The acrid stench of smoke still blanketed the air, even though the fire department had long ago doused the blaze on Rachel’s block. He’d read an article once that said smells evoked the strongest memories. Damn straight. With each smoldering inhale, images of bomb sites mushroomed inside his skull.
The burned-out hulls of town houses stared back at him with vacant black eyes for windows. Hollow. Charred insides weakened and vulnerable from a sucker punch they couldn’t possibly have seen coming.
He understood the feeling. His stomach rolled, acid eating away at the fast-food double cheeseburger he’d bolted down earlier.
And then on his next breath, a hint of honeysuckle mingled good with the bad. Settled his stomach. Chased away a couple of those crappy memories.
“Brandon?” she said softly. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready.”
It was nearly midnight now, and the neighborhood was winding down from the mayhem of fire trucks and newscasters. But still, Cat’s serenity wouldn’t have faded if a parade flooded the whole city block.
He appreciated her peacefulness. They’d just hung out together for most of the ride. She hadn’t pushed him to talk, talk, talk as everybody else did. Yeah, he knew his silences could be long. Creepy even, according to the therapist who had gently pointed them out. But he was working his way back. He needed time. Cat seemed to get that.
Right now he needed time to get over his frustration at not finding Rachel here. Most people would have called the cops, but that hadn’t gone so well for him lately. He didn’t know what to do next. She wasn’t here. And she wasn’t answering her phone. He shouldn’t have told her everything. Well, not everything, but all that he had. He’d been selfish. All caught up in the talk therapy bull crap his therapist pushed for. He’d been a jumbled mess, huddled up at home with his dog. Then Rachel had shown up to check in on Harley…
The next thing he’d known, he was spilling his guts.
Better from now on to keep his mouth shut. He pivoted toward the truck and reached for her door just as—
Pop. A gunshot split the air. The noise sliced through his brain and sent his body on autopilot.
He tackled Catriona, tucking to the side to catch the brunt of the fall with his body before rolling on top of her. His arms convulsed around her, his heart ramping up until he could feel it slam against her soft back. Concrete bit into his knees and his cheek as he stared under the row of vehicles and realized…
He wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore.
That noise hadn’t been gunfire. Just someone shutting a car door. God, he was a mess.
Rolling off her, Brandon lay on his back and stared up at the stars. Time passed and he wasn’t sure how much. But since he already looked like an idiot, why not go all out? Besides, he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him yet anyway. At least they were between cars and apparently not attracting any attention.
Eventually his heart stopped jackhammering in his ears so loud and he could hear the world around him. He could hear Catriona. Her even breaths, not the least bit disturbed. And then the scent of honeysuckle filled him, engulfed him, until he wanted to curl up and sleep for a decade.
He felt the cold muzzle of his dog against his hand. His palm curved over Harley’s head, stroking, bringing him the rest of the way back into the moment.
Jacking one knee up, he turned his head sideways to look at Catriona for the first time. She sat cross-legged on the concrete beside him, not showing any other signs that she’d been body-slammed by someone nearly double her weight just minutes before. Only her shirt was askew and showing her bra strap—
His eyes hitched on the pale pink strip of satin, and hell if he didn’t get an erection. Right then. Right there. At the most unexpected and worst time, he got his first case of wood since he’d returned from the Middle East.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He sat up sharply, dropping his arm in his lap to hide the evidence. “Are you okay? Did I break anything when I wigged out?”
“I’m fine,” she said simply.
“Aren’t you going to ask if I’m all right?”
“Obviously, you’re not.”
“And you’re okay with that? You aren’t worried I’m going to go postal on you?”
“Should I worry?”
He shook his head. “I’m okay now.”
“Good.” She shoved to her feet and straightened her shirt. “How about I drive us back and you sleep on my sofa? You may think you’re okay, but you look tapped out to me. Why risk driving?”
Pushing to his feet, he drew in deep honeysuckle-scented breaths and didn’t even bother arguing.
***