better than sex. This donut.” She crammed the rest of it in her mouth, and her eyes rolled in the back of her head. “It’s like... I don’t know. I can’t even say.” She finished the donut and said, “I need a box. Give me six. I would order a dozen, but Caleb won’t have any pity on me or my knees, either.”

Betsy boxed them up in her signature purple box. When India tried to pay, Betsy shook her head. “Nope. My payment will be you eating them in the car with my brother.”

“I don’t even want to know. You may have the face of an angel, but you’re evil.”

Once India left, Betsy quickly sold out of the sex donuts—and all of her other pastries. She even got a commission for a cake for a secret wedding.

She was sure that today was the kind of day that dreams were made of—even if they weren’t in Paris.

* * *

J
ACK SPENT THE MORNING
trying to do as Betsy requested with the story they’d talked about, but he couldn’t see the story without the people in front of him. When he tried, all he could see was death and blood.

He hadn’t thought about Mosul since he’d wandered out of the encampment covered in the blood of his enemies. When he dreamed, the night terrors—they were always when he was burning—it was the IED.

Only now that he’d spoken of it, remembered what he’d done, it seemed that wasn’t what he was remembering at all. It was the torture. The leg he’d lost—he’d been injured. Something—his memory wasn’t quite right. Instead of the place he tried to dig at in his mind, when he ripped back the curtain, there was only Betsy and the place where he’d hidden away from the pain until he could get free and make them pay.

For a moment, he’d allowed himself to forget there was a price to be paid for surviving. He’d allowed Betsy to convince him that he could have a normal life. He could write his stories and she could bake her pies, and they’d buy a charming Victorian to restore that looked over the river.

Stop it.
If only he could get out of his own head. He could have those things. He’d started tasting again. He could smell things.

Most important, he could feel them. He wasn’t going to let anything stop him. Least of all the tragic voices in his head.

Jack wandered down the stairs and into the shop. Betsy was cleaning up the tables and Jack went back into the kitchen to get the broom and the mop.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said when he started sweeping.

“Sure I do. You’ll be done faster.” It wasn’t only that he wanted her to be done faster; it was that he had to do something to feel useful.

She laughed. “I saved you one of my donuts. Like the one we talked about.”

He arched an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Oh really?”

Betsy nodded. “I sold out of them. I’ll definitely have to make them again, although next time, I think you should help.”

“I’m more than happy to help.” He swept her against him and nipped at her neck. “Maybe a little of this while you’re working?”

“When I was kneading the dough, I thought about you being there, maybe bending me over the table.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“Here, eat your donut or we’ll never get done.”

Jack was stuck with a sudden moment of clarity so bright it was like shining a searchlight in his eyes. This could be his life—this routine they’d fallen into. It wasn’t big, or important, but he was happy. As long as he blocked out the voices, the sounds...

Until he took a bite of the now-famous donut.

It was all vanilla sugar on his tongue, just like Betsy. The sweet tasted not only like what he associated with her, but like her desire. Like the taste of her skin, her heat, her slick—

“You sold these?” he growled.

“Yes, what’s wrong with them?”