She held up her glass. “Want one?”
“I do.”
“You can help yourself to anything in the fridge.” Amelie forced herself to walk calmly into her room, resisting the urge to dive through and slam the door behind her.
Once inside, she closed the door softly and slid to the floor, careful not to spill her wine. The tears she’d held at bay slid down her cheeks. She swallowed hard to keep a sob from rising up her throat.
“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered.
“Did you say something?” Maurice’s voice sounded through the door.
“No,” she choked out. “I’m fine.” Just fine.
Then why did she feel like she was falling apart?
One kiss shouldn’t have left her an emotional wreck.
She tipped back her wine glass, swallowing the last of the liquid and letting it numb her heart. Then she did what she always did. She picked herself up by the bootstraps and got on with life.
Though, knowing Maurice was on the other side of the door, half-naked and completely immune to her...
Or was he?
Either way, she’d offered him sex with no strings attached.
And he’d refused.
Well, that sucked lemons.
Chapter 6
Maurice stared up at the ceiling in Amelie’s apartment, his head resting on one arm of the sofa, his legs draped over the other end. He debated stretching out on the floor, but doubted he’d be any more comfortable there.
He wouldn’t be comfortable anywhere at the moment when all he could think about was the clear invitation Amelie had offered for him to have uncommitted, no strings attached sex with her.
No matter how tired he was, his head swam with all the possibilities, all the reasons he could use to convince himself it was all right.
Uncommitted sex.
What was wrong with that? They were both consenting adults.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Maurice sat up and was halfway off the sofa when logic overrode baser instincts.
What he’d told her was the truth. He hadn’t taken their relationship further because she deserved better. Amelie deserved someone who could commit to something more than a one-night stand. Someone who would be there for her, always.
Someone who could save her when the shit hit the fan.
When his memories replayed the horror of the mission that had ended with the death of his fiancée, he swore he could still smell the chemical, garlic scent of phosphorous and feel the pain of it eating away at his own hand. He could almost feel the pain Sandy had felt with the chemical burning into the back of her skull.
They’d gone in to rescue two soldiers. Both men had lived.
Yet Maurice had failed to save the one he’d loved enough to ask her to marry him.
He couldn’t commit to another woman after that. What if he promised to love, honor and protect someone like Amelie? Would he fail to fulfill his promise? Could he survive losing her when he did?
The hardest part of going through rehab hadn’t been learning how to be proficient with his left hand. Working with the psychologist had been the most painful. He hated that all he’d lost was the partial use of his dominant hand. Sandy had lost her life. Why had he lived and she’d died? No amount of counseling could answer that question in his mind. For the past few years, he’d trudged through life, survivor’s guilt weighing him down so heavily he was an emotional zombie. Yes, he considered himself part of the team and pulled his weight. He did a good job on each assignment. But he was in an emotional wasteland, unable to pull himself out.
