change the past. But maybe this would make up for it a little. And wouldn’t it be fabulous if everyone thinking he was totally awesome helped her father see how great Brody was? That way, if anything did happen between her and Brody, he wouldn’t have such a lousy reaction this time.
She almost laughed aloud at the perfection of her plan.
Not that she was thinking anything was going to happen between her and Brody. Not really. Although those letters could be taken as interest on his part. Or severe horniness, she warned herself, not wanting to get her hopes up too high. It wasn’t like he’d even used her name. He could have been writing to anyone. But he’d sent the letters to her. That might mean something.
She propped her chin on her fist and gave a wistful sigh.
Maybe.
“Do you guys remember that night we played truth or dare and Brody was the—”
“Did Irene say when she’ll be back with Brody?” Genna interrupted Dina, looking up so fast she slapped herself in the eyes with her own hair. No, no, no. They were not revisiting truth-or-dare night. She’d never told them what’d happened between her and Brody. She’d played it off as if her father had busted them before anything had happened.
Nobody had ever connected that night and Brody’s disappearance, either. Brian Lane had never said a word about his son’s departure and if Irene knew Genna’s part in her grandson’s sudden desire to serve his country, she’d never let on.
Dina blinked a couple of times, clearly not happy to have her juicy gossip flow interrupted. Then, as if she’d just remembered that their little dare was a secret, and one that Genna had paid dearly for with a monthlong restriction, she made a show of dropping the subject.
“Subtle,” Macy murmured, rolling her eyes.
Dina huffed. Then, realizing nobody else was paying them any attention, she shrugged and dug into her dessert.
“Irene said he’s due to be released from the hospital next week. So depending on how long it takes to convince him, anytime between then and never.”
Genna pressed her lips together and stared at the bland blob of dessert Dina was shoveling in, trying to keep her excitement to herself.
A week.
She might see Brody Lane again in a week.
It was going to be so awesome.
* * *
WELL, WASN’T THIS freaking awesome.
One minute his life was rolling along just fine.
The next it totally sucked.
He’d come full circle. Ten years ago he’d been a loser badass with no prospects and a chip on his shoulder. He’d ridden to the top, an elite Special Forces SEAL living a life he loved. And now he was back in his hometown with no prospects, sporting that same chip. He figured it’d take about three days in Bedford before he could claim the loser title again.
His hands fisted around his crutches, Brody glared at the small house, its chipped paint and shutters sagging as if it was as enthusiastic to see him as he was it.
“Brody, sweetie, you sure you want to stay out here? I’ve got plenty of room in the front house. You can stay with me, where I can do a little fussing over you.”
He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be as far from fussing and people and, hell, life if he had his way.
But he couldn’t yell that at his gramma.
Not because manners forbade it or that it was bad form. But because when he’d tried it in the hospital she’d smacked him upside the head, then burst into tears. He hadn’t even felt the smack, but the tears had kicked his ass.
He’d given in to the guilt, and the nagging, and when the doctor ordered him to physical therapy at his home base in Coronado, he’d said he’d stay off-base with his family and come in for PT.
He hadn’t wanted to return. He didn’t want to face his team, to stay on base and pretend he belonged there. That he was still a SEAL.
His leg was jacked up bad. Shrapnel did a nasty number on flesh and muscle. But it’d heal. Unlike Carter.
Dead didn’t heal.
The mission had been deemed a success by their superiors, as they’d achieved their target and rescued not only their target but three other hostages.
The mission has been a failure in the eyes of the team. Because they’d lost one of their own.
The mission had been the end as far as Brody was concerned. The warriors’ creed demanded they leave no man behind. Dead or alive, they brought out their own.
He’d failed. It didn’t matter that he’d taken a hit; he was trained to ignore injuries. It didn’t matter that he’d had a little girl in his arms at the time of the explosion that’d knocked Carter on his ass. The only thing that mattered was he hadn’t gone back. He hadn’t gotten his teammate out in time.
Forcing aside the churning emotions battling it out in his gut, Brody turned to give his gramma a smile. Well, a shift of his lips. That was about as close as he was getting.
“I’ll be fine here. I’m better on my own for a while.”
For a while. Forever. Either worked for him.
“Now that you’re out of the navy—”
“I’m not out,” he snapped. Then, grinding his teeth to try to chew the rough edges off his tone, he continued, “I’m on convalescent leave.”
Three freaking months of leave before a navy surgeon would reevaluate Brody’s chances of full use of his leg. Twelve weeks to contemplate the end of the career he loved.
Once again, Bedford was akin to purgatory just before he dove into hell. He’d vowed when he left—or was kicked out, to be precise—never to set foot in this lousy town again. So why was he back?
He looked at his gramma and sighed. Why? Guilt. That’s why. When an old woman who was terrified to fly crossed the country to pray at your bedside, you did whatever the hell she wanted.
Guilt, and the simple truth. He had nowhere else to go.
“Don’t you think you’ll convalesce better in the main house? There’s a phone there, television. I can cook for you and make sure you’re okay. These steps, they’re not good for your leg. Or for my arthritis. Wouldn’t you rather be close where I can keep an eye on you?”
Brody’s ears sank into his shoulders.
How many times in his life had Gramma Irene tried to keep an eye on him? So many. Living with his father meant a filthy apartment over a bar, fending for himself from the time he was six onward. As Brian’s drinking got worse, it’d included beatings that had escalated until Brody was old enough to hold his own. But it’d also meant freedom.
Gramma Irene’s meant rules. Three meals, on time with clean hands. Curfew, attending school and talking.
