How strange was it to be so attracted to him at a time she was scared to death. Must be adrenaline, like when they’d been in the Bahamas and she’d been so very, very tempted to jump into bed with him, even though they’d only kissed—a wowsa, knock-your-socks-off lip-lock that stayed with her even when they weren’t touching at all.
At times like this, it was tough to remember he was a guy who effortlessly charmed women. He even married them just as easily.
He stroked her hair behind her ear a final time, calluses snagging her skin as he cupped the back of her neck. “Are you ready to go inside and talk?”
“Yes, please.” She looked over her shoulder at her dog. The black Lab tipped his head to the side, confusion stamped in his big chocolate eyes.
She understood the feeling well.
“Come, Disco.” She snapped her fingers. Her Lab bounded effortlessly out to join her in the most organized garage she’d ever seen.
Tools dangled on a Peg-Board in perfect lines over a workbench, only a light hint of oil clinging to the air. Double-timing to keep up with Liam’s long-legged stride, she charged toward the door leading into the house, walking under a mountain bike and a beach cruiser hanging upside down from hooks in the ceiling. She waited by a pristine riding lawn mower as Liam disarmed a security system and unlocked the dead bolt.
“Your garage is tidier than my living room.” She hitched her knapsack over one shoulder, thinking of her rustic home full of well-worn leather furniture and dog toys.
“It’s a temporary rental, since this is a short-term assignment. I’m rarely home anyway,” he shot over his shoulder before pushing inside. “Not much time to mess anything up before I head off to the next base.”
With that kind of moving history, she would have expected stacks of unpacked boxes rather than the top-notch organization. For all his intensity on the job, Liam had a laid-back humor that had made her wonder about what he was like outside of the work world. Still, she needed that analytical perfection now to untangle the mess she’d somehow landed in the middle of.
She walked through the laundry room that had only one basket of clothes on the dryer—presumably already washed, given the superneat state of everything else—and entered the eat-in kitchen. Disco’s nails clicked against the terra-cotta tile floors. She took her time studying the eating area, curious about the man and soaking up clues for how best to share what she knew with him. To win him over, when so many others didn’t believe her.
And yeah, she knew she was stalling, terrified he wouldn’t believe her either. Having the cops disregard her had been frustrating. Having Liam look at her as if she were a loon? Just the possibility shredded her already-ragged nerves, especially with the weight of his curious gaze following her every step. She needed to sound credible, logical.
Sane.
While spit-shine clean, the place still shouted bachelor. Basic white walls, and tile floors with no real rugs to speak of, just a plain brown doormat for wiping off feet on the way in. An archway separated the kitchen from the living area with a black leather couch and a huge recliner.
And a foosball table?
Now that fit her more lighthearted image of him. Only Liam McCabe could have lightened her spirits in the middle of the hellish earthquake rubble.
What would it have been like if she’d scrounged up the gumption to call or see him during the past six months, before this crisis? She’d been only a short drive away since she’d moved from Virginia to Southern Florida, just far enough outside of Miami to avoid their pit bull banning laws. So close to him, without making contact. Like holding her hand just shy of the flame. Her skin heating, even blistering, but never daring to plunge right in and accept the fire.
Pretty much the story of her adult social life.
Her nerves kicked up a storm again to match the one pounding away outside. Pivoting toward him, she found Liam leaning against the laminate counter, his concerned eyes stroking over her frazzled nerves.
“Nice kitchen.” She trailed her hand along the counter beside a surprising lineup of top-of-the-line cooking aids—a food processor, blender, and coffee grinder. “Do you actually use these as often as the foosball table?”
“My mom always said a man should know how to feed himself, not to expect a woman will always do the cooking. Although restocking a kitchen after every divorce is pricey. Chicks always get the kitchen stuff in the breakup. Guys get the foosball table. Not fair, but hey, that’s life.” His gemstone eyes went from lighthearted to intense in a flash. “Are we done with the small talk now? Because honestly, I’m worried about you.”
And he had good reason.
“Can we sit down? It’s… complicated.” Under-statement of the year.
He gestured to the simple oak table and pulled out a ladder-back chair for her.
Suddenly exhaustion rolled over her, heavier even than when she’d worked a round-the-clock SAR mission. She dropped into the seat, letting her backpack fall to the floor. Her dog stretched out on the scarred tile beside her.
Pulling up a chair, Liam rested a foot on his other knee, so very close to her without touching. More of that restraint showed on his face while he just waited for her to find the right words, figure out exactly where to start.
“Things have changed for me since the earthquake in the Bahamas. The three weeks there really burned me out.” Her emotions had been tougher to handle around Liam, another reason she’d been scared to contact him until life forced her hand. “I needed a new direction and found it with this group up in the D.C. area. They train therapy dogs for PTSD patients. About three months ago, I accepted the challenge to assist in starting a Southern Florida branch.”
“Three months ago? And you finally decided to stop by and see me.” He clapped a hand to his chest. “I’m touched.”
A blush burned her face and down her neck. “I’m sorry.”
And she meant it. She wished things could be different between them, but she couldn’t change her past and how it had marked her.