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“The wisest.” He lifted his glass, fingers still trembling a little. He was grateful for the small respite from the overwhelming emotional load, too.
Mama and Daddy had lost Will, buried him. How the hell had they survived that?
Somehow, he pulled up a grin. “Did I tell you he’s the current heartthrob of the retirement community?”
“You did not.” Her eyes brightened, nose wrinkling with impish amusement. “I can see that.”
“Called him at lunch yesterday.” He snorted over another sip of Lambrusco. “Couldn’t finish the conversation because at least two women beeped in on his call waiting.”
“Mmm.” She relaxed into the cushions, so he could relax a little, too. “Perhaps you should remind him of the rising rates of STIs among older people and how to prevent that.”
He choked, wine burning his sinuses. “I’d rather shower with a Brillo pad than have that conversation.”
She shook her head, a hint of a teasing smile about her mouth. “You’ve obviously never slept under the same mirrored ceiling as your grandparent.”
“Please don’t make me consider the idea of Gene and a mirrored ceiling.” He circled a finger between them. “We’d never resume our sex life.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She pursed her lips, fixing him with a knowing look. “Never is a long time . . . and you wouldn’t last a quarter of it.”
“You make me sound like a sex fiend.”
Her arched brow spoke volumes.
“I see how this is.” He dropped his arm to pinch her hip. “Like I’m the only one who ever initiates. The last time we went to Turks and Caicos . . . remember that? That was all you, precious, all weekend long.”
And that little blush he loved burned along her cheekbones, allowing him to grin for real.
Gene, as always, was right, and he was banking on his grandaddy’s wisdom.
They’d work out.
Because they had to.
Chapter Thirteen
Fade Into You
Caitlin stared at the ceiling, the pool lights reflecting through the water in dancing patterns of illumination. Next to her, Tick snored quietly, his arm across her waist, fingers curved over her hip.
She turned her head, studying his sleeping face in the dimness. Mussed hair fell over his forehead because he needed a haircut, and the stern lines of his angular features softened, relaxed in slumber. Love and gratitude and a hint of terror curled through her. She must get her head straight before she damaged them. She couldn’t do to them what he had.
It wasn’t even about sex or making love . . . it was about holding back from him, being unable to tell him everything going on in her brain. She’d been truthful, at least, when she told him the problem was her. He was as steady and amazing and patient as always, even with his withdrawal before her pregnancy. That paled in comparison to the conflicts hijacking her thoughts and emotions.
Nepal and Brant and Ben all over again, frozen moments of terror, when she couldn’t think.
Only now, staring at the ceiling, his arm across her abdomen where their baby had been briefly sheltered, all she could do was think, about shame and grief and what-ifs. Keeping her jumbled emotions locked up hurt him, made him think he was making mistakes with her, so she had to untangle the threads, find a way to bring the mess to him.
Because weeping after he made love to her hadn’t been about fear or pain at all. He’d donned a condom, protected her, and all she’d been able to think about was how he wouldn’t make her pregnant again.
Which was absolutely illogical, given her initial horror at a second unplanned pregnancy, their choice to only have two children. Still, she wrestled with a visceral desire to have his baby growing in her womb again, not to replace the one they’d lost, but because she loved him, loved being a mother to their children, and maybe having a third child didn’t have to be logical.
She pressed her fingertips to her closed eyelids, releasing a long sigh. She was turning in pointless circles. Perhaps focusing on the easiest thing, making him feel wanted and loved, reestablishing the intimacy between them, was all she needed to do at the moment.
With a shaky exhale, she touched his wrist, stroked her fingertip up his forearm. He stirred, tightening his hold on her hip, but didn’t open his eyes. She shifted to her side, facing him, and drifted a touch along his stubbled jaw, down the side of his neck to the curve of his shoulder. A soft grunt of drowsy pleasure rewarded her, and she smiled into his throat, easing her hand down his side. Rubbing the outline of his abs, she eased her thigh between his, a little pressure and friction along his testicles.
He folded his arm about her, threading his hand into her hair, a sleepy smile curving his thin lips. “Well, hey.”
“Good morning,” she murmured into the hollow of his clavicle, trailing her fingers down the center cut of his abdomen, slipping her hand inside the waistband of his boxers. In her palm, he was hard, heavy, and forgotten desire unfurled in her belly, a pained clenching that spread a pleasant ache between her thighs.
