Erik extended a welcoming hand as his posture sent a mild warning to not get involved. “You must be Robbie.”
Her brother gave him a firm shake. “You must be Erik.”
“Grab a drink sometime?”
Olivia’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Of all the things she’d guessed Erik would say, that hadn’t been on the list. On the other hand, Erik knew how close she was with her brother. It would make sense for Erik to offer an olive branch, which by Guy Standards would involve some kind of alcohol—by their standards, an expensive whiskey.
Robbie glanced at Olivia then looked back at Erik. “That all depends on you, man.” He gave her one last reassuring nod, then left them alone.
Olivia swallowed, attempting to cure the dryness in her throat, as Erik stepped inside and closed the door behind him. In the span of mere seconds, he’d stolen her breath. He wore a thin, black Henley that hugged his powerful shoulders and broad chest before hanging loose around his trim waist and dark jeans over his black motorcycle boots. A dark shadow dusted his strong jaw and her fingertips tingled at the sight of his fresh buzz cut, itching to run over the soft prickles and watch as his lids lowered to half mast on a low groan.
His gaze raked down her body, slow and sensuous. She felt her cheeks heat with a blush that spread down her neck and chest. Wearing a pair of pink cotton shorts and baggy white shirt, she was the furthest thing from sexy, but he looked like he wanted to devour her where she stood. His alpha side showed tremendous restraint when he stopped a full two feet away from her and kept his hands fisted at his sides.
Damn it, her emotions were all over the place. Part of her wanted to retreat, to gain some perspective along with some breathing room. The other part of her wanted to lunge and close the last of the distance he’d wedged between them over a month ago.
“Olivia…” Her name sounded like it was being torn from his lips, tortured and rough, and it affected her in ways she couldn’t begin to name. “Jesus, you’re more beautiful than I remembered.”
Her breath caught in her chest at the tension snapping between them like static electricity as he lifted a hand, presumably to touch her face or maybe tuck errant strands of hair behind her ear as he’d often done, but he stopped short and dropped it back at his side. She couldn’t remember when she’d ever seen Erik hesitant and unsure. It looked as foreign to her as she suspected it felt to him.
Whatever the outcome, the faster they got this over with, the better. Just rip off the Band-Aid so you can lick your wounds in peace. Clearing her throat, she crossed her arms over her middle and did her best to put on her professional face. Maybe if she could detach herself from the situation, this wouldn’t actually kill her.
“Okay, Lieutenant. Time to state your case.”
…
It’d taken a level of control Erik wasn’t aware he had not to pull Olivia into his arms the moment he saw her. To keep himself from burying his face in the crook of her neck and drag in deep lungfuls of her rose-petal scent. To claim her soft lips and kiss the hell out of her until their lungs screamed for air.
But he couldn’t. He didn’t have that right. Not yet.
Maybe not ever again.
Fuck.
Insecurity wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with. Give him heavily armed insurgents or a burning building any day of the week, but just the thought of potentially getting shut down—for good—by the woman he couldn’t live without was fraying his nerves faster than a flashover in a five-alarm box fire. And considering her eyes were red and glassy like she’d been crying even before he texted her coupled with her closed-off demeanor, he wouldn’t bet on himself to come out of this “mission accomplished.”
God, he hated this awkward tension between them, made worse by the fact that it was all his doing. He’d done a lot of soul-searching since leaving the VA Center that first time. Hearing Cody talk about his fiancée and the way she’d helped him to heal—and more importantly, that he hadn’t had an adverse effect on her—made Erik realize there wasn’t any reason he and Livvie couldn’t do it, too.
Then fucking talk, Grady, before she throws your sorry ass out.
“I’m…goddamn it, I’m so fucking sorry, Livvie. I should have stayed, talked things out with you. Or at the very least waited to talk to the major before I jumped to conclusions.”
Ever the sympathetic, caring woman, Olivia’s hazel eyes softened. “You realize I’m just as qualified as my uncle to offer advice and guidance when it comes to PTSD, right?”
