Out of the Ashes Page 7

  “Yeah, darlin’.” Kane finally drags his eyes off the TV, only because it’s gone to a commercial. “You were the initial investor, after all.”

  My head whips around to stare at him. “How the hell—”

  “Do I know that?” Kane grins smugly. “I may not be a former SEAL, but Green Berets aren’t slouches in the intelligence department either, darlin’.”

  Leaning back in my chair casually, I level a stare at my roommate. “So then you also know that, although I was the initial investor, I also—”

  “Got your initial investment back within the first year of TriShield Protection opening for business?” Kane leans back, imitating my posture. “Yep.”

  Doc lets out a low chuckle, muttering, “The joys that go hand in hand when you work with former Special Ops guys.”

  “Getting back to the original question.” Kane leans his forearms on the table, aquamarine gaze fixed on me. “Are you cool with helping out while Noelle and Fos are away?”

  I nod. “I had planned on it.”

  “I, for one, am wounded I wasn’t asked to be in charge.” Kane’s lips form a pout as he runs a hand down his broad chest. His accent grows thicker, which means he’s about to lay the bullshit on pretty heavy. “This fine, Southern Texan Green Beret could handle that duty blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back.”

  “But you would’ve darlin’d everyone to death,” Doc and I say in unison before darting a half-surprised glance at one another and then dismiss it with an amused look.

  “I’m sure Fos would like to come back and find he still has just as many clients, not less,” Doc remarks with a smirk.

  “Plus, I’m not asking for a paycheck.” I cock an eyebrow at Kane, half-joking.

  I’m not asking for a paycheck, even though I know Fos will give me a hard time and try to force me to take the pay. Thanks to wise investments, not to mention my benefits from my medical retirement from the Navy, I’m well-situated financially.

  Kane discreetly flips me the bird while lifting his beer to his lips.

  My cell phone vibrates, notifying me of another incoming text message. Assuming it’s Fos again, I’m surprised to see an unknown number, and it takes me a moment to realize who it’s from.

  You need to arrive at the Magnolia Ballroom at the Plantation Resort no later than seven IF you don’t want her to fly solo for her awards night.

  As soon as I finish reading that message, another one comes in, and this one has my lips curving into a smile.

  Wear something impressive. And not a ball cap. You need to look muy guapo—handsome.

  Lucia. Lovely, meddling Lucia.

  Rising from my chair, I toss money down to cover my part.

  “Got somewhere to be?” Doc asks.

  With a cocky smile spreading across my face, I answer, “Indeed, I do,” before I say goodbye.

  Walking across the large patio of Surfside, I notice the woman in the hat who’d been sitting at the bar is no longer there, and at the forefront of my mind is the undeniable surge of both excitement and panic running through my veins at the prospect of making an appearance at Presley’s award ceremony. Panic for the obvious—having to bare my face and give others an unencumbered view of my scars. Excitement at being the man to swoop in and save Presley’s evening and be her plus one.

  Hell, maybe I can still be a hero after all.

  * * *

  This was a bad fucking idea. And the image staring back at me in the bathroom mirror is glaring proof.

  Kane’s reaction when he gets home drives that point home.

  “Wooo-eeee! What do we have here?” Leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, he takes in the sight of me with a grin. “Now darlin’, you’d better be prepared to turn many a head looking like that.” He waves a hand, encompassing my attire. “Hell, I might even be tempted right now. Feel like getting with another Texas boy, darlin’?”

  Rolling my eyes in response, I shove back from the bathroom vanity and step toward him to exit. As he shifts to the side, allowing me to slip past him, his tone sounds forlorn.

  “Wait. Does that mean no? Well, hell. The melancholy’ll set in like no other.”

  Roommates. I’ll never know how I got stuck with one like this. Damn former Green Beret.

  “Have fun and use protection, now,” Kane drawls as I gather my keys and wallet. I hesitate when I grab my hat—or “cover,” as it’s referred to in military terms—knowing it’s against regulations to wear my cover inside an establishment…which means I won’t have anything to hide behind at the banquet.

