Page 72 of Lock ’N’ Load

When she pushed to her knees and held out her hand, the sheet fell away, revealing her perfect, naked body. “Come back to bed. Just for a little while.”

The corners of her mouth lifted into a sleepy smile that did something to his heart, threatening his resolve. “I’d love to, honey.” That was the honest-to-God truth. “But we’ve got another stop to make before we head home, and I’ve gotta take a shower.” Alone.

Even if moments earlier he’d been contemplating carrying her in there with him again so he could personally see to it that her soft breasts, firm buttocks, and every other inch of her body was clean.

As he turned to head into the bathroom, he caught the unmistakable confusion in her eyes, and it about killed him. He knew what she wanted, and part of him—the resistant side of him that needed something more than to meander through life alone—wanted it, too. More than anything.

Turning back to her, he slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, honey. I just need…” Fuck, he probably shouldn’t say it, but lying to her or leading her on would be worse. “Distance.”

As soon as he spoke that one damned word, he instantly regretted it. The confused look in Trista’s eyes had changed to one of blatant pain. Coward that he was, Matt padded into the bathroom and shut the door. Moments later, he was beneath the pounding spray of the shower, resting his palms flat against the tile wall.

I really am fucked up.

Worse, he hated himself that much more for hurting Trista.

By the time he’d gotten dressed, she was bundled up in a bathrobe, waiting for her turn in the shower. The hurt he’d seen earlier had morphed into anger. He could see it in the green flash of her eyes and the tightness of her lips. “Tris, wait.” He made a move to grab her arm, but when she shrugged from his grasp, he let her go, feeling more and more shitty with each passing second.

The bathroom door shut—no, slammed—in his face. Sheba raised her head, looking alternately from him to the bathroom door, as if to say, Are you two fighting?

Exhaling, he sat on the bed. Sheba came over and rested her muzzle on his thigh, looking up at him with big, sympathetic eyes. Even his dog knew something was wrong.

Thirty minutes later, they were on the road to the sheriff’s department in West Virginia. The space between them on the seat was wide, both figuratively and literally. Trista sat hunched against the door, staring straight ahead with her arms crossed. Mile after mile, her silent treatment had been killing him. He wanted to punch out a window.

Finally, when he couldn’t take it a minute longer, he pulled into a highway rest stop and parked. “Trista.” She wouldn’t even look at him. He unbuckled his seat belt, leaned over to undo hers, and easily tugged her to his side.

“Hey!” She pushed at his chest, but he held her tight. “You don’t get to touch me again.”

He snorted. “The hell I don’t.” The idea of never touching her again…not gonna happen. Leaning over, he cupped her face and kissed her. Not a quick peck, but not the way he wanted to kiss her, either, since she refused to open her mouth.

“Let me go!” She pushed at his chest, and he complied. Reluctantly.

She glared up at him. “I gave you my virginity, and what do you do the morning after? Behave like a goddamn teenager and run away with your tail between your legs.” She smacked her hand against her forehead. “I feel like a naive fool, which is exactly what I am. Well, I’m a fast learner, Sgt. Connors. You want distance? You got it.”

Jesus, I asked for this.

With an angry hmph, she scooted back to her side of the truck and rebuckled her seat belt.

He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, and I couldn’t handle it.”

“Handle what?” While she glared up at him, he was reminded again of just how petite she was. But right now, he felt like a pussycat facing down a lion. More like a pussy.

“You. I couldn’t handle you.” Somehow he’d missed it. His tentative, shy little pixie had morphed into a goddamn force to be reckoned with, and he admired that she hadn’t hesitated to call him out on his shit. If she wasn’t so pissed at him already, he would have smiled. “I never expected this to happen between us.”

“But it did,” she countered. “And now you’re too much of a chickenshit to deal with it. You’re really a cold bastard.”

True. Bull’s-eye on both counts.

Other women had accused him of being cold, but he’d never cared before. With Trista, he cared. He had no fucking clue where, if anywhere, this was going between them. He only knew he cared what she thought of him.

“You can’t have it both ways.” She shook her head. “You don’t get to make love to me, then walk away as if I don’t mean anything, only to change your mind the next time the wind blows and you want to get laid again.”

This time, she clapped a hand over her mouth, widening her eyes as if she couldn’t believe she’d really just said that.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. You have every right to be pissed.” He gripped the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. He’d already told her about Jerry, but he hadn’t told her everything. “There are still things you don’t know about me.”

“Then tell me.” Her voice had gentled, giving him the courage to go on.

“I—” Can’t. He couldn’t tell her he was broken, that he could never be the man to make her happy, to make her dreams come true. Fuck, he wanted to. But how could he ever make someone else happy, when he was incapable of experiencing true joy himself? Anytime he did, the guilt was overwhelming. He’d even thought about eating his own gun.