“Of course I do, but to my way of thinking, your logic was likely clouded by your feelings for me. But even if that hadn’t been the case, I was convinced it was only a matter of time before I seriously hurt you.” Her gaze dropped, suddenly taking a strong interest in the grout in the tile floor, but he pressed on, his voice low and raspy. “What I didn’t take into consideration, is that hurting you emotionally could be just as damaging…if not more.”
Glancing up at him beneath her lashes, she asked, “So what’s changed?”
“Me,” he said, taking a small step closer. “I knew I had to do a lot of soul-searching, do a lot of work on the way I process and react to things. I reacted poorly that night, and I can’t tell you how fucking sorry I am, but I can’t change the past. I can only try to do better in the future.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. His Livvie was so strong, and damn if he didn’t admire that about her more than anything else.
“How do I know you’re not going to do the same thing if you get triggered, Erik? It was hard enough losing Brett—a man I was with for almost a decade, yet didn’t love nearly as much as I love you—but at least he didn’t leave by choice. You willingly pushed me away, and it made losing you hurt so much worse. I can’t be with you if you’re going to pull away every time something goes wrong.”
Jesus, could he have been more of an asshole? Erik grit his teeth and erased the last few inches between them that had felt more like miles. Then he held her hands, stared into those endless limpid pools, and stripped away the final barrier that the soldier in him had used as body armor for his heart. It no longer had a place in his life. Not if he wanted Olivia.
And he’d never wanted anything so desperately as he wanted her and her love.
“For years I’ve trained myself to only let others see my strength. To hide any weakness that could make me vulnerable, that could make my men doubt my abilities as their leader,” he started. “But underestimating your strength, that was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, and I swear to you that it’s one I’ll never make again.
“I know I have a long way to go to manage my PTSD, to get where I don’t feel like I’ve lost all control anymore. But I’m going to continue to see the major and make regular visits to the Boston Vet Center. I’m a work in progress, but as your uncle says, I’m committed to the mission of good mental health as much as I am to making you happy.”
She dragged her teeth over her bottom lip. “From now on we communicate? Full disclosure to our pasts, present, and concerns or plans for the future?”
“All of it. You will always come first. I need you in my life, and nothing is more important than that. Nothing.” Her mouth turned up in a sweet smile that begged him to kiss her, to seal the deal right fucking now. But he had one more thing to get out. Drawing a steadying breath, Erik threw down his trump card. “Which is why I’ve decided to retire from active duty as a firefighter.”
Olivia’s eyes flashed wide. “What?” She shook her head, her flaxen ponytail swishing behind her shoulders. “Erik, no—”
He interrupted, his tone firm-as-hell. “Yes, Olivia. I’m moving to the political side of the department and taking a desk job.” His mouth hitched up in one of his signature smirks. “The worst injury I can sustain is a paper cut, but I promise to keep a box of Band-Aids around at all times.”
“Erik, you can’t give up being a firefighter,” she said adamantly. “You love your job; it’s what you’re go
od at.”
“So I’ll love my new job and I’ll be good at that one, too,” he argued. “Either way, it doesn’t matter because the job that means the most to me now is loving you and being good at that.”
“No, you can’t,” she said. “The city needs you. Your team needs you—”
“Not half as much as I need you.”
Again, she shook her head. “You’ll be miserable as a desk jockey, Erik. You’ve told me so yourself a dozen times.”
Well, fuck. This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. He thought for sure it was his ace in the hole, the final piece that would have her jumping into his arms. Regardless of what she said, he knew that the risk inherent in his job weighed heavily on her. She was just too selfless not to insist he remain a firefighter. But he had no intention of giving in, so she’d have to let it go eventually.
“As long as I can call you mine, I’ll be the happiest desk jockey in New England. Let me worry about me, okay?”
