Because he wanted to distract her. Fatigue must be kicking hard for him to resort to something so transparent.
Nice try, Jack. Not gonna work. "We need to talk."
"No shit. And we will." Two lazy strides brought him beside the bed. Close. Too close, yet not close enough. "In four weeks, at the lawyer's office, just like your summons told me. I have the date on my calendar. Shouldn't be tough to dissolve drunken vows said in front of a preacher wearing white leather fringe and a bad wig."
Her husband—for now—dropped into the bedside chair. Unlaced his boots one at a time and let them fall to the floor. Thud. Thud.
Kind of like her heart. Her hands fisted in the bedspread to keep from reaching to smooth away the weary lines creasing the hard angles of his face.
Monica swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. "That's not why I'm here."
"Uh-huh." Standing, he gripped the zipper tab on his flight suit and tugged.
Gulp. Toeing off on the floor, she inched down the side of the bed. Away. "Uh, Jack..."
Broad shoulders shrugged out of the green uniform.
"Jack!"
One leg, two legs, flight suit free. For a guy who usually moved slow, he shucked his clothes fast, leaving lots of Jack with his back to her while he wore nothing but shamrock shorts and a black T-shirt.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Getting undressed," he shot over his shoulder, gripping the hem of his T-shirt and starting the upward sweep. "Feel free to keep talking."
If she could unpaste her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Heel, hormones. Heel now, damn it.
His shirt went up and off, revealing bronzed man and the cut of shoulder blades. She shook with the need to stand, wrap her arms around his waist and lean her cheek against his bare back. What she wouldn't give to soak up the warm comfort of his skin against hers. To inhale the spicy musk of sweat and Jack.
His thumbs hooked on his boxers.
She bolted to her feet and spun away. Palms flat on the window ledge, she stared at the canvas of
heavy blue curtains blocking early morning sun. Counted to ten while straightening the part in the coarse fabric. Then to twenty while evening out the cord pulls.
He always did this to her, damn him. Muddled her world by never acting as she expected. Like with the rescue mission. Part of her wanted to kiss every inch of his beard-stubbled face in gratitude, while the rest of her wanted to scream in frustration because he hadn't told her.
Fears for her sister quivered through her, threatened to spill free, but she contained them with an airtight will. Ziploc tight. She'd looked for comfort in Jack's arms before and landed herself in an Elvis wedding chapel, for God's sake.
How humiliating. And yet the humiliation was nothing in comparison to the burn of betrayal. He'd known how she'd felt about waiting to be sure before committing. She'd shared her deepest fears with this man and yet he'd pushed her the minute she'd let her guard down.
Not again.
Bracing herself for the image of him—naked— she turned, finding a tanned back and taut flank moving toward the bathroom.
Gulp.
"Jack, will you please be reasonable." And could her voice please, please not crack next time she tried to talk?
"Mon, I'm taking a shower." Muscles flexed and rippled as he continued walking away. "And in case you were wondering, you're not invited."
"I wasn't—" The bathroom door clicked closed. She steamed. "—wondering."
Damn, that man chapped her hide.
She stood alone, cinder block walls closing in like a cell. A cell with Froot Loops. She scooped the box off the floor and folded down the bag inside before replacing it on top of the minifridge. The shower started, louder, shooshed a different tune with the intrusion of a body.
Options?