  Anxiety squeezes my chest like an unforgiving fist, considering the prospect of people recognizing me from all the news frenzy months ago. Of the intrusive questions. But worse than that, their pitying looks when they see my face, close-up.

  “Hey.” Kane’s voice drags me from my conflicted thoughts. Once my eyes meet him, I find him focused intently on me. “You got this, man.” His large hand lands on my shoulder in a show of solidarity.

  Nodding, I say, “Thanks,” before turning and heading toward the door. Just as I’m pulling it closed behind me, I hear Kane mutter, “Go rescue your woman and show her what’s what.”

  During the entire drive to the resort, I ponder Kane’s words, and there’s no mistaking two things.

  The idea of Presley being my woman is far more appealing than I could have ever expected.

  And second, I’ve never wished—yearned—for a woman to be mine.

  Until now.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Presley

  “Dr. Cole! You look stunning this evening!”

  Upon entering the ballroom where the awards ceremony is being held, I’m immediately pulled into a gentle embrace by the Chamber of Commerce Chairman’s wife.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Donnelly. You look gorgeous, as well.” And she does. The older woman, whom I’d estimate is in her mid-fifties, is wearing a gold dress that flatters her figure, and her hair is perfectly coifed.

  Mrs. Donnelly glances past me before her questioning gaze settles on me, brows slightly furrowed with concern. “Your beau? Is he not coming?”

  Great. I’d hoped not to have to address this. But she was the one who dealt with all the RSVPs, so…

  Inhaling a fortifying breath, I respond carefully; the sudden hush falling over the crowd of attendees doesn’t immediately register. “No, ma’am. He couldn’t make it, so I—”

  “So I volunteered to attend in his absence.”

  That voice—that deep, husky voice is familiar. Which means I shouldn’t be surprised the moment I turn around to face him. I also shouldn’t feel a sense of comfort, of calm, settle over me by his mere presence. Nor should my heart beat wildly.

  I shouldn’t feel any of that. But I do. Because he came here for me. To support me.

  The moment I take in the sight before me… Oh, wow… I can barely form words to express my thoughts. Because the sight is simply incredible.

  Hendy’s in his white Navy uniform with all his ribbons and medals on display. Hat tucked under his arm, he’s standing before me looking so unbelievably handsome. But that’s not what makes my chest tighten and my stomach lurch. It’s that I detect his anxiety, the way he’s unable to hide behind that ball cap like he normally does. That he came here tonight for me, aware of the risk he would be recognized and questioned—with the knowledge he’d be stared at.

  Knowing all this, I’m assaulted with emotions. Because he’s doing this—sacrificing his comfort—for me and expecting absolutely nothing in return.

  “Hendy.” I smile up at him, uncaring that my voice is breathier than normal. I attribute that to the extent of his handsomeness. Even adorned with his normal ball cap, he attracts the attention of women. Without it, without any shadowing of his face, even with his scarred left side on display, he’s already garnering attention from other women. Yet his focus remains solely on me.

  “Ma’am.” He gives me a slight nod, with wary hesitance in his features,
as if he’s afraid I’ll turn him away.

  When I take one step toward him, he offers me the crook of his elbow. Sliding my arm through it, I smile up at him and lean in close enough for only him to hear.

  “Thank you.” And I hope with all that I am my tone conveys how much I appreciate him doing this for me, how heartfelt those words are.

  His dark brown eyes shimmer with a unique intensity. “Anytime.”

  His response isn’t particularly unique or special, but he says it as if he’s silently tacking on something at the end.

  Anytime. For you.

  * * *

  “You are an absolute doll to appear and escort poor little Dr. Cole tonight, Hendy.”

  If this woman uses that gushy, patronizing tone one more time, I’m going to be hard-pressed not to accidentally-on-purpose spill my drink in her lap. The wife of the Chamber’s Treasurer slipped into the chair on my right at the large round table when the seat on the other side of Hendy, who’s beside me, was taken by another local business owner.

