Page 8 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

Thirteen Weeks Since Injury

Two weeks later, Cait balanced carefully and checked the lasagna.

She would not admit even with pain screaming through her shoulder and hip that she’d over done it trying to cook.

Only having one hand to work with provoked her temper.

She’d written out the recipe from memory and prepped everything in stages to make assembly easier.

But physical therapy this afternoon had been strenuous, and the tiredness dogged her through the making process.

She used the oven like a worktable, putting the empty pan on the top rack and assembling the dish there with a lot of spills and swearing.

She watched the pasta bake. The aroma of successfully managing the preparation and baking of a perfect dinner spurred euphoria.

Now – the bubbling dish was stuck in the hot oven because she couldn’t lift it.

She leaned around the hot door, twisted the oven dial to off, and with an oven mitt on her good hand, coaxed the rack away from most of the heat.

She checked the clock and her phone for the twentieth time. Hunt hadn’t messaged. He was late. Was this the way it would be? Here, and not here?

“Fiddlesticks.” She rubbed her hungry stomach, swore at the hovering fatigue.

“Wait or not?” She tilted her head to check the silence.

“Not, I guess. Although, how the hell would I know?” She had yet to figure out Hunt’s schedule, had no hope of staying or being awake for some of it, and she had no clue what was normal.

Floundering with no understanding of SEAL wife duties or even wife rules, she reached for a paper plate.

She should have let Adele stay, but she wanted to cook in peace, and she wanted alone time with Hunt. Members of the team and their families were always visiting. Carter especially had made it his mission to track her progress. Jackie called on schedule, too. Was alone time too much to ask?

The key in the lock had her straightening and limping to the doorway of the kitchen. Hopefully, it was her husband and not someone more nefarious. She had no energy for that nonsense.

Hunt stopped inside the door, took a long breath, and double-checked the apartment number on the door.

Amused, she enjoyed his gorgeous face, his stature in uniform, and the bemused expression. It wasn’t often she saw confusion there. “It’s our apartment, frogman. I made lasagna.”

He shut the door and locked it. “You made lasagna?”

She didn’t take his disbelief personally. If he’d been here watching, he would have made her sit down. “Yep, me and my one hand, all from memory with a smattering of swearing.”

He hung his keys on the hook, came to her, and leaned in to gently kiss her. His lips sizzled against hers.

“You didn’t have to hold dinner for me. I’m going to be late some nights.”

“It’s only now finished baking and has to settle. But I can’t get the big pan out of the oven with my dead hand. We forgot a few areas we’ll have to problem-solve.”

He leaned around her. “Has it cooled?”

“Enough to move to the counter and close the oven. Yes, we can eat.”

“This is great, honey. Let me get out of my uniform.” He went to the oven and moved the pan to the potholders on the counter. Ones she put out more than thirty minutes ago. He stopped at her side and bent to kiss her again. “Thanks.” His eyes showed tiredness and something else she wasn’t sure of.

“I’ll dish up some plates.”

“I...”

She put a finger on his lips. “Let me try.”

He raised his hands. “Fair enough.”

He disappeared into the bedroom, and she watched the ass she’d sewed stitches into months ago move out of sight. When she’d dreamed of them together, this wasn’t it. Quit being a baby, Cait.

Paper plates weren’t homey, but when the going got tough, the tough got going. Whoever wrote the pithy phrase ought to be taken out and taught a thing or two about being tough.

Cait carefully cut a large slice for Hunt and a smaller one for herself. She used their only spatula and transferred the servings to the plates. That accomplished, she slowly shuffled to the fridge and took out the salad Adele had made to help her out.

Before she could scrounge for energy to move the meal to the table, Hunt came back and transferred the plates before she could fret about it. She took the salad and followed behind. “Can you get the salad dressing from the fridge?”

“Uh, sure. We have salad dressing?”

“Yes.” She kept her laugh under wraps.

“I heard that.” He came back with two bottles. His ranch. Her Italian.

He helped her with her chair, and she sat with relief, taking a moment to settle the pain and discomfort.

Hunt grabbed his fork and glanced at her. “Not eating?”

“Waiting for you to try in case it sucks because I forgot something in the recipe.”

“I’m your guinea pig?” He studied her face to ascertain if she was pulling his leg.

