Trusting a Warrior (Loving a Warrior #3) - Melanie Hansen Page 0,28
I finish this?”
The beer was cold and smooth, and by the time he’d taken a long swig, the weird knots in his stomach had loosened. He propped his butt against the counter not far from her, determined to get this date back on track. “So what kinds of things do you like to do, you know, besides not exercise?”
“Ha, I can’t believe you remember that.” She shot him a surprised look, and he grinned at her, one eyebrow raised.
“Well?”
“Hmm, let’s see. Obviously I love to cook. And eat what I cook, of course. And for other people to eat what I cook. Oh!” Setting down the rolling pin, she moved to the fridge and grabbed a magnetic notepad with an attached pen hanging there. “That reminds me. I need to figure out what I’m gonna bring to my first support group meeting. It’s a potluck.”
Geo gulped, all his tension immediately roaring back. “Support group...?”
“For suicide survivors.” She wrote busily for a moment while he wallowed in an agony of discomfort, the beer suddenly losing all its flavor. The sharp clink of the bottle as he put it down made her look up.
She frowned at what she read on his face. “Anything wrong?”
“No, no. Nothing’s wrong,” he said hastily. “It’s just—”
She waited while he sucked in a deep breath. “It’s just... I’m not sure what to say.”
“About what?” Her eyes widened as the light dawned. “Oh, about my brother? It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”
Her voice was even, but the slight tinge of weariness to it stabbed deep. Suddenly, he could picture it—the avoidance, the discomfort, the ignorance. Hadn’t he experienced that same thing with...
Before he could think it through, he blurted, “But I want you to be able to talk about it with me.”
Jesus, what the fuck are you doing? No, you don’t want to talk about this! What if she asks...
Cramming his shaking hands in his pockets, he fought the urge to mutter an excuse, any excuse, and flee the apartment. “I guess I’m just afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
“Ah.” When her gaze met his, there was a warmth to it that made him quiver. “I appreciate that, and your honesty, Geo.”
He let himself relax a bit. “Um, were you guys especially close?”
“Oh, man.” Lani picked up a round cookie cutter and started to cut out pieces of dough. “Depends on the day, for sure. We were typical siblings, one minute best friends, the next at each other’s throats. But we loved each other. We—” She broke off. “I miss him every day.”
She sounded sad, but in control, and sudden admiration banished the last of his hesitancy. Stepping over to her, he reached for the cookie cutter. “Can I go ahead and finish this?” he asked gently.
When she passed him the cutter, her cool fingers came to rest briefly on his. “Just so you know, asking about him, about the person he was, is always the right thing to say.” She let him go with a squeeze.
For the next several minutes, they didn’t speak, except for Lani’s quiet directions. The pieces of dough first went into the baking soda bath, and then Geo arranged them tightly together in a parchment-lined pan and stuck it in the oven.
“C’mon.” She grabbed him another beer and a bottle of water for herself, and then led him into the living room. “I wanna hear the Bosch story.” Plopping down on one end of the worn leather couch, she patted the cushion next to her eagerly, and after he’d seated himself, pointed at his right arm. “Can I see the scar?”
He canted his body and extended his arm, enjoying her awed, “Oooh,” at the sight of it.
“Can I touch it?”
When he nodded, she traced her fingertips lightly over and around the puckered skin. “That must’ve hurt.”
The memory of that particular agony crashed over him, chasing away the tingles left by her touch. “Hands down the worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he said, “kind of what I imagine being run over by an eighteen-wheeler is like.”
Lani winced. “Wow. So does Bosch jump out of planes with you?”
“He does, and he loves it.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Are you sure about that?”
“Totally sure. He told me so himself.”
They snickered together, and Geo said, “Actually, special operations dogs start their training as puppies. He’s been acclimated to water, air, gunfire, explosions, you name it, since he was a baby. Nothing fazes him.”
Her fingers slid away from his arm, and she picked up