Or why those implications didn’t bother him nearly as much as they should have.
It was a long while later that he lifted his head. They’d eventually hunted up the stash of party condoms in her bathroom and, even now, he couldn’t help but smile to himself at the novelty of wearing neon green.
“That’s a rather smug look?”
Since Reese wore one that matched his, he reached out and traced her full lower lip. “A look I think you’re rather well acquainted with.”
“I’m not smug.”
“Smug and well loved. It’s a good look on you.” He leaned in and gave her one more kiss before she could protest, then pulled back. “My smile was for the vivid memory of a neon-green condom. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one of those before.”
“Clearly, you haven’t spent much time around bachelorette parties.”
“Maybe I need to start.”
He got a light swat on his shoulder for the effort and leaned in, nuzzling her neck once more as his hands drifted over her shoulders and on down over her breasts. Damn, when was the last time he’d felt this good? He hadn’t had sex in a while—he’d nearly tossed that condom in his wallet a few weeks ago—and had long stopped even considering a relationship or anything that smacked of permanence.
Or even semi-permanence.
But what had he given up because of it?
His evening with an interesting, engaging, pretty woman had been special. She had thoughts and ideas and hadn’t been afraid to express them. They’d finally wandered into her kitchen around three o’clock, fixing sandwiches, and she’d shared her ideas on teaching and what she hoped for her students and chattered happily about one who’d recently written her after graduating from college.
He’d seen pride shining from her and a happiness for others that was rare. And beautiful. Reese had captivated him, that excitement and enthusiasm still shiny and bright, undimmed by the events with her father a few months back. It was awesome to behold, especially as someone who’d allowed his own parent’s poor behavior to keep a firm grip on his emotions.
Maybe that had been the root of his displeasure of late. Reynolds Station was doing well—beyond his, Ace’s, Tate’s and Arden’s wildest imaginings—yet, he hadn’t found a way to enjoy any of it. He’d hit that very same point in the marines and then, later, in special ops. Years of working toward promotions and the respect that came with growing leadership had fulfilled him, and then one day it simply hadn’t satisfied any longer. The orders and the structure and the reality that he was a chess piece on someone else’s board had finally gotten to him.
In both cases, he’d lost the ability to take those precious moments of joy and pleasure and happiness at what his own hard work had produced.
It was a strange place to be, when all the hard work—work that was supposed to save you and occupy you and lift you up—simply didn’t. Each accomplishment felt hollow, like it should mean more.
So why did he still feel empty?
“Hoyt?”
His name was a soft whisper in the room, but it was enough to pull him from his musings. “Yes?”
“I’m glad you stayed.”
“No regrets?” The question was out before he could stop it and he was surprised to realize just how much he hoped the answer was no. Never.
“Not at all.”
“Me, either.”
“Thank you for being there. I’m glad you pulled the responsible cowboy routine on Tabasco.”
“I’m glad I did, too.”
“Then why don’t you prove it to me before you have to head out for work.”
He hadn’t mentioned leaving or work or a timed departure, so it was with no small measure of surprise that Hoyt realized Reese had been thinking it.
As he lowered his lips to hers, once again wrapping himself up in her body, he knew it was stupid to feel even a shot of sadness. What man didn’t want an easy exit after a night of unexpected sex? But as Reese shifted beneath him, drawing him close and setting the rhythm that had become intimately familiar overnight, Hoyt couldn’t quite shake his disappointment.
She’d been unexpected, yes. But more welcome than he ever could have imagined.
Two months later
“I’m sorry, Jake. Run that by me again?” She set the stapler down on her desk for fear the heavy object might become a weapon if her vision hazed any redder. Reese had learned a long time ago to never tell herself things couldn’t get worse. It was one of the harshest lessons an addict had taught their family, and she’d had a crash course by the time she was a freshman at Midnight Pass High School.
Jamie had been the best of big brothers, but by the time she’d turned fourteen, their three-year age gap had made all the difference. What had been a bit of bad behavior—smoking marijuana at the end of the day or drinking too much out at the edge of town—had quickly become an addiction when his urges took a hard turn. Cocaine was plentiful in the Pass, brought up from South America by the drug runners who controlled the border, and her brother had been an easy mark.
But it was the heroin a year later that had sealed his fate.
By the time she’d started freshman year, her parents had already placed Jamie into two addiction programs and a solid amount of familial house arrest. Reese hadn’t fully understood it at the time, but she’d done the only thing she had understood: acting the exact opposite of her brother.
Straight A’s. A steady diet of after-school activities. And her role as the good girl of Midnight Pass. She never smoked, drank and hadn’t even kissed a boy. They were traits that formed her and built the foundation of her life, and up until her late night foray with Hoyt Reynolds back in June, she hadn’t deviated from that plan.
Oh, she’d been kissed since high school. And she certainly enjoyed liquor from time to time. Four years at the University of Texas had helped see her through both rites of passage. But the core of who she was—the good daughter of Serena and Russ Grantham—had stuck.
Which made the warning shots fired across her classroom that much harder to accept.
“Aww, come on, Reese. Don’t make me say it again.”
“No.” She shook her head, even as her fingers itched to pick up the stapler once more. “I need to hear you say it. I want to make sure I got it right the first time.”
Jacob Walters was a friend. He was about five years older than her, but they’d both taught in the English department until he was promoted to assistant principal two years before. It was that steady core of friendship—and the knowledge that Jake was an unfailingly kind human—that kept her in check.
And her hand off the stapler.
“The PTA is concerned,” Jake said.
“Define concerned.”
Jake sighed but kept his gaze level, his words simple and straightforward. “They’re concerned your father’s passing a few months back was too big a trauma not to take some time off.”
“I took time when it happened. Mourned the passing of a parent good and proper, just as dictated in the union bylaws. Two whole weeks,” Reese added for good measure, as if Jake had forgotten.
“They think