“Gladly,” he seethed. “I’ve had more than enough of having to deal with manipulative, psychotic, raging bitches. Tanya was bad enough, and I’m definitely questioning what I ever saw in you.”
Stung, she allowed him the last word and hung up before she said something she’d regret even more. She wasn’t nearly drunk enough to be immune to that scorching indictment of her character. Especially not from him. Spencer Carlisle was a dumb oaf, but he’d always been a sweet dumb oaf. That’s probably why this entire situation bothered her so much. He had disappointed her. She pushed herself away from the wall, and after fleetingly considering her original course of action to find the bar and drink herself into a stupor, she decided that she’d rather fall into bed and forget this entire day ever happened.
It was colder than they expected, but the air was calm, the sky was clear, and a huge, creamy full moon was just rising over the ocean. It was a beautiful evening, and it seemed a waste to let the cold chase them back inside. Mason bundled Daisy into his suit jacket, and it dwarfed her, falling to just a few inches above her knees, while the sleeves ended well past her fingertips. She looked like a little girl playing dress-up in her dad’s jacket, and Mason, as usual, thought she was absolutely adorable.
They were barefoot on the beach; Mason had his socks off and his trouser legs rolled up, and Daisy had forced him to turn around while she tugged off her pantyhose and shoved them into her bag. He had taken laughing peeks, telling her she was being ridiculous because he already knew what she looked like naked.
Now they were walking hand in hand, shoes dangling from their fingertips. The sand was freezing cold beneath their bare feet, but neither minded much. They were content to listen to sounds of the whispering waves, the high-pitched calls of the night birds, the distant echoing cries of the southern right whales that migrated here to calve in winter. With Daisy’s hand tucked into his, it felt like the most perfect moment of Mason’s entire life.
“So why don’t you dance?” she asked, breaking the peaceful silence. But Mason didn’t mind, because if there were anything more beautiful than the silence, it was the sound of her husky voice.
“Because I don’t want to embarrass everybody else on the dance floor with my awesome moves,” he said complacently and was gratified when she laughed in response.
“Seriously?”
“Yep. That’s it. The whole story, true as God.”
“And this is what you would have told me on our second date, if we were, in fact, dating?”
“It’s supposed to impress you.”
“I am impressed,” she said, and he could hear the laughter bubbling away beneath her words. “I’m impressed by the size of your ego.”
“You’re obsessed with size, aren’t you? I told you not to worry; everything’s well in order,” he boasted, and Daisy laughed outright at that. He let go of her hand, and she felt the loss keenly until he draped his arm over her shoulders and tugged her closer so that she was tucked beneath his armpit and sharing his body heat. She put her own arm around his trim waist for better balance.
“You always smell so great,” she murmured.
“So do you.” His chest rumbled beneath her cheek when he spoke, and she sighed in contentment, feeling small and safe and protected in his hold. They continued to wander slowly down the beach.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked when a sharp gust of frigid wind flirted with the hem of her skirt and sent goose bumps up her thighs.
“Nah, I’ve been trained not to be as affected by the weather. Extreme heat and extreme cold don’t bother me too much.”
“Did you see a lot of combat?” she asked, tentatively broaching a subject she’d been curious about for a while.
“I saw my share,” he said after a long pause. “When I was just a kid during the Iraq War. I’d barely finished basic training before I was shipped out. Then again later, after I was more of a specialist, shall we say? We were required to do some stuff I’m not at liberty to talk about. Nothing pretty.”
“Tell me about your scars; were you ever badly injured?” He stopped walking and turned to face her, and even in the pale light of the moon she could see his look of surprise.
“People hardly ever ask me about that. Top three things I usually get asked: how many people I shot and/or killed, how many bombs I’ve diffused, and have I ever flown a helicopter. Some folks really seem to have a Hollywood vision of war in their heads,” he said with a wry shake of his head, before continuing. “Nobody ever asks me about injuries. They figure, I’m alive, have all my limbs, so I must have come through it all unscathed.”
“I don’t care about the other stuff. I mean, I care about the people you may have shot and/or killed but only because I worry about how it must have affected you.”
“It was seven years ago; I’m over the worst of it.”
“Are you?”
“I . . . I’ve learned how to deal. It’s no longer a problem.”
“But it was?”
“Daisy, everybody who has seen combat suffers from varying degrees of PTSD. I had my moments, I still have the occasional lapse—one loud, misplaced bang could see me diving for the closest cover—but they’re few and far between now. I’ve—what’s that phrase? The shrinks love it. Ah, yes, I’ve reintegrated.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she pointed out, and he sighed, linking his hands behind her back and pulling her toward him until they stood chest to torso.
“I was shot twice and got winged by shrapnel in the IED explosion that killed Quincy. I’m afraid I have a road map of scars on my lower back; it’s not pretty.” Daisy had seen the scars on his chest and arms, but she hadn’t seen his back yet. She looked up into his beautiful face and felt sorrow at the anguish he must have felt. He claimed it was long ago and no longer affected him, but his eyes told a different story.