Page 31

Damnit. He had a good point. She had just been drowning and almost losing herself in this. The fear slipped through her with chilling results. She backed off him, his words were so real and honest, they made her heart skip a beat to think he found her that irresistible.
“Tell you what. Let me get some clothes on and you can ask me any question you want, you know…for research.”
That appeased her immensely. He wasn’t kicking her out, and she could find out more about him. She had to marvel at the way he always handled things so…damn…well. “All right,” she agreed, hearing the reluctance in her voice.
He slipped by her and walked over to the other side of the bed. He just stood there, and she waited. With an exasperated sigh, he set his hands on his hips, which only made him look more devastatingly male. More masculine. Sexier.
“Grace,” he said, his mouth kicking up, that tender look mixed with amusement in his eyes.
“What? I agreed,” she groused.
“I know. I’m about to drop my towel to put on my sweats.” He raised his brows at her.
She frowned. Why was he looking at her like that? “Okay?” Then it dawned on her. “Oh, privacy. God, I’m a clueless maniac.” She turned around, warmed deep inside by his soft, affectionate chuckle.
“In the best way,” he muttered beneath his breath.
Her eyes landed on the edge of the dresser, a rolled, well-used square of deep blue cloth, its edges frayed, the embroidery worn. A prayer rug.
Her chest pulled tight. Not from surprise, but from something more complicated. It wasn’t just the sight of it. It was what it meant. That it was here, in this space, in reach, but not unrolled. He traveled with it. But was he using it?
Her breath caught at the thought of him kneeling alone on that cloth in the dark. Silent. Still. A man forged in noise, clinging to something that asked him to stop moving.
It was that quiet part of him she suddenly ached to understand.
How he moved through the world carrying everything and showing almost nothing.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the version of him who had once knelt there, on that rug, maybe whispering to a God he wasn’t sure still listened. What did he say in the silence? What had he asked for? What did he regret? She wanted to know everything.
There was a rustle of cloth and his deep voice. “Okay, I’m dressed.”
She looked over her shoulder to find him in a pair of snug gray sweatpants that clung to those powerful thighs, catching him just above the ankle. To her disappointment, he’d also covered that wide expanse of chest with a blue T-shirt that had Navy in white letters over his heart.
His eyes met hers across the space, steady but not sharp. “Tea,” he said as if begging her to stop looking at him like she wanted to devour him, which she did.
She turned and poured water into the second mug beside his, unwrapping and setting in two tea bags. As they settled into the hot water, the words just came out. “Your prayer rug is beautiful,” she said softly.
He froze.
Not in discomfort, but like something inside him had been touched without warning.
“Yeah,” he said after a second, voice lower. “It is.”
Her eyes didn’t leave it. “You keep it close.”
“Old habit,” he murmured. “Doesn’t take much space.”
She stepped closer, her voice dropping with intent. “But it means something. Or you wouldn’t pack it.”
Nash looked at her. No mask. No shield. Just him. His breath came a little shallower.
“It used to mean everything,” he said. “Structure. Rhythm. Peace. All the things the Teams strip away when you’re deployed too long.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I used to pray before every op. After, too.” A dry huff. “Especially then.”
“But you don’t now?” she asked gently.
He shook his head. “I still believe. I think. I just...haven’t had the words. Or maybe I’m afraid if I try, I won’t feel anything. That’ll be worse than silence.”
Grace’s chest ached. “So, you carry it instead.”