“Thanks, man.”
“Talk to you later.”
“Later.”
We hang up, and I pull onto base. I have a lot to get done today. I need to get things started with Rowan’s benefits, and then I have a Vegas trip and a wedding to plan.
I grin. I can’t wait to get started.
SIX
Rowan
I wakeup the next morning feeling like someone has put my life in a snow globe and shaken it until everything lands differently.
I’m getting married today.
To a man I’ve known for… what? Not even forty-eight hours?
I don’t know if I’m brave, insane, or in the middle of an emotional free-fall, but when I look at the packed boxes sitting neatly by my bedroom door, Grant’s big hands taping them closed last night while I watched, I know one thing for certain.
I’m not scared. Not of him. Not of us. Not even of the future.
I’m nervous, sure. My stomach is a whole carnival of nerves. But there’s a strange comfort in knowing that Grant is steady. Solid. Unshakable. Like some part of him has already decided I’m his and he’s not letting me fall, no matter what.
We spent all last night packing my things. Well,hepacked, and I mostly fluttered around uselessly before telling Cathy that I was moving out. Her eyes got huge when she saw Grant behind me, arms crossed over his massive chest.
“Is he your boyfriend?” she asked, her eyes already gleaming with the prospect of fresh gossip.
“Her husband,” Grant corrected, even though we weren’t married yet.
He didn’t even flinch when I elbowed him.
“Okay,” Cathy muttered, eyebrows rising. “Congrats, I guess.”
Grant carried all my boxes down three flights of stairs like they weighed nothing, loaded them into his truck, and drove them straight to his place. He didn’t ask me where I wanted things. Didn’t hesitate. He just… handled it. Like it was natural to take responsibility for me.
Like it was easy.
Now, as we drive toward Vegas with my backpack at my feet and my hands curled around a travel mug he filled before we left, I feel his presence everywhere: the warmth of him beside me, the way he keeps glancing at me like he’s making sure I’m still here, the soft touches on my thigh whenever we hit a stoplight.
He talks to me for most of the drive, telling me about his life—not in one long monologue, but in pieces. In small, quiet admissions that feel far more intimate than any long story.
He grew up in Virginia; both of his parents were in the Army, and his dad still is. They got divorced when he was sixteen. He bounced back and forth between their houses until his mom got orders to Korea, then he lived mostly with his dad. But he’s not close to either of them. He talks about it without venom but with a detachment that makes my heart hurt for the boy he must have been.
He tells me about being shot twice in the chest and once through the neck, like it’s simply a fact. Just something that happened. He says it quietly. Calmly. But when I look at him, really look, I see something deep in his eyes.
He survived when he shouldn’t have, and he doesn’t know what to do with the aftermath.
We stop for lunch at a tiny diner off the highway, one with baby-blue booths and servers who call everyone “hon.” Grant orders enough food for three people and watches me eat like he’s making sure I’m getting enough.
“I hated being in Colorado,” he says almost offhandedly once we’re back in the truck, driving through the sprawling desert.
My chest tightens. “Oh.”
“But”—he glances at me, eyes softening—“it’s growing on me.”
Something warm blooms in my stomach. He doesn’t say “because of you,” but he doesn’t have to.