  Not to mention, this wife—whose name I promptly forgot because she didn’t even introduce herself—reached in front of me, holding her hand out to announce her name to Hendy. As it is, it’s taking every ounce of resistance to keep from giving her a swift palm-shove to the face every time she leans around me to speak to him. And in the process, giving Hendy a view of her ample, surgically enhanced breasts.

  God, I sound bitter. Itty bitty titty committee here is apparently having a pity party. Seating for one, of course.

  “Oh, but it’s Dr. Cole who’s the doll. She’s the one gracious enough to allow me to accompany her.” Hendy shifts his large body, thigh brushing against mine before his fingers give a quick squeeze to my knee hidden beneath the tablecloth. He’s trying to comfort me as if to tell me that he knows she’s petty.

  “Plus”—he turns to me, hand sliding off my knee, and I instantly feel the loss—“it’s the least I can do since she’s helped me in my recovery.”

  “Ah, yes. They left you pretty bad off, didn’t they?” This comes from the owner of one of the local surf apparel shops, Mr. Semmes, who’s sitting beside Hendy.

  I tense, knowing this conversation can easily veer into territory that neither Hendy nor I want it to go in, but he handles it with ease, chuckling lightly.

  “Clearly, I have more than my share of injuries, but nothing as bad as that poor Camaro you have. How’s the work coming along on that, by the way?”

  And promptly, the conversation veers to Mr. Semmes and his oft-talked-about classic Camaro he’d recently purchased. He’s in the process of restoring it by popping out numerous dents and resurfacing before he repaints it.

  The remainder of the evening progresses in the same manner, with Hendy singing my praises and redirecting conversation when it veers too close for comfort, making me feel like I have a “plus one” who wants to be there with me and for me. Who is proud of me.

  And the moment my name is called during the awards ceremony, Hendy is the one who stands, offering his hand to help me rise from my seat. Giving it a comforting squeeze, he holds a warmth in his eyes that heats me through and through.

  Leaning in quickly, he speaks as his husky voice deepens. “Congratulations, Presley. Knock ‘em dead.” With a wink, he releases my hand, and as I turn to make my way to the stage at the front of the room, I feel his heated gaze on me the entire time.

  Accepting the award and offering my thanks in a brief but heartfelt speech, I can’t resist meeting Hendy’s gaze across the room. Within those eyes are emotions that make me feel conflicted. Because I’ve not witnessed these emotions from Dylan in far too long.

  Heat. Affection.

  But it’s the last one, shining so brightly from his eyes and etched upon his handsome face, that causes warmth to spread through me and to make my stomach give that little flip.

  Unabashed pride.

  * * *

  “May I have this dance?”

  My eyes jerk from where I had been watching others sway on the dance floor situated in the center of the large ballroom to find Hendy watching me carefully.

  “Are you sure you…feel up to it?”

  He leans in closer, and that wicked grin sends shivers down my spine. “Why not give the tongues a reason to wag?” He winks and offers with self-deprecating humor, “A true Beauty and the Beast scenario, right?”

  As if he senses my reprimand when my lips part, he interrupts me.

  “Clue: Dance with a beautiful woman who’s not only smart as hell but also voted the best chiropractor in Fernandina Beach?”

  His Jeopardy phrased response brings a smile to my face while I shake my head. “I don’t know the answer to that one.”

  Hendy leans in closer, his voice low and gravelly. “What is what I’d be more than honored to do?”

  Rising from his chair, he holds a hand out to me, and I stand, allowing him to lead me to the dance floor. Even with the added height offered by my heels, the top of my head barely reaches his cheek.

  His large hand resting at my side, mere inches above my hip, along with his light, easy grasp of my other hand are completely acceptable. Nothing is inappropriate about his touch, yet…I feel as though it’s heated and my body is on high alert. The large span of his hand sends warmth radiating through me.

  Everything—such intense awareness—that I should not be feeling about anyone aside from Dylan.

