Page 15 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

He took out his knife and slit the end of the package with care not to cut anything inside. “There’s your paperwork.”

She waved her numb hand at him. “Pull the papers out for me.”

He raised a brow. “Changing your mind?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“Cait?”

She sighed. “Nope, not doing that. This makes it real, though.”

Hunt held his own thoughts and took the paperwork from the envelope. Several other pieces of paper and a letter fell out. “Do you want to deal with this now?”

She twisted her lips. “The decision isn’t any different. I love the Army, but my injuries and you matter more. So, yes.”

He took his knife, slit open the letter, and sorted the other info into a pile. “You should have a rep helping you with this.”

“He told me I could call, and he’d walk me through it.”

She leaned forward and studied the papers on the table.

All the places tagged for her to sign were marked with neon pink sticky tabs. All neat and insulting. Hunt sorted the other pages. “Retirement fund, insurance, and VA info, and this.” He separated the edges of the letter and pulled it out, then handed it to her.

She took the letter, read the page, stopped, went back to the top and read again. Hysterical laughter erupted. She threw the letter at him. “Jesus.”

“What?”

Hunt scanned the page. His eyes widened, flash anger striking like lightning. The CIA wants to recruit her , and could she contact them at her earliest convenience?

She rose and paced from one end of the kitchen to the other.

“What the fuck is this?” Hunt scraped deep to contain the eruption of his temper with little success.

“How the hell should I know?” She stopped in front of the sink. She bent at the waist as if sick and leaned her forehead on the edge of the counter.

He tossed the letter on the table. “Dammit, Cait, that’s my world and I don’t want you in it.”

She jerked upright and whipped around. “What exactly do you mean?”

Hunt had shifted to his mean face. He knew it. Couldn’t stop it. “Just what I said.”

“Perfect. Is QM out, also?”

“Cait, wait.”

“No, leave it.” She hobbled away from him and down the hall. The bedroom door closed with a quiet click. The shower turned on.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t slam the door. She didn’t ask for help.

“Jesus, Hunter.” Hunt stayed seated, his eyes closed, jaw clenched.

§§§§§§§§§§

? First Fight, Second Chance ?

Combat awareness woke him from deep sleep. Alert, he took a few seconds to orient himself. The fresh, soft sheets smelled of sweet apple blossom and lavender. There was none of Doogie’s snoring, and he had no weapon. He stretched a hand to find Cait. Her side of the bed was empty and cold.

She’d been asleep when he’d finally come to bed.

A fight, if you could call it that, was inevitable, but not over this.

He’d been tempted to stay on the sofa, but he didn’t want Cait any angrier with him than she was, and their red sofa would forever not be the answer.

Their shared bed was a safe, sacred place.

To find her asleep when he came to bed settled some things and solved nothing.

Darkness shrouded the room, the bedroom door edged to closed. Light from the living room gave him a clue to her whereabouts. He looked at his watch. Three a.m. This time of night he knew.

He swung out of bed. Back at the start of their relationship, he’d understood they had the potential to badly hurt each other.

It sucked to be the first one to do the dirty deed.

He was going to have to learn not to be so damn protective, but he did not want his tough world for her.

It was a dangerous, soul-crushing, and violent place to live.

However, he hadn’t used the right words, and he saw the hurt crush her before she could blank her face. He didn’t say sorry easily. The words were a trigger from his ugly childhood. But he owed her one. He slipped into a pair of athletic shorts and went quietly into the living room on bare feet.

Cait stretched on a purple swirled mat in the midst of the crowded living room floor.

The pose challenged the muscles around her freshly healed hip.

Her eyes closed, she pulled in a deep breath and released.

Not sure what he should do, given the rockiness from earlier, he stayed still.

Her determination, strength, and focus showed in the discipline of the pose.

Pride in her washed over him. He should tell her so.

Her eyes popped open. She tilted her head and gazed at him. “Hey.”

“I’m proud of you.” He kept his voice quiet in keeping with the dark of night.

She dropped her head, closing her eyes again. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

She kept her struggles to herself, and he was guilty of letting her. “What are you doing awake?”

“It’s like this sometimes. Dark of night, dreams, anxiety, headache. I have to move.”

“Anything specific?” He wasn’t going to let her get away with vague.

