Chapter Three

Kyle didn’t know how much time had passed since Aimee fled to the bedroom, but footfalls overhead ended some time ago. The house breathed around him, filling his ears with comfortable white noise. He stared at the unlit Christmas tree in the corner, watching the moonlight play on the tinsel as silver filtered through the window. He’d done all he could to avoid coming home before Christmas. Unfortunately, the doctors in Germany refused to grant an extension, and here he was, stuck in the biggest clusterfuck of his life.

He’d been a supreme dick to Aimee. Had realized that even as he was biting her head off. The small part of his soul that faulted her for his survival, however, wouldn’t shut up and give her the peace she deserved. That portion of his guilt couldn’t move beyond the words Walsh had used to justify dragging Kyle’s body out of that hellhole—Aimee will kick my ass.

That motivator had prompted Walsh to strip the Taliban insurgents of their clothes, dress them both in the filthy rags, and lug him through the desert until sunrise. If it hadn’t been for the inordinate amount of chaos in the village, Walsh’s impromptu plan wouldn’t have worked. But it had. And he’d forced Kyle to face his demons, all the while using Aimee as a guilt trip.

Kyle still didn’t know when Walsh found out about the divorce. He’d been too fucked up to tell him during the ordeal. He hadn’t spoken to his best friend since.

But as much as Kyle wanted to blame Aimee, he couldn’t fault her for anything more than caring just a little too much, and it was that sympathy he didn’t want. Didn’t deserve.

Slowly, he inched his way out of the couch cushions and pushed to his feet. If he didn’t want her empathy, he’d have to show her he didn’t need it. Which meant he and the stairs were going to become intimately familiar with each other. He’d show her he damn well could do this alone, and then, maybe, she’d leave.

He struck a determined path to the staircase and glanced at the overhanging loft above. Fifteen treads.

Gritting his teeth, Kyle bent his knee and planted his left foot on the beige carpeting. Slow and steady he hauled his weight up. When he and Aimee had purchased the home, the private master bed, bath, and sitting room had seemed like a lovers’ paradise. Their own little place that even when they had family and friends over, they could retreat to and shut out the world. Even without guests, they’d spent more time in that sun-lit sitting room than they had in the main room downstairs.

They’d modified it into a temporary nursery. Painted over the pastel blue with olive green…after. And then, they’d taken to the family room, abandoning their sanctuary and the memories that had nearly destroyed Aimee.

Kyle looked around him, impressed he’d made it halfway up without so much as a bobble-step. Seven more. If they hadn’t turned their guest room into an office after her mom—their only extended family—had died, he wouldn’t have to worry about the damn stairs.

But they hadn’t, and he had seven more steps to accomplish. He hefted his bad leg up another, feeling the pull in muscles that weren’t used to strain. Easy does it. Just like rehab. Slow and steady. He took a deep breath, balanced on his cane, and continued up another.

Light emitted from within their bedroom, the faint glow from the adjoining bathroom. A smile stole across his face. When she slept alone, she always left the light on. Once, she’d told him it was so he could find her if he came home in the middle of the night. When she’d shown him how deep her vulnerabilities ran, he came to realize the light offered security. Like a part of her was still afraid of the monsters in the dark.

He hit the landing and let out a relieved breath. Fifteen steps accomplished. Now, to make it back down.

As he turned to descend, the sound of Aimee murmuring in sleep gave him pause. Instantly aware of her nearness, his skin prickled with anticipation. He approached the open doorway against his better judgment and peeked inside.

She lay tangled in the sheets, one leg exposed, the other hopelessly entwined. Like melted chocolate, her long brown hair streamed across the pillows and one shoulder. His gaze pulled to the sliver of skin beneath her gaping collar, the trace of that gentle slope overpowering. Would it still feel like silk? Did she still wear the lotion that reminded him of angel-food cake?

Kyle’s gut wound in on itself as Aimee restlessly tossed. She mumbled something he couldn’t make out that compounded the weight bearing down on his shoulders. Drawn by a force greater than himself, he approached the edge of the bed and smoothed her hair away from her face. Then, he braced his good arm on the pillow, bent over, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

If he ever stopped loving this woman, it would be a miracle.

Straightening, he gave the sheets a tug and freed her leg. When she mumbled again, he froze. If she woke up and found him here, he would have no choice but to crawl into the bed. And sleeping beside Aimee was simply out of the question. With her warm supple body pressing into his, sleep would be the last thing on his mind. And sex—beyond the fact he couldn’t perform worth a damn—opened all the doors he’d deliberately closed.

If things had been different… If they hadn’t suffered such a devastating loss…

Kyle turned away before the memories could swamp him. He’d wanted to try again. To move forward and invest all that love in a second child. But he’d never had the courage to ask Aimee to go through that again. And she’d never indicated she shared the same desire.

Deliberately ignoring the sitting room he had once adored, he grabbed the banister and hefted himself down the stairs. Descending proved more difficult than up; his bad leg shook each time it had to bear his full weight. He willed his fingers not to slip.

One-by-one, little-by-little, he made his way to the living room at a snail’s pace. When he hit the solid floor, melancholy yielded to triumph, and Kyle gave in to a self-satisfied grin. He could do stairs. Now, a few more days of practice, then he could show off his skills and hopefully convince Aimee she didn’t need to stick around.

What would he do then? Here, in this house where every corner reminded him of her?

Find a hobby, he supposed. Something he could do left handed. Maybe paint.

Yeah, right.

Maybe he’d get a dog. He didn’t need two hands for fetch.