Her eyes bounced between his and her teeth captured the corner of her lip as her wheels turned. He knew she was analyzing every possible detail, every possible outcome. His Livvie never did anything without careful consideration—a trait that probably was less in his favor than if she was the type of woman to get caught up in the moment—and every second that passed twisted the blade that he’d plunged into his own heart the night he walked out on her.
After an eternity, she finally said, “I’m only agreeing to table this conversation for later, once Eddie clears you for duty.”
“I can agree to that.” He’d take it and run, for now. He could worry about wearing her down another day, maybe after he plied her with sex and a gallon of her Cherry Garcia. “So does this mean what I hope it means?”
A hint of a smile eased up one side of her sexy mouth. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”
“Honestly, I’m afraid to assume anything right now, baby. Take pity on me and give me the words. Please, Livvie,” he said, stroking the side of her face with his thumb, “tell me I have one last chance. That’s all I need. Tell me you’ll trust me with your heart again.”
Olivia turned her head and placed a kiss in the center of his palm. “Yes,” she whispered. “I trust you with my heart.”
Erik’s relief rushed through him so fast it was a miracle his knees didn’t buckle before he grabbed her face and finally—fucking finally—kissed the hell out of her. Opening to him immediately, their tongues met with the urgency of a long separation, ended at last. She tasted of sweet red wine and perfection, and the mewls of rapture she made in the back of her throat were sure to be his undoing.
Tearing himself away, he drank in the love shining in her eyes as he drew in labored breaths. “God, Livvie, I need you so fucking much.”
Her gaze flitted all over his face like she was trying to take in every detail all at once, while her nails skimmed over his scalp, sending goosebumps firing off over his skin. “Take me to bed, Erik. Make love to me.”
In a flash, he swept her up into his arms, and carried her into her bedroom where he laid her on the soft mattress. He kicked off his boots and yanked off his shirt before following her down, positioning himself between her open legs, the place on her body that was made perfectly for his.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I intend on deserving you every day from here on out,” he said, softly brushing wispy strands of hair off her face. “I love you, Livvie. With everything that I have and everything that I am, I fucking love you.”
Her eyes shimmered behind a pool of tears that began streaking down her temples from the outer corners as her mouth spread into a glorious smile. A few minutes ago, seeing her tears had shredded him into pieces. Now, they were putting him back together.
“I’m so in love with you, sometimes I can scarcely breathe,” she whispered.
Erik’s heart swelled near to bursting. “Then I’ll breathe for the both of us.”
Lowering his mouth to hers, he poured all the passion and love he had into the first kiss of the rest of their lives. Today was a new beginning for both of them. There was nothing they couldn’t do, nothing they couldn’t accomplish, as long as he had his woman.
My Livvie.
Epilogue
“How is it possible Preacher got even worse at cooking while I was gone?”
The cook in question shoveled a spoon full of chili into his face while casually flipping Erik off with the other hand. “No one’s forcing it down your throat, Wolf. Feel free to make your own chow.”
“And miss out on the only reason I get to bust your balls?” Erik tore off a bite of French bread and spoke around it. “Not a chance.”
The dozen or so guys sitting around the long table chimed in with their complaints and jibes at Preacher, which inevitably bled into giving one another shit about any and everything under the sun.
Damn, he’d missed this. The brotherhood, the esprit de corps he couldn’t live without ever since joining the army and he learned what it felt like to have men at his side and at his back who he knew would lay down their lives for him just as quickly as he’d do it for them. A warm tingle hit the back of Erik’s eyes, and it took several hard blinks to push it back as he stared into the bowl of brownish-red paste Preacher called chili. He wouldn’t be going into active duty, but just knowing he was technically back to work did amazing things for his morale. Erik was making progress, slow but sure, and it felt good.
A week ago, Marion had finally signed off on the paperwork that allowed him back to active duty after being gone for sixteen long weeks. If it hadn’t been for Olivia, he’d have gone crazy after only a month, if he even made it that long. She’d occupied most of his waking thoughts and kept him plenty busy when she wasn’t in the office. She was the best distraction he could’ve asked for.