She hesitated. He resigned himself to pushing a bit.

“I drove my dad’s Karmen Ghia off a cliff.”

His eyes widened. “Dream?”

She nodded. “Might have been because I talked to Jackie about the storage of his car a few days ago.”

“Makes sense.”

“I floated like the car was a big balloon, but the whole time I knew I was going to crash and explode in a pile of rubble. I kept screaming in my head ‘I don’t want to die.’ I landed on spongy ground, got out of the car unhurt, and discovered I was fucking Ironman.”

He smothered the need to laugh because her eyes filled with tears.

He connected the dream past her car connection to the explosion and her desperate need not to die, to the fucking CIA letter churning memories, to their spat, and to all the worries and difficulties with recovery. She would too if she hadn’t already.

“You should have woken me.” God, he wanted to touch her. Should he? He compromised and sat on the floor next to her, aligning himself with her mat.

She shifted and made room. “You only have a few days at home. You need to relax. I wanted you to sleep.”

“Not if you aren’t. Wake me next time.” He gave in and asked for her hand. The remorse let go of his gut when she slid her soft fingers into his. It was her numb one, and the action reinforced his need to make amends. “Or maybe you’re mad at me?”

She sighed. “I was. Now I’m not. I learned in medical school how to pull anger back and think. I’ll bet you learned it, too.”

“Yeah, I did. We both have been taught to manage our tempers and to measure our words, but it’s not a good practice for home. We both have to be able to say what needs to be said whenever and however necessary. Yelling can be involved, but walking away isn’t.”

She shifted around on the mat to face him. “Sounds like a new marriage rule, but our communication needs more work.”

He swallowed hard. “Agreed, and I’m sorry.”

Quiet reigned while she searched his face. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at Phillip Stocker.”

Hunt couldn’t stop the snort of understanding and didn’t try.

Phillip Stocker had been in charge of their humanitarian mission to the mountains.

Cait’s first foray into black ops with the CIA loomed at the oddest times, even if she hadn’t been read in and wasn’t aware she’d been participating until people started shooting at them.

Her mouth screwed in a sour expression. “You already did the calculations and figured it was him who gave them my name.”

Hunt decided on honesty.

“Most likely, but when I first saw the letter, I said the wrong thing in a moment of overprotectiveness. I don’t want you there.

The truth is I live in a gray, morally challenging world.

It’s nasty and difficult. I don’t want you mixed in that chaos.

You did a fine job on our mission – but it’s a dark place to stay. ”

She stroked a finger across his chin with her good hand. “Let’s be clear. I spent the entire mission trying not to get any of you killed. Period. There was no black ops intent in my behavior.”

He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers. “You did fine. But you’re my beacon to everything right, my safe harbor as we so aptly named home. There’s a reason we all call you Lucky Charm. It’s because you’re an island of hope. Our world will take the shine off.”

She rubbed a hand over her face, a glaze of tears covering her blue eyes. “Your Lucky Charm sentiment swipes at my heart.” She assumed a new stretching position but stopped before executing. “I’m stalled.”

“Stalled, not stopped.” He hoped his quiet validation would help.

Her eyes locked on him. “Let’s work with facts. I am a surgeon. I am going to be a surgeon again.” Her eyes widened as if stating the intent solidified it. “It’s going to be a long road.”

“I am acquainted with long recovery roads. Firsthand. I crashed on a helicopter once. Remember?”

She shook her head and stared out the patio door into the darkness.

“Being honest, I not only have to recover from this mess my body is in, but I’m going to have to retrain and test every surgical process I’ve used.

I have to be sure there’s no glitches from my brain injury, not to mention testing and honing the dexterity in my fingers again.

I need QM to give me some confidence. I need their support when you aren’t here. ”

“I agree. I shouldn’t have said what I did. If you want the job, take it. I’m not trying to make those decisions. Your profession means a lot to you, and you’ve worked hard for it. Shape it however you need to.”

“You believing in me matters. It gives me a foundation. QM can give me more.”

“I am behind you one hundred percent. They will be, too. You’ll get back.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You’ll find a way. Whether it’s surgery or not, you’ll find a path. I want you to text me and email me about what you’re doing. Even if I can’t answer, even if I’m distracted by my job, it keeps me connected. I’m going to be honest, too. I get overprotective of you.”