Page 32 of A Hero Comes Home

“Not a chance.”

“Don’t you have a song for this . . . something about singing in the rain?”

“Gene Kelly, Singin’ in the Rain, movie, 1952. Broadway musical, 1985.” She began to belt out the lyrics then and with a mischievous grin, she jumped off the porch and into his arms. Within seconds, she was soaked to the skin, but then her halter top was tossed aside, and he’d shrugged off his shorts. And she’d miraculously lost her shorts, as well. Her legs were wrapped around his waist.

And she continued singing and laughing, her head thrown back with sheer joy.

Until he kissed her.

And then she kissed him.

It didn’t matter that they were naked in their front yard. Everyone on their street had evacuated, or if they hadn’t, neither he nor Sally could care. But then he picked her up and made his way inside, kicking the front door shut with his foot. They landed on the sofa.

“No, we have to dry off first.” She tried to shove him off her. “We’ll ruin the new sofa.”

“It’s only water,” he insisted, spreading her legs with his knees and settling himself into Happy Land. “Remember what Mom said when we bought this thing. Buy the best. Quality will out. Cost almost as much as a house payment.”

It was amazing that he could talk and make love at the same time, but he did, grunting out the words as he worked her ears with tongue and teeth and hot breaths, one of the most sensitive erotic spots on Sally’s body.

She moaned and arched up for more.

He rolled so that she was on top, sitting on his belly, staring down at him with caramel eyes already glazed with passion. Her hair was plastered to her head where beads of water still ran down her face. Freckles dotted her cheeks and shoulders, even her breasts, which were slightly larger now, post-childbirth. And the nipples were darker, more rose-colored than light pink.

She should have looked like a drowned rat, or a freckle-faced mouse, but, instead, she was the picture of wholesome, sexy womanhood. And he loved every bit of her. So much it scared him sometimes.

“Sally, do you know how much I love you?”

His question startled her. For a moment. But then she wiggled her butt on him and said saucily, “No. Show me.”

She’d heard experts talk about “riding out a storm” but was this what they meant? . . .

Sally had been watching the Food Network while Jacob slept on the couch behind her. She was worried about him and wanted to stick close by. Even as he slept, he was restless and subject to sudden starts and occasional groans. But then he’d awakened and pulled her up onto the sofa, kissing her. Oh, how she had missed kissing! His kissing.

Luckily, the oven buzzer had gone off. She wasn’t ready to dive into lovemaking with Jacob. Not yet. And she suspected he wasn’t ready, either, despite the quick start of arousal on both their parts. There was so much that needed to be cleared up between them first.

Still, as she rose and made her way into the kitchen and the persistent buzzing, she glanced back at her husband half reclining on the sofa, up on his elbows, and wondered if he remembered how they’d christened that piece of furniture, back before their marriage hit the rocks.

Memories . . .

“Do you know how much I love you?”

Sally was perched on Jacob’s stomach, with her sopping wet hair dripping water down her face, off her chin, and onto his chest. Being naked as a newborn and not looking her best, she was startled by his question for a moment. Even when her hair was blow-dried and her face made up artfully to hide her freckles, Sally knew she was no beauty.

Yeah, she had insecurities. Yeah, she’d always been amazed that a man as hot as Jacob Dawson would be attracted to a woman who was at best average, let alone love her. Although they didn’t talk about it, she’d always been hung up on the idea that he’d “had to” marry her.

But then, in this instance, Jacob was a man and they hadn’t done the deed since his return from a three-month deployment last night. From the moment he’d arrived, he’d been busy helping his dad secure his fishing boat and his house before their evacuation. To Jacob, love probably meant lust. She’d long stopped believing he was as madly in love with her as she was with him. Or had been. Oh, she still loved the man, but madly? Not so much.

It was an interesting question, though. “Do you know how much I love you?” she repeated his words in her mind.

Well, no, I don’t know that. How could I? In the twenty-three months, or seven hundred and one days, we’ve been married, we’ve been together a total of seven weeks . . . only forty-nine days. And, yes, I bothered to count, Mister I-Am-Off-to-Save-the-World.

And yet here she was, pregnant, again, although GI Clueless didn’t know yet. A new baby meant that she was further trapped in her situation. Not trapped by children. Never that! She loved Matty and was looking forward to the new baby. But she didn’t want to be raising them alone.

How could Jacob have reupped without consulting me first?

How could he think his long absences would be okay with me?

How could he claim to love me, and then leave me, again and again and again?