“Why?”
“Because that cat shits in a box and then digs through it. I can’t even begin to guess the kinds of bacteria he carries around on his paws.”
“Not that. I agree that I need to clean these scratches, but…why do you care?”
Her words hit him with the force of a surface-to-air missile, and he stopped short halfway across the living room. Why did he care? The question implied awe and disbelief, as if he were doing something so far out of the realm of her understanding she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. And, damn, that hurt, because he’d never stopped caring. For him, it was a fact of life—inevitable, like the spin of the Earth on its axis. No matter what he did, thought, or pretended, Elizabeth Pruitt was always going to mean something to him.
Not like he could tell her that. No, he’d had his reasons for ending things with her the way he had—reasons that still applied. So instead of saying any of the thoughts on his mind, he answered, “It’s my job. Your father hired Wilde Security to keep you safe from everything, including cats.”
She frowned. “Sam was just scared.”
“Scared or not, all cats are insane,” he said and settled onto the couch next to her. He set the first-aid kit on the coffee table, flipped it open, and searched for the antiseptic pads.
“Wait, let me get this straight.” She held up her hands to stop him from dabbing any of the scratches. “You like freaky giant lizards, but not cats?”
“Yeah, pretty much. Cats always look like they’re plotting your demise.”
“And the lizard wasn’t?”
“Nah. He just wanted to steal a flower or two.” He caught her wrist and slapped one of the pads over the scratches.
She hissed through her teeth. “You are the only insane one in this room.”
“So you’ve said. Repeatedly. Now hold still. It doesn’t hurt.”
She grumbled, but let him finish tending to her arm. After a long moment, she muttered, “You’re kind of good at this.”
“I had some battlefield medical training.”
“All so you could tend to cat scratches.”
“Yeah, well.” With a shrug, he packed up the kit and started gathering the used bandage wrappers. “I’d much rather be here, dealing with cat scratches, than over there, dealing with a buddy’s bullet wound.”
“God. That was so insensitive of me. I apologize. I’m still shaken, I guess.” She hesitated, swallowed hard. “Did you ever see one? A bullet wound?”
“And worse.”
She bit her lower lip. “Were you…?”
“No, I never took a bullet.”
“But you were shot at?”
“Few times. Lucky for me, we had better snipers. Seth saved my ass more times than I want to admit.” He picked up the kit, the wad of wrappers, and used antiseptic pads. “Figure out what movie you want to watch. I’ll be back in a few.”
Without giving her time to respond, he returned the kit to its spot in the bathroom, then strode to the bedroom. Once inside, he leaned against the cool wood. Drew in several deep breaths.
Smile, he told himself. Just smile.
Damn, she had a way of picking at him until he felt things he didn’t want to feel. Things he tried so very hard to block from his memory. Things like the feel of a buddy’s blood seeping onto his hands from mortal wounds, the fear that he’d never make it home in once piece, the knowledge that if he did, he was going back to an empty house because he’d ruined the one good thing he’d ever had…
The past was the past, he reminded himself. No sense in dwelling on things that he couldn’t change. Bridges burned for a reason…and blah blah blah.
Dragging his hands through his hair, he shoved away from the door and grabbed his basketball shorts from the floor. As he yanked them on, he made himself smile.
But part of him in the deepest, darkest pit in his soul wondered how long he could keep smiling.
Chapter Ten
A spatter of color against the kitchen counter caught Libby’s attention as she came inside from the pool the following morning, and she finally pulled her nose out of the book she’d found tucked away on the shelf in the living room. The light and fluffy romance wasn’t her usual reading preference, but since her other book had taken a swim during the lizard fiasco, she’d picked this one up out of desperation—and she hadn’t been able to put it down. The hero was just too…yummy. Not the perfect man, by any means, but close enough that she kind of wished he was real. She hadn’t realized how much time had passed since she started reading until the sun’s rays became brutal and she had to go inside or risk sunburn. Even so, she planned to get a glass of ice tea, curl up somewhere quiet, and finish the book.
Except that flash of color was out of place on the dark granite counter top and Libby backtracked to get a better look.