Making his way into the bathroom to bathe while Aimee was asleep, Kyle opened the hall closet for fresh towels. As reached for a folded square of fluffy white terry, the shelf above his head caught his eye. Stacked in one corner, colorful scrapbooks marked Aimee’s hideaway. Beside them, two lidless shoeboxes overflowed with photographs.

Man, how long had it been since he’d looked through these? Three years? Had to be, if not longer. Knowing Aimee, she’d done more work while he’d been gone.

He pushed the door open further and grabbed at the green scrapbook. Habit, however, humiliated him once more. He remembered too late his dysfunctional fingers, and as he tugged on the binding, his hand slipped. The book, its companions, and the boxes crashed down around his head.

****

Aimee jerked upright in bed. What the…

Kyle.

She kicked the sheets off and raced out of the room to look over the balcony on the loft. “Kyle?”

“I’m fine,” he called.

If he hadn’t been so bullheaded before, she might have believed that. As it was, the sight of his feet sticking out from behind the closet door made her doubt his claim. Taking the stairs two at a time, she hurried to investigate. If he’d fallen again, she intended to take his cane to his backside and ground him to a couch. It was the middle of the night—he should be asleep, not wandering around the house.

When she reached his side and saw the photographs scattered across the floor, she skidded to a stop. On his knees, Kyle hurried to gather the pictures back into their boxes. He looked up with an embarrassed flush. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

With a shake of her head, she dismissed the rude awakening and knelt at his side to help him pick up the mess. But as she reached for a stack of face down pictures near his knee, he slapped his hand on top of them, warding her off.

Aimee pulled her hand away. Okay. She got the message—but what was he hiding? Careful to give the tidy pile a wide berth, she collected the snapshots from their last summer vacation and dropped them in the box.

“What are you still doing up?”

Kyle shrugged. “Thought I’d clean up before I hit the sack.” He pushed the green scrapbook onto the tabletop near his shoulder, then the red.

“Oh. Well, I can get the rest of this.”

His frown was instantaneous and dark. “I’ll get it. I made the mess, I’ll clean it up.”

“Kyle,” Aimee sighed.

“What? You wouldn’t be here helping if I had two good legs. You’d yell something at me from the bedroom.” Frustration etched his handsome face into hard lines, accenting a scar on his forehead he hadn’t possessed when he’d last been home.

Aimee stuffed her hand against her flannel pajama pants to stop from tracing that thin white line. “Yeah, I would. I’d tell you to come to bed. But you don’t seem to be interested in sleeping.”

He expelled a harsh breath. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”

Reaching between them, she rested her hand on his. His gaze skittered down to where she touched him. “Go take your shower,” she encouraged in a low voice. “I’ll get this.”

“I can’t. I don’t have a bench.”

Bench… Aimee frowned, his meaning giving her pause. It came to her quickly, however, and she put his bad leg together with shower, realizing her error. He couldn’t handle the shower. He’d need to sit.

She squeezed his hand. “I’m a nurse, Kyle, and I’m certainly no stranger. Why won’t you let me help you?”

Kyle drew his hand back with a muffled hiss. “I don’t want help, Aimee.”

His pride rang loud and clear through the gruff response, and this time, Aimee refused to back down. She stood up, grabbed a towel from the closet. “Did you give your doctors such a hard time?” Stepping around him, she opened the bathroom door and flipped on the light. “I’m starting a bath. You can use the hot water, or you can let it sit overnight. I don’t care. But if you want to get in that tub, I’ll be waiting.”

Without further comment, she went inside and flipped on the taps, taking care to nudge the hot just this side of uncomfortable, the way Kyle preferred. While it ran, she set the towel on the towel heater and sat on the toilet seat, prepared to wait him out.

When the tub was full, she turned off the faucet. Her foot tapped an antsy rhythm on the heated tile floor while her fingers worked the washcloth into a tight twist. Seconds ticked by. Turned into silent minutes where she strained to hear a noise from beyond the partly open door. As far as she could tell, Kyle hadn’t moved from where she’d left him.

Floorboards creaked. Her heartbeat spiked as the door squeaked slowly open. Kyle stood on the other side, looking awkward and uncertain. In six years of marriage, and a full year before that, she’d never seen him so self-conscious.

Hesitantly, he stepped inside and nudged the door shut with the back of his heel. He rested his cane against the sink, turned to stare at the steamy water. Then with a soul-deep sigh of resignation, he pulled his bulky sweatshirt over his head.

The sight of Kyle’s broad shoulders, defined pecs, and sun-bronzed skin sent Aimee’s pulse into overdrive. She struggled for the ability to breathe. Countless times she had seen him naked, and every time he undressed, he cast a spell over her. Hard tight body, strong muscles, trim waist—Kyle Garland defined perfection.

He turned sideways, and the light caught the scar on his left shoulder where he’d been shot seven years ago. Aimee couldn’t contain a wistful smile. They’d met that way. Head held high, he’d walked into the MASH unit in Iraq, too proud to tell anyone he was in pain. He’d dug the bullet out on his own, attempted field stitches as well. But infection had set in, and she’d been tasked with reopening the gash and cleaning it out. For the next several months, Kyle Garland showed up regularly when combat wounded overloaded their resources. Those chance encounters—she always suspected they were more strategic than luck—led to six months of forbidden passion whenever they could get their hands on one another, and her eventual retirement so they didn’t have to worry about getting caught.

Her gaze dipped to his waist, where he fumbled with the button on his jeans. Aimee rose from her perch and pushed his hands away.

“Aimee, I can—”

“I know you can.” She popped the button with a twist of her wrist. “But I want to.”

Kyle sucked in a sharp breath. He stood absolutely still, his breath barely stirring her hair as she lowered the zipper and tucked her fingers into his waistband.