Preacher spoke up over the noise with a big-ass grin on his face. “Hey, ever consider that maybe I do know how to cook, but it’s more fun watching all of you whine like a bunch of pussies?”
A few of the men looked like they actually believed him as they stared at their bowls and then back at the man with the light mocha skin and crystal blue eyes. Tyler’s mother was a beautiful black-haired Irish woman and his dad was African American. It gave him the most exotic look Erik had ever seen on a man. He could have easily had a career—and had been approached several times—as a male model, but Preacher never considered it. As handsome as he was, he didn’t have a vain bone in his body.
Dozer waved his spoon back and forth in the air. “No fuckin’ way, man. I’ve seen your fridge and it ain’t filled with nothin’ but moldy takeout and TV dinners.”
“Maybe we should all pitch in and send Connelly to a night school for some cooking classes,” Smoke added. “It’d be worth the scratch if we didn’t have to suffer through his kitchen rotation anymore.”
Preacher snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, because between both of my full-time jobs I have so much free time on my hands to spend it learning how to make this miserable lot happy at chow time.”
Everyone laughed and ribbed Preacher a bit more on his cooking before Bowie changed the subject. “So, Wolf, you sure about this playing-house gig with the doc?”
Erik looked across the table at Bowie, who was buttering his thick slice of bread with a six-inch serrated hunting knife. No one batted an eye at the man’s ever-present lethal accessories. He had a passion for anything with a blade. Everyone knew the man had knives strapped to his person, whether visible or not.
“Meaning what exactly, Bowie?”
Bowie wiped the polished knife, spun it around in his hand, and stabbed it into the wooden table. “You know,” he said with a mischievous grin while gesturing with his hunk of bread, “watching Lifetime movies, taking cold showers because she used all the hot water, swapping newspaper sections at the breakfast table, playing with her cats. All that exciting ball-and-chain shit you get when you set fire to your bachelor card.”
Bowie and a few of the guys laughed, throwing
in a few choice phrases like “pussy-whipped” and “ball-less bastard.” Erik noted that the men with wives or serious girlfriends didn’t chime in but merely shook their heads and chuckled at the imbeciles. Before, Erik would’ve assumed their silence meant they were just as pussy-whipped as the currently accused and had no room to talk about others. But now he knew differently. They didn’t say anything because they had something that the perpetual bachelors didn’t understand and never would until they found that person they loved more than themselves.
The whole crew was laughing, but half of them didn’t realize the other half were laughing at them and not with them. Erik drank the rest of his iced tea to wash the chili paste down then smiled at Bowie. “We haven’t moved in together, but I do spend more time at her place than mine. As for the ball-and-chain stuff, you don’t quite have it right. See, we haven’t watched more than the first five minutes of any show because she has an affinity for climbing into my lap—naked—anytime we’re on the couch. We no longer need alarm clocks because our bodies got used to waking each other up with a nice, slow fuck when the sun hits her bed every morning.”
More laughter, some oh, damns, and other more colorful things came from the men. Erik kept his eyes on Bowie and took satisfaction in the way his cocky smirk weakened a little with each of his points. But he wasn’t done making them yet, so he continued.
“As for the showers you mentioned, brother, I never have cold showers for three reasons.” Erik lifted his hand from the table and used his fingers to count them out. “I never let her shower alone because there’s no way I’m within fifty feet of her wet and soapy naked body and not getting in on that. Two, even if we’ve been in there so long that the water goes cold, we’re too distracted with other things to notice or care. And here’s the best one: I never have to choose between an ice-cold shower or jerking myself off when my dick gets harder than a Halligan, because I have a sexy-as-fuck woman who’s more than eager for me to use it with her whenever the mood strikes.” Erik smirked and turned his three outstretched fingers into just the one in the middle. “You can keep your bachelor card, buddy. I’ll take my ‘ball-and-chain shit’ every fucking day of the week.”