“I’m a cop.” India shrugged. “How bad can it be?”
“You’re tempting fate with that question.”
“She can go ahead and bring it.” India screwed up her pretty features into an expression that said she was indeed ready for anything that came her way.
That was old-school India, and Betsy was happy to hear it. “If you’re sure. If you need me, I’ll be in my laboratory.” She pronounced the last word with what her brother had come to call “evil genius inflection.”
Betsy had to admit that baking sometimes made her feel like a mad scientist, or a witch brewing spells and potions. It was part of what she loved about baking. Quality baked goods were all about chemistry and reaction, but not just of the ingredients themselves. It was about how those things interacted with the people combining the ingredients and those who would partake of the results.
Betsy tried to stay calm and happy while she worked. In the early days of her shop, she’d taken out her frustration on bread dough, and even though she’d done nothing different, when she was unhappy, the bread tasted like a scoop of used kitty litter.
As she mixed the dough for the cookies, Betsy let go of everything that weighed her down. She surrendered to the initial feelings that always enveloped her when she walked into the shop. Peace. Joy. Home. She kept each one on her mind and in her heart while she formed every cookie.
It was a blessed respite until several hours later. When all the batches had cooled and she packaged cookies for Jack and some for the ceremony, it occurred to her that maybe Jack wouldn’t want to see her at all. Her heart twisted in on itself, the cruel hands of possibility wringing it out like a sponge.
She crushed that thought beneath her vintage high heels. It didn’t matter if he wanted to see her or not. With all he’d lost, he needed someone. Even if it was only to let him know he wasn’t alone. It was possible and even likely he’d changed more than she could ever know, but underneath it all, he was still Jack. Betsy owed him her very life, and if he needed her now, nothing would keep her from repaying the debt. She might not be able to make mushrooms bordelaise, but she could help Jack.
Betsy kept her focus on that determination while she closed up Sweet Thing, loaded the bakery van with India and even after she’d taken her seat inside the community center.
But then her first sight of Jack obliterated all her good intentions. Any notion of debts and repayment quickly morphed into a familiar hunger. Her breath caught and time stopped.
A tsunami-like surge of emotion crashed over her now. She devoured the sight of him, as if any second he’d disappear and she’d have only these few precious seconds to remember him.
He was harder now, aged in a way deeper than skin. His shoulders were wider, his chest thicker and his jaw harder. His close-cropped hair now accentuated the high-angled sharp lines of his cheekbones and cinder block jaw. His mouth was set in a grim line, scar tissue crisscrossing in a haphazard melee across the left side of his face. When he turned his head, she saw that the scars ran down his neck and disappeared beneath his uniform.
Tears welled up in her eyes for him, but not because of how he looked. Even with the scars, he was as handsome as he’d ever been. Maybe even more. His scars were proof of his strength—of his courage. The spray of white-ridged marks across his skin, and tributaries and valleys of twisted, ropey sinew and puckered flesh, horrified her not because they were ugly, but because she couldn’t imagine the pain he’d suffered.
Betsy tried to look away. But try as hard as she could, there was nothing else she could focus on but Jack. Just as it had always been.
JACK WOULD HAVE known her anywhere.
Betsy Lewis was a lush caricature of the lovely girl he remembered. Her ethereal beauty had become earthier. That pale skin had turned to cream perfection and her rounded curves had become full-on dangerous. A tumble of black hair hung over her shoulder to curl against her cleavage, and she looked every inch a vintage pinup queen, right down to her matte red lips and the matching cherry print on her white dress. Everything about her blared sex, and his body answered, painfully hard, at just the sight of her.
Or maybe it was just because he was a twisted bastard? That was more likely. She was a beautiful, kind woman who deserved better than him imagining her to satisfy himself during the long, lonely nights. He’d thought that part of his life was over, that need. Either the shrapnel or the whiskey had taken it from him, and until now, he hadn’t cared. He didn’t want to look at himself, or touch himself, so he was under no illusions that anyone else would want to.
Especially not her. She couldn’t even look at his face.
He tried to block out the memory of her kiss, that innocent touch of her lips against his, begging him to be her first—and what inevitably came next. His patient, tender refusal. The look in her eyes now when she’d had to turn away was much the same. As if something inside her had been crushed.
What the hell was he thinking anyway? Even if he’d come home whole, he still wasn’t good enough for Betsy Lewis.
God, but he wanted a drink. He wanted to silence the voices in his head, the memories and the pain. He consoled himself that this would be over quickly. The townspeople would get their look at him and then they’d leave him alone.
That’s what this recognition ceremony was all about—they wanted their look to satisfy their curiosity. They’d go home and talk about what a shame it was what happened to Jack McConnell and then they’d leave him in blessed peace.
The mayor continued to drone on and Jack managed to tear his gaze away from Betsy. “And with that, we’d like to present you with this award,” the mayor finished.
Jack stood slowly, his prosthesis working with him and straightening as the rest of his body did. He still couldn’t move too fast or it would throw off his balance.
He was expected to speak, but he had nothing to say.
“It’s an honor, sir,” the mayor said, shaking his hand.
He leaned over the mic and fixed his stare on a point against the far wall. “The honor is mine. Both to have served my country and to be part of this community. Thank you.” Jack accepted the plaque and headed for the exit, trying not to choke on the bile in his throat.
Betsy was suddenly standing in front of him with one of the purple boxes—just like the ones she used to send him. “Hi, Jack.” She thrust the box into his hand and flung herself into his arms.
She clung tightly to him and he couldn’t stop himself from clinging back. The scents of vanilla and sugar washed over him. She smelled so good, so wholesome, and she felt even better with her full breasts against his chest. She fit against him as if she’d been made for this moment—for him. Her hair was so soft against his cheek, like black silk. Jack could have stood there forever simply holding her.
But like all breakable things, he knew every second he touched her was dangerous.
“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered against his ear.
Her breath was warm on his skin, tingling. The sensation caused him to remember what it felt like to want. To need. Jack couldn’t help himself. He tightened his embrace and crushed her solidly against him. “You smell like cookies.” He hadn’t seen her in five years, and the first thing he said was that she smelled like cookies. Stupid.
What else was there to say? Don’t tell me it’s good to see me when you can’t even look at me?
She laughed, the sound musical and light, but she made no move to release him and he found he didn’t have to the courage to pull away from her. Right now it was just a hug. They could be Jack and Betsy. When he released her, she’d have to look somewhere and it wouldn’t be his face. He couldn’t blame her.
Or