I know Jack isn’t the same guy who left. He couldn’t be. But that guy made me feel like a live wire and see stars where I knew there weren’t any because my eyes were closed. If someone makes me feel that again, then I’ll go out with him. I won’t settle for less.”
“Honey, if Scott Meyer didn’t make you see stars, you’re a lost cause,” India teased.
Betsy could admit Scott was a catch. He was a fireman. It was some unwritten law that all firemen had to be sexy. He was smart and funny, country-boy sweet with a pair of shoulders like Atlas. Betsy had kissed him on their third date. It had been nice, but it had reminded her of chocolate. Godiva to be exact. She liked Godiva and enjoyed it, an excellent product, but it didn’t do things to her senses the way André’s Confiserie Suisse did. Having had André’s, she was spoiled for anything else.
“Didn’t you go out with him a few times after you got back? I don’t see any follow-up dates that you had, either. You must be a lost cause, too,” Betsy deflected.
A haunted look flashed across India’s features, only to fade into a brittle smile. “I am at that, Bets.” She nodded.
“India,” Betsy began haltingly.
“I’d rather deal with your mess than mine.” India’s expression softened. “I know you and Caleb love me. If I need you, I’ll ask, okay?”
There was so much Betsy wanted to say. India was just returning to civilian life after deployment as a military police officer. While she’d come home physically whole, something catastrophic had happened to her that was more than just the reality of war.
“Okay,” she agreed softly. “But you better hurry up in the dating department. Otherwise you’re stuck with my brother.” They’d made an oath at fifteen that if neither of them was married by thirty, they’d bite the bullet and marry each other. Betsy’s mom had been thrilled and suggested they start dating as a practice run.
“More like he’d be stuck with me.” India managed a real laugh. “Don’t you have cookies to bake?”
Betsy let it drop. “Are you sure you can handle the counter? The morning rush is kind of crazy.”
“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
