Her toes skimmed along the tiny green footprints inked on his calf. “What are all the little footprints?”
“It’s a work thing.” His voice vibrated against her, through her.
“Such as?” she asked, enjoying the normalcy of talking as they lingered in the afterglow.
“During Vietnam, pararescuemen were most often transported in a big-ass helicopter called the Jolly Green Giant,” he explained while drawing lazy circles along her back. “Green footprints became our signature tat.”
“Big-ass helicopter?” She chuckled. “Is that a technical term?”
“HH-3 and HH-53, actually. But big-ass chopper just paints a more vivid picture.” Moonbeams through the windows illuminated his grin.
“I agree.” Her fingers skipped along the scratches on his chest. Then from there to the other tattoo, which she suspected held an even deeper story—a staff of musical notes scrolled across his heart. “And this tattoo?”
His hands went still on her back.
“Hugh?”
“Yeah, uh…” He shifted from under her and pulled the sheet over them both. “It’s, uh, a riff from my daughter’s favorite song.”
His answer knocked the wind out of her. She eyed each musical note, a lump settling in her throat. She sagged onto the pillow beside him. No matter how hard they tried, the past was a part of who they were now.
He stroked her wet hair behind her ear. “Aren’t you going to ask me what the song is?”
Patting his chest, she shook her head. She couldn’t probe that wound.
His hand closed over hers. “It’s from a Jimmy Buffett song called ‘Little Miss Magic.’”
“I’ve never heard it, but it sounds…” Sweet? Heartbreaking? “Special.”
“Yeah…” He squeezed her fingers once gently, and moved them away to his shoulder.
“We should, uh, sleep.” Her cheek rested against his shoulder, slick with water, sweat. The light welts of her scratches pressed against her face with a reminder of how easily she’d lost control. How quickly she became someone different with him, a man who was still deeply locked in grief for his dead family.
***
Amelia slept like the dead.
Hugh wished he could stare at her all night long, learn more about her. The way a person slept said a lot about them. She curled on her side, knees tucked tight and protectively. He wished she could be more relaxed, free in sleep, but her body told a different story. But then after all she’d been through, he shouldn’t be surprised. He just wanted to stick around and learn more, be there when she uncurled with security again.
Her rebandaged hand was stretched out toward him.
He smoothed the overlong night shirt over her hip. He could just make out the word Bahamas printed across the front in twisted cartoon palm trees. The scrolled letters made him think of that night back at the hospital when he’d seen Joshua sleeping in her arms, wearing a similar tourist T-shirt.
His eyes slid from Amelia to Joshua.
Shoving to his feet, Hugh tugged on a pair of khakis and walked to the nursery nook. He scratched the old tattoo, just over the tightness around his heart. Stress. He knew the cause, but he hadn’t figured out how to get past it.
He reached for the curtain three times before he found the guts to pull it back. Joshua sucked on his fist in his sleep, completely relaxed. As a child should be.
Before Hugh even registered the thought, he held the guitar Jocelyn had left behind. It felt right there. He played a riff and tuned it, the old Lyon & Healy a bit worn around the edges, but with a little tuning, the notes took on a full, warm tone.
His fingers plucked along the strings, not Tilly’s tune, but another Buffett song… slow… “Son of a Sailor”… and yeah, he wasn’t a sailor and this boy wasn’t his son. But the music leveled him out, easing the knot in his chest.
“You’re good with him,” Amelia said softly from the bed.
His fingers slowed, then stopped. He looked over at Amelia. She sat hugging her knees, her chin resting on her hands.
“Instinct, I guess.” He rested the guitar on the ground and spun it. The polished rosewood glinted in the moonlight.