a hundred-watt smile. She unfastened her seat belt and scooted closer, her mouth a whisper from his. “But I want to hear you say it again first.”
He loved this playful side of her. It made him want to be playful as well, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in ages. It exhilarated him, and he embraced it. “You’re awfully pushy, Bones.”
“So you’ve said. It’s part of my charm.”
With a feigned exasperation, he pushed out a heavy breath. He bent his head, brushed his lips over hers, and felt his whole body rev. Broken body or not, he couldn’t wait to get her alone.
“I love you, Hope Chandler. I love you more with each passing day.” He kissed her again, because why not? “I love who you are, how you move, how you talk, how you never put up with my shit. And I really love how you look at me, even now when I look like I just got hit by a bus.” He kissed her once more, this time making himself completely at home, not stopping until every nerve in his body sang with sweet anticipation. “I love you so damn much it scares me half to death. There, are you happy?”
“Couldn’t be happier.” Gently, she cupped the side of his face and kissed him. “I love you, Wade Flint.”
He smiled, his heart so full his chest ached. Then again, that might be the broken ribs. “See, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
Epilogue
True to his word, as soon as the group returned to Orlando, Navarre bought an extra-large pizza with double everything and a case of Bud, and parked his ass in front of the television for a marathon session of Demon Scourge. It lasted almost a day and a half, until Jackson asked for help in his quest to win back Essie. The guys had dropped off the radar a few days ago, which wasn’t surprising but still concerning, considering Essie’s line of work.
It took Austin more than a week to get his wish: an entire day off with his wife. Nina still hadn’t told him whether she preferred him with or without the beard. Everybody in the office couldn’t wait to hear the answer—there was a lot of money riding on it.
As for Wade and Hope, they spent an extra eight days in Mexico, tucked away at a cozy beachside resort while Wade healed and they waited for the American embassy to process Hope’s replacement passport. Eight glorious days of sun, sand, and Hope in a tiny blue bikini. She looked hotter than hell in those tiny scraps of fabric, and he peeled them off her—sometimes with his teeth—whenever the opportunity arose.
Then it was off to Texas, where Wade had one more task to complete before he could close this chapter in his life and dive into a new one.
“I found it!”
Pulse jumping, Wade crossed to where Hope stood by the weathered granite headstone of Joseph Francesco Scuderi, born August 2, 1896 and died April 17, 1918.
This wasn’t Wade’s first trip to All Souls Cemetery. He’d been here once before to attend the funeral of Hector’s grandfather. The cemetery was one of the oldest in Texas, a sixty-acre tract of land on the northern side of a bayou. Shaded by numerous hardwoods, the grounds were well-maintained, with winding paths, thousands of plots, and scores of statues and monuments.
As a rule, cemeteries were outstanding hiding places for those not squeamish about disturbing a grave. People usually avoided digging around in graveyards, and it was rare for them to get demolished or remodeled. Bury your stash near an old headstone, and there was little risk of anyone finding it, unless they were meant to.
Wade glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. Not many people frequented this section of All Souls—most of the graves were around a century old, long forgotten by any remaining family in the area—but it never hurt to be careful. He knelt by the grave and brushed away the dirt and debris that had accumulated along the base of the marker. It didn’t take long to find the tiny notch Hector had carved into the side of the stone, a reminder of where to dig.
He held out his hand, and Hope gave him the steel garden trowel she’d had stashed in her bag.
After one final look around, Wade dug into the soft soil beside the stone. He only had to dig down a few inches before the trowel hit something solid. From there,