laughed, one short, harsh burst of sound. âYou think it hurt less to wait and wait for that letter, then open it and find out how stupid I was to believe in you, than it would have hurt to know you didnât love me in the first place?â
That wasnât true. Heâd left because he loved her. Heâd leave again for the same reason. But he couldnât tell her that any more now than he could then. Just because Emerson Watley had shaken his hand didnât mean anyone else would.
In Three Harbors, Owen would always be the delinquent son of a crazy drunk-druggie. Just as Becca would always be the daughter of one of the founding families. People used the word doctor before her name. Just because he carried the rank of sergeant before his wouldnât change anything. If he lost that rank, then what would he be?
No one all over again.
âIt was a long time ago.â Becca stared out the passenger window where the tip of one of the silos on the Carstairs farm had just become visible.
âFeels like yesterday.â She looked the same, smelled the same; he wanted to kiss her ⦠just the same.
âSometimes it does,â she agreed. âThen other times it all seems so long ago, so far away, so hazy, like it happened to someone other than me. As if you were a story I told myself.â
He didnât care for that at all, but who was he to judge? Heâd coped with the loss of her by throwing himself into his training. Becoming so exhausted he could do nothing but move forward with little energy left to look back. Because looking back hurt so badly he could hardly breathe.
Owen turned into the long, gravel lane that matched the one at Watleyâs and led to a similar farm at the end. House, barn, sheds, machinery, all pretty much the same, though in slightly different locations.
A big, floppy tan mutt came racing out of the barn, braying either a welcome or a warning. From Reggieâs grumble, he thought it was the latter.
Owen set his hand on the dogâs shoulder. âEasy, boy. His place.â
âMoose is harmless,â Becca said.
âReggie isnât.â He didnât play well with dogs not of the working variety. Probably because heâd never had much chance to. Or maybe because, to Reggie, work was play and vice versa. He had no time or patience for anything else. He lived to sniff out bombs and terrorists. But, hey, so did Owen. He rubbed his bad leg.
Becca rolled down the window a few inches. âBarn, Moose!â
The dog appeared crushed, but he went where heâd been told, leaving a looming, waiting silence behind.
Owen shifted the truck into park. âBecca, Iâm sorryââ
âMe too,â she interrupted, then took a deep breath. âI know I asked you to breakfastâ¦â
His lips curved. âI wasnât going to come.â
She nodded as if sheâd known that. She probably had. Sheâd always known him better than anyone. And despite other people treating him as if he were a completely different person than the one whoâd left, he wasnât. Deep down he would always be the same.
Just like his mother.
âItâs probably best if we donât see each other any more than we have to while youâre here.â
Owen blinked. Hadnât seen that coming.
âNot at all would be my vote.â She scrubbed her nails lightly between Reggieâs eyes. The dog practically drooled. âHowever, with the problem at your house, that probably isnât going to happen.â
âYou kissed me,â he said stupidly.
She gave Reggie one last pet and got out of the car.
âWonât happen again,â she said, and slammed the door.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Kissing Owen had definitely been a mistake. Despite how good it had been, how right and familiar, Iâd known that the instant Iâd done it.
Because now all I could think of was doing it again. Which would