Redeeming Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT Caribbean Nights #9) - Kat Cantrell Page 0,78

in the same place.

Please God—did that mean they were in a different place this time? She shouldn’t want that. It was too soon, with too much unsaid. But he was here. And she couldn’t stop herself from hoping it meant something.

“Hi,” she said and wasn’t at all embarrassed at how hungry it sounded. “I’m not the one who messed you up?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. That honor goes to Naomi.”

That was one name she’d definitely never heard before. “I don’t know who she is. Do I?”

“No, because I’ve never told anyone.” His gaze searched hers, and she wished she could interpret the look on his face. “In case you missed the memo, I’m not good at sharing what’s going on inside me.”

Yeah, they should have matching T-shirts made. But obviously he’d come to the conclusion that he should start talking, and she liked the sound of that. Maybe they could do it together.

Her entire body strained to move toward him. But she didn’t. The fact that he was here and apparently had calmed down considerably didn’t magically make everything between them good enough to wrap her arms around him like she ached to.

“I heard what you said about building a reef. I like it.” He picked that moment to enter the living area, drawing close enough that her blood heated faster than she could compensate for.

Up close, he looked worn. Exhausted. Like maybe he wasn’t sleeping well either.

“I hope it at least convinces you that I’m on your side, Charlie.”

“It does. I don’t deserve—” He shut his eyes for a beat. “I have a hard time feeling like I deserve that.”

Oh, God. The anguish in his voice told her more than maybe he’d intended. But before she could argue, he took her hand and rubbed it absently. “I need to tell you about Iraq.”

Speechless, she nodded as her pulse shot through the stratosphere. Probably she wasn’t ready for this, but he clearly was, and she’d told him she could take it.

“What happened?” she prompted quietly.

“IED.”

The fact that he didn’t elaborate spoke volumes. She knew enough about explosives to understand what an IED was. Not with his firsthand knowledge, of course, but the fact that he was here and whole meant someone else had detonated it. One of his men?

“I’m sorry.” Her insides quaked as he kept stroking her hand, not speaking. She didn’t either, waiting until he was ready to talk about the rest of it. Or not, if he chose to leave off there.

One thing about letting him go that she’d discovered and would retain for the rest of her life—she didn’t need his secrets, but she did need him. And she was okay with that because it wasn’t weakness to love someone.

“Some villagers were helping us.” His voice had gone thin with the memory, and she didn’t like the direction this was going. “A small group of them. They hated extremists and what they were doing to their country, so they agreed to guide us through this really rocky area of the countryside near the border. I was convinced we’d be attacked from behind because that had happened to another platoon in the same area the day before.”

Oddly, his voice gained more strength as the story went on, and he finished clear and calm. “I should have been at the front. But I made a mistake. And yet I walked away scot-free.”

He owned it like the saint his guys portrayed him as. There had never been a moment in the history of knowing Charlie St. Croix where she’d respected him more. But that admission had come with a price, and his pain bled through her as clearly as if he’d reached inside her chest and twisted her heart loose with his fingers.

Lifting his hand, she held the back to her lips in wordless comfort because what could she say? Yeah, you should have been? Or no, honey, it was just luck of the draw. This had been his job, his life, and he blamed himself for making the wrong decision.

She of all people got that. “What happened when the IED exploded?”

“The villagers all died,” he said simply. Brutally. “But not instantly of course. That would have been too kind. Evan was at the front of the team and took the worst of the shrapnel. His recovery was not pretty.”

“I can see how that would affect you, Charlie,” she murmured. “Does it still bother you?”

“Every day,” he admitted. “I have PTSD. It’s not as bad as what some