Wingman Warriors - Joint Forces Part 17

She whimper-purred her a.s.sent and frustration.

"Yeah, babe. I heard you." He stared down with narrowed eyes. p.i.s.sed. Insistent, and yes, even aroused. "And maybe I was just meeting some elemental itch you had, and I missed the big picture. But at least I was listening and trying my d.a.m.nedest."

He withdrew his hands, his body, moving away, the muggy air suddenly chilly in comparison to her overheated flesh.

Her muddled brain shouted at her to process his words while her aching heart told her to run. Her flaming body urged her to just jump him so her brain and heart would shut up because everything was crumbling around her.

"I listened to you, Rena, and maybe I'm not as good at understanding out of bed as I am in bed. But I am trying, d.a.m.n it."

As much as she wanted to cry or rage, at least they were talking and she wouldn't let temper or tears shut that down.

She stared into stormy gray eyes usually so steady, constant, ever honorable, and the truth deluged over her like those storm clouds opening up. In his manspeak way, J.T. had answered her question after all.

J.T. didn't lie. He gave spa.r.s.e accountings, but his words counted. He'd told her he loved her then. She'd just never listened.

The truth raining over her chilled to a deeper realization of icy, sheeting sleet. He'd said loved. Past tense.

Today, he hadn't said a thing about loving her still. In fact, he hadn't said those words for a long time. And she couldn't help but notice his love had stopped right about the same time as the kisses.

He'd screwed up.

J.T. lifted the crutches out of the back of the truck in their driveway, sidestepped a bush of pink flowers ... azaleas maybe? Or wisteria? h.e.l.l he couldn't keep all her plants straight. Or her needs.

He pa.s.sed the crutches to his silent wife, crickets sawing in the background, night traffic in the neighborhood slow and sporadic. d.a.m.n it, he shouldn't have lost his cool. He still wasn't sure exactly where he'd slid off course, but no doubt, his plan to woo Rena had been shot down.

"Thanks," she said without looking at him. She swung trim calves out of the truck, hopped on one foot taking the crutches from him.

He followed while she worked her way down the flagstone path, ready to catch her if a crutch went rogue in the soft lawn. Why did she have to make this so difficult? Everything from a simple trip inside to where he parked his boots.

Not that he intended to ask her. He kept his yap shut, because if she questioned whether he'd said he loved her all those years ago then he must have messed up worse than even he'd imagined. He'd done

something seriously wrong and still he couldn't pinpoint what. He'd tried his best to keep the darker parts of his job and himself the h.e.l.l out of an already strained marriage.

Opening the side door, J.T. followed her into the kitchen. "Son, we're home," he called.

Too bad he wasn't announcing the coming-home deal for real.

Stenciled ivy bordering the walls mocked him with reminders of the time he'd interrupted her painting. He

could read her lingering arousal from their kisses in the truck. They could have been upstairs in bed now,

together.

Rena rested her crutches against the counter and dragged out a chair at the table. A sign she didn't want to go upstairs with him? Or that she didn't want their evening to end?

She dropped into one chair, propped her foot on another. She slipped her hand into a side pocket on her skirt and pulled out a package ... of peanuts. Honey roasted. She tore open the corner with her teeth, poured half the minipack into her palm.

Quiet echoed through the house, dishes on the counter. Two gla.s.ses?

One with glittery lip gloss kissing the rim. G.o.d, he couldn't be everywhere at once checking on his family.

Chris's footsteps thudded down the second set of stairs leading into the kitchen. "Hey, Mom. Dad. Have

fun?"

"Yeah, we had a nice drive." J.T. tucked one gla.s.s into the dishwasher, then the other. "Have someone over while we were gone?"

Rena looked up from her snack. "Chris?"

He shrugged, shuffled across the tile floor into the pantry. "Just a friend."

Twisting the setting k.n.o.b, J.T. started the dishwasher and flipped the magnet from "dirty dishes" to

"clean." "A female friend, I'd say, based on the lip gloss on the second gla.s.s."

"Just a friend," Chris repeated over the sound of a chip bag tearing open.

Rena nudged peanuts around on the table. "Hon, you know I prefer you not have girls over when no

one's here."

"Sure. Sorry."

The phone rang. Lucky Chris.

J.T. yanked the receiver off the wall. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Hi," a female voice crooned. "Could I speak to Chris, please? Tell him it's Miranda."

At least now he didn't have to make a room search for the girl upstairs. "Son, it's a girl for you."

Chris charged toward the phone.

"Someone named Miranda."

The boy stopped in his tracks, gym shoes shrieking on tile. He shook his head.

Cupping his palm over the mouthpiece, J.T. said, "Your mother and I will leave the room."

And go upstairs where maybe he could regain ground. Chris stumbled back, tripping over his dragging

shoelaces before righting himself.

J.T. raised the phone to his ear again. "I'm sorry, but he just stepped out. I couldn't catch him in time. Do you want to leave a message?"

"Just tell him he needs to come in to work an hour early tomorrow and run deliveries."

"Will do." He replaced the receiver. "She says you're supposed to come in an hour early to run deliveries."

Chris's face paled until acne shone double. Females could do that to a man.

"So you work with her?"

"Yeah, she's one of the hostesses." His gaze ping-ponged from one smiling parent to the other. "It's not like that."

"Okay, son. You're ent.i.tled to your privacy." J.T. hefted the transparent garbage bag out of the trash can.

"But that doesn't mean I won't be curious as h.e.l.l."

J.T. started for the door. Rena's gasp stopped him. "What? Is something wrong? The baby?"

"Bring the bag over here," she ordered, standing on one foot. She yanked the clear bag from his hands, tore it open.

Dumped it on the floor? She started rifling through empty cans and wadded napkins.

"What in the h.e.l.l are you doing, Rena? Careful or you're going to cut yourself."

She knocked aside his hands and pulled free from the rubbish...

A box for an early-pregnancy test.

Chapter 9.

Hand shaking nearly as much as her insides, Rena thrust the box closer to her son.Talk about a visit from the Ghost of Knocked-Up Teenagers Past. Nothing like having her own mistakes come back to haunt her. But she couldn't think about herself or her own fears, not with a more pressing concern on her hands.

Literally.

Chris s.n.a.t.c.hed the empty box from her. "You can both quit with the freaked-out looks. It's not mine. Well, I mean, obviously the test isn't mine, but it has nothing to do with me. You know?"

J.T. nudged his toe along the pile of soda cans on top of an empty cereal box. "Then what is it doing in our trash?"

"It was for a good friend." Chris's words tumbled over each other. "Someone you don't know."

His squeaky gym shoes betrayed his attempt to lie, and that twisted more old fears inside her. She'd worked to teach her children the importance of honesty-a trait she so admired in their father.

Even when that honesty broke her heart.

Of course, this lie didn't rank up there with a Mob hit or money laundering or any of the other things her

family had been accused of while she was a child. But she was so afraid of unwittingly pa.s.sing along defective genes and s.h.i.+fty mind-sets to her kids. To some degree hadn't she taught her son about shading the truth by pretending if she filled her house with plants and overbright smiles no one would notice her empty marriage?

Chris jammed his hands in his pockets. "She was worried she might be pregnant and she came over here

to run the test while you were gone since there's, like, never a quiet time around her house. It's a real fishbowl over there. But she's not pregnant, so it doesn't matter, right?"

Not pregnant. Relief took the edge off her fears. If the test had been run correctly.

Rena laid a hand on her son's arm, patted until his shoulder dropped with lowering defenses. "What