  “Hey.” My eyes fly up to Hendy, finding him watching me, his expression tender. “You okay?”

  Nodding, I offer, “I’m fine,” before tearing my eyes away, knowing he’ll be able to see beneath it.

  My gaze is unfocused as we sway, the song coming to an end before the DJ leads into a new one. Chris de Burgh’s “Lady in Red.”

  My hair ruffles slightly from Hendy’s chuckle at my temple. “This song is fitting.”

  Lifting my gaze to his, I see something flash in his eyes. “Really?”

  His eyebrows raised, he curves his lips up at the corners. “With the way you look tonight? Hell, yes.”

  Immediately self-conscious, I glance down at my dress before meeting his gaze again. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

  Hendy doesn’t immediately answer as his eyes travel from my toes all the way up to my hair before blowing out a heavy breath, his gaze focusing on something over my head, his jaw tight.

  “Too much? No. To be blunt, it makes it damn difficult to remember you belong to someone else.”

  Swallowing hard, I let out a tiny breath before speaking, attempting to change the path of the conversation. “Clue: Grateful and proud that you’re my plus one tonight.”

  His gaze flickers over my face, corners of his lips tipping up. “Answer: Who is Presley Cole?”

  When I nod, he dips his head, his lips so close to my ear that when he speaks, his hot breath washes over me. “I’ll never forget the way you look tonight. My very own, albeit temporary, ‘Lady in Red.’”

  Hendy doesn’t back away for me to see his eyes, to gauge his expression, but stays here, swaying with me until the song ends and transitions to one that’s faster paced. Only then do we part to make our way back to the table, and as I walk to my seat, I know one thing with certainty—I’ll never forget this night. This night—one which could very well have turned out vastly different but was saved—has transformed into one of the most memorable evenings of my life.

  Because of Hendy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hendy

  The way the woman looked at me after we’d rescued her from Somali pirates on a night mission we’d been responsible for—when I’d carried her to the landing zone of the chopper—will never fade. She’d looked at me like I was some invincible, all-powerful hero.

  Or my memory of a small Iraqi boy caught in the crossfire when it was discovered his parents had been offering up intel on ISIS leaders nearby. We’d been sent to enter a small home to do a quick “snatch and grab” of one of the lead militants, and we stumbl
ed upon them as they were about to behead the child. The moment we’d taken the asshole out, I’d sheltered the boy from other potential threats in the home until we’d secured the place. When I’d checked him over to ensure he was unharmed, the look on his face had been one of awe.

  I’d insisted on opening Presley’s car door when the valet drove up to the resort’s entrance, ensuring she was in safely. And I can’t lie and say I didn’t do my best to memorize everything about her before I said goodnight and shut that car door—to ensure I’ll remember the way she looked tonight. For years to come.

  But not only that, the expression on her face all evening was one that made me feel…normal. Like the old Hendy—the one women lusted over; the face women always wanted to caress and kiss.

  Not the face people stared at. Not the face women would rather not touch with a ten-foot pole, let alone their lips.

  Presley had looked at me much like that woman and child we’d rescued.

  She had looked at me like I was her very own hero. But not only that, she looked at me—and treated me—like I was a regular man.

  Shutting off the engine of my truck as soon as I pull into the driveway, I subconsciously run a hand down the left side of my face, my fingers grazing over the indentations in the flesh. Blowing out a long breath, I lean my head against the headrest, and my eyes fall closed. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll find anyone who can accept this version of me.

  Someone who will be able to see past the numerous unattractive physical imperfections. Someone who could love the man I am now.

  But I’m not sure that’s even possible.

  Glancing over at the rearview mirror, I find myself fantasizing for a moment at the sight I see—that the left side of my face is the same as the right, with only a few extremely faint scars. That I’m the same Hendy who used to have to turn away admirers. That I’m the same man who had women hanging all over him as soon as we were stateside between deployments. That I’m still the man women would refer to as “handsome” or “hot.”