“Yep.” She didn’t give herself away. Honestly, the man had grown up with no one giving a shit about what he ate, if he was cold, sick, in trouble. She would be the one going forward who he could depend on to remember all those things including his favorite foods.

“I eat anything.”

“But you don’t like everything. I trust you enough to tell me if I got it wrong.”

“Is this how it’s going to work going forward?”

“Yeah. I’ll post the ones you like to the refrigerator, and the ones you don’t care for will disappear and never be made again.”

“You don’t have to do this for me.”

“I do, too. It’s in the marriage rules. The one who cooks cares about what the other likes to eat.” She lifted her fork and cut a bite.

“You made that up.”

“Of course I did. Where do you think married rules come from? A marriage fairy? It’s sorta like the communication ones we made in Afghanistan.”

Hunt beat her to a bite. He froze and for a minute she thought she had blown it. She’d been so careful.

He didn’t say a word, only kept chewing. His eyes closed, and he licked his lips before taking another bite.

“You like it, right?” Her sigh and the fist pump stayed internal.

“I could eat half of this pan.” Hunt eyed the dish, a flash of something in his eyes.

“Eat half of it, babe. We aren’t in a restaurant where every bite costs fifty bucks. You get to eat whatever you want in your own home.”

“Are you gonna eat? Your eyes are going closed over there.” He shifted his chair closer and ran a finger over her right arm in a sweet caress.

She had no self-control when he touched her.

Getting zapped again, version 3.0. 1.0 the first time they’d met.

2.0 her third tour to find him, and 3.0 in their home.

She took a bite and gasped as the rich flavor hit her tongue. Her closed eyes signaled great food, but that triggered another truth. She’d been awake too long and was on the verge of being leveled by pain.

She forced her eyes open and took another bite. Food fueled healing. “Do you like it? Fridge posting or no?”

“Fridge posting.”

“Fabulous. I’ll take any leftovers and put them in the freezer. If you come home some night late and hungry, you’ll have something.”

Hunt cleared his plate and went back for seconds before she finished half of hers. But his enjoyment made the intense frustration of the afternoon cooking session worth it.

He came back to the table with a larger second helping and dished up salad. “Want some?”

“Yes. Please.” He put some on her plate. He watched her munch this time, leaving his fork in his hand.

She put dressing on her salad. “I talked to the PSNCO today, mostly to find out where my gear is. He said he’d check and get back to me. It left Afghanistan.”

“What about household goods? How much is there?”

Cait snorted. “I have no idea. I didn’t do any of it.

They arrived and packed while I went to the hospital and closed out.

When I came back, they were done and gone.

I only have the number of boxes, not how they were labeled.

This might be another fun mountain of adventure.

I held off initiating any separation request because it’ll start questions with my commander. I don’t want the discussion, yet.”

Hunt grinned. “Do you think he hasn’t figured out you aren’t coming back?”

“No, I’ve told him. He still wants me to wait until disability ends.”

“He figures you deserve the disability, and the time is practical, honey. It doesn’t hurt to hold.”

“Agreed, but I’m anxious. My whole life is jumbled.” She stared around the empty room, eyes jumping over the red sofa without rolling. “We should find a two-bedroom ground floor apartment. It would make it easier for me to maneuver without you.”

Way to make a statement and not ask.

“Could we look?”

“Yeah, sure. When we first got home, I thought bigger might be better. I can check the office and see if they have any. They’re good with military personnel.”

Cait nodded, relieved he saw the necessity.

He put down his fork and took her hand. “I’m not attached to this place. It was a means to an end. If another apartment will work better, let’s do it.”

“Okay. Can we sit in the recliner together for a bit when we’re finished?” She wanted the kissing time they’d established in Germany, and time for him to relax a bit.

He studied the chair in question. “Sure, as long as we turn it away from the red beast.”

She shook a finger at him. “Your team loves you.”

“They love you . Me they like to harass.”

“Adele’s scheduled a cleaning in the morning. She says we shouldn’t even breathe on it until she does.”

Hunt had taken a bite and choked on his food. He cleared his throat and went to the cupboard for water. Raising a glass at her, she nodded. He filled two glasses and came back to the table. “She’s right. We have no idea who has entertained on Red Baby.”

“Ew, please. I won’t ever want to make out on my own sofa.”

He smirked and cleaned his plate.

“How was work? Kill anybody? How do you stand Tommy’s attitude every day?”