When they’d gotten engaged, Lynnie and Sean, she’d known the rightness of it. Accepted it. She’d managed to stop thinking about him every day. But sometimes she still felt that familiar tug in her belly, the tingle between her legs when his hand would brush hers, or she could feel the heat of his body when he sat next to her.
She knew it was pathetic, but that didn’t stop her.
Now Lynnie was gone, and in a way, she guessed Sean was, too.
It was late on a sticky July afternoon when Kentucky Lee was sure the moonshine cherries she’d been eating while hanging out on the deck of the Shooting Star Honky-Tonk had conjured a ghost.
Sean Dryden, looking as hollow and broken as he had the day of Lynnie’s funeral, sat down in the chair next to her. Its old rusted metal base creaked under his weight, but he didn’t seem to notice. A day’s growth of beard shadowed his handsome face. He had a bottle of her locally sourced—homemade—shine in his hand.
He looked like hell.
And still, he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen in real life.
She offered him a cherry and he offered her a sip of shine.
“I didn’t think that was your speed.” Kentucky pointed her chin at the moonshine.
“It’s not really, but it’s good for what ails you. Isn’t that what your grandmother used to say?”
“She sure did.” Kentucky nodded.
“I like that about you.”
“What?” She looked up.
“No small talk. No accusations wondering why I’m not out playing flyboy.” He said this last bit derisively.
“Playing flyboy? I think what you do is a little more important than that.” As a special ops pilot, it was his job to get operatives in and out of war zones. To move undetected through enemy airspace and ensure the safety of his team and everyone aboard his Black Hawk.
And to destroy whatever operational targets had been provided.
“That’s just it. You’re the only one.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case.” Everyone was mostly in awe of what he did, at least the parts he could tell people about.
“You’d be surprised.”
At the expression on his face, she was reminded of the day of the funeral and all the she-wolves looking to take him down like prey. “So why are you home?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Mental health days.”
“You only got a few days before. It was inhumane. I’m glad you got some more time.” There was no way he could’ve been expected to deal with his loss in the week he’d been given at home before he’d had to return to duty.
“I’d have rather spent it on a beach somewhere. That would be some real mental health recuperation.” He took another swig of shine.
He was so hard, so angry. She couldn’t blame him for it either. Kentucky knew she would be, too.
They passed the bottle back and forth between them a couple of times and sat in a companionable silence for a long moment.
She tried not to think about the heat that burned her fingers when their hands brushed as he handed her the bottle. Or that his firm mouth had been where her lips were, that it was almost like a kiss. It was the closest she’d ever get to something like that with a guy like him.
Guilt surged and washed over her desire, tamping it down to some small, inconsequential thing. But the flame still burned, flickered like a newly lit candle. Kentucky exhaled heavily.
“I just can’t do it.” He tossed back some more moonshine. “It’s stifling here.”
She turned to look at him. The chiseled ridge of his clenched jaw, the stiff set to his broad shoulders, the tension that thrummed through him like a live wire. Kentucky wished she could ease his pain.
And her own.
“I know, right?” She pursed her lips. “I’ve never been like them. Like you.”
“Me?” Sean pushed the bottle toward her. “What does that mean?”
“You know, the kind who fits in.” She shrugged.
“You fit in more than you know. You don’t have to hide who you are to be special, Kentucky.”
Part of her wanted to argue with him, to deny any of the more tender things that could hurt her. But this had been part of her fantasies. That he always knew who she was.
And wanted her anyway.
She swallowed. “Yeah, well, you know.” Great. That sentence didn’t even make any sense. Kentucky shrugged again. “I can do that, too. Shine a light on things you’d rather not see. Like Lynnie’s death.” She fixed him with a hard stare. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He looked away from her. “Yes, it was. There are things you don’t know, Kentucky.”
“Like what? Like you made the road slick? You made her brakes fail? It was a terrible accident that could’ve happened to any of us.” Of course he felt guilty because he hadn’t been here. Logic wouldn’t fix that for him. Only he could make it right in his own head.
“I can’t talk about it.” His stare was focused somewhere out on the horizon. Somewhere he could be that wasn’t here, in this place, without Lynnie. Or that was what she imagined.
She pursed her lips again, feeling them go tight and thin. “You don’t have to. I think I’ve had enough of talking. At least talking about death. Because we’re still here. We’re still alive.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Kentucky mustered up a grin. “I guess I don’t know about you, but I am.” This was what she’d been waiting for. Some grand spark of inspiration, a way to honor Lynnie’s life that represented who she was. Not the Saint Paul Lutheran Ladies Auxiliary version. Lynnie had always been so vital. Her life was like a star, something bright and sparkling.
“Come on.” She held out her hand as she stood. “Let’s get out of here.”
Sean cocked his head to the side and seemed to debate for a long moment. “Screw it.” He took her hand and hopped up to his feet. “Where are we going?”
“Come with me and find out.” She dragged him behind her toward the back of the property, his warm fingers closed around hers.
She wouldn’t think about how good it felt to hold his hand, to have some solid anchor keeping her in the moment. As she drew him deeper into the wooded area, he paused.
“Mossy Rock? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m so serious right now.” She tugged his hand and he followed. “Lynnie loved it out here. Do you remember?”
“Yeah.” His voice was tight with emotion.
Mossy Rock was a place right out of a teen drama. It was the weekend place for Winchester teens in the summer and early fall before the air turned cold and sharp. Mossy Rock was like a backwoods waterslide right into Sutter’s Pond.
It was known for camping, the occasional kegger, bonfires and long summer days spent in the water floating around on inner tubes and sunning on the grass around the pond.
She stopped just at the edge of the rock. “Are you in?”
“I’m not sliding down that rock, Kentucky.” His voice sounded like some sitcom dad, faux stern.
“Then I guess I’m going to leave you here by yourself. Sucks for you.” She pulled off her boots and arched a brow.