She started, her gaze cutting to him.
What? Had he never said anything nice to her? With a growl, he pressed the garage door button on the sun visor and drove into the empty space. Neat and tidy, the walls held rakes, shovels, and an assortment of tools with pink handles. The color made something in his chest ache. She shouldn’t have to swing a hammer. Ever. “You’re going to tell me whatever it is you’re keeping from me.” He jumped from the vehicle.
Her feet hit the concrete, and her car door slammed shut before she responded. “I’m not telling you squat.” She tried to stomp past him.
He shifted his weight, blocking her path. “I didn’t give you the option.” Not by one inch did he want to intimidate her. But he took a step, forcing the woman to tilt her head to glare at him.
Fury flashed bright red across high cheekbones as her hands went to her hips. “If you think you can show up after two years, with freaking amnesia and order me around, you have another think coming.”
Okay. Not intimidated. The ball of unease uncoiled in his gut as he relaxed. He bit back the grin that wanted loose. “I’m not leaving until I remember everything.”
She inhaled deeply. “Either get out of my way or prepare to be a eunuch.”
The woman was something. Indecision filtered through his brain. Surprise filled him with how much he wanted her cooperation. Her willing trust. He stepped to the side, allowing her to open the door and enter a cheerful kitchen with sparkling stainless steel appliances.
He shut the door behind him and locked it. Was he the good guy or the bad? “Did I teach you to fight?” Instinct whispered that if she was his, even for a little while, he’d have taught her.
“Maybe I taught you,” she muttered, shaking off her jacket to drop over an antique carved chair that matched a round table.
He sighed. The warmth of the room caught him by surprise, making him feel like an overgrown bully. Pretty vases and glasses lined the top of the cupboards, the mix eclectic and somehow calming. Girly magnets of flowers and quotations adorned the refrigerator. The house was a home. “Your place is nice.”
“Thanks.” She eyed the message machine on the uncluttered counter. It blinked with two messages.
“Check your messages, Josie.” He kept the command soft while he wanted to push the button himself. Had the boyfriend called? Anger swept through him at the thought. The muscles at the base of his neck began to ache. That headache was coming back and soon. Who the hell would date a married woman? His woman?
*
Josie whirled around, unease skittering down her spine. As a husband, Shane had been both possessive and protective. She hadn’t minded—had even felt sheltered and safe. Well, until he’d deserted her. Then she’d missed the sense of belonging. “This isn’t going to work.”
Three steps took her to the antique writing desk tucked into the corner. She’d found it at a garage sale the previous spring and had spent hours sanding and staining the piece after refinishing the kitchen table. From day one, she’d determined to create her own family heirlooms. Even if she stayed alone.
She tugged out papers from the desk, throwing them against the Pottery Barn bowl that held apples on the table. The man was too tempting, and she was still damaged. Protecting her heart was her job, not his. “Sign the papers, and then you need to leave.”
He lifted his gaze, those gray eyes that could blaze with passion or freeze with anger. For now, those windows shuttered closed. “No.”
Exasperation caught a scream in her throat. It took every ounce of control she had to shove it back down. She’d wanted to do this the right way, the respectful way. A way that demonstrated they’d meant something to each other. Even though their marriage had ended, even though he’d left, enough had been there to end it right. “That’s not an option.” She tried to keep her chin from tilting as she threw his words back in his face.
A spark flared in his eyes. His gaze swept her body top to bottom, pausing several times on the journey. The air in the room thickened.
The moment slammed a hard awareness into her solar plexus. She’d imagined him in the comfortable home, looking at her like that.
Like he had when they’d lived together.
Her feet stuck to the floor. She couldn’t look away from his high cheekbones, straight nose, and the full lips she hadn’t touched in two years. His thick hair had grown to his shoulders. Her fingers itched to touch. But she frowned. The military had let him grow his hair that long?