I hadn’t expected it to be a workout, but struggling against Nash’s superior muscles was exactly that: a workout. Every time I did something wrong, he said, “And you’re done,” as in, I’d be dead, or captured, or whatever, if it had been real life.
“Last time,” he finally said. I would have gone until my body literally wouldn’t get up before I told him I was tired. He’d seen the exhaustion in me anyway, but I was determined to surprise him one last time.
He came at me from behind, and as I tripped him, instead of running away, I went down with him. I pulled off the mask he was using and pushed my lips against his. The gear he had on covered all the places I wanted to touch, but I was still able to run my hands underneath it enough to find him through the sweatpants he was wearing.
He flipped me over on my back, removing the gear while I watched and then covering me with his body. He held my hands above my head with one of his and ran his other hand along my curves all the way down between my legs and back.
“You’re done,” he said quietly.
“Sometimes, you have to give in to win.”
He watched me for a second before lowering his lips to mine, and I had to think, in this case, we’d both won. Our bodies blending together as we moved in a delightful dance I’d remember for the rest of my life.
I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to get the scent of him and the estate out of my head and my olfactory system. I wasn’t sure how I’d let him go when I went back on the tour with Brady and he went back to a life that revolved around looking after Tristan and the SEALs. As he would. As all SEALs did. They left behind the ones they loved for the thing they loved more. The adrenaline rush. The desire to protect. The desire to serve.
I was jealous. Jealous of the military that claimed him. Jealous of the women’s names that had tripped off his tongue earlier without pause. My blood beat hot and stormy through my veins over all the things that demanded he be theirs when I only wanted him to be mine.
But I was determined he would remember this. Remember me. Remember every damn touch, and every damn word, and every damn moan.
♫ ♫ ♫
When I woke the next morning, the sun was already streaming in the window of Nash’s room where we’d spent another night lost in each other’s skin. We hadn’t bothered with dinner or chess or his family. We’d just left the gym and gone straight to his bed.
As the sunlight warmed me, I rolled over to find his side of the bed empty. In his place, there were two gorgeous flowers. One red and one white. They weren’t flowers I knew. They were similar to roses, with multiple layers, but these were fuller with sharper definition to the petals. An unexpected, gentle scent that was almost spicy, like anise or clove, wafted from them.
The reality hit me as I looked at them. Nash Wellsley had gone, cut flowers for me, and returned only to leave soundlessly again. It was romantic. Unexpected. Like him doing my laundry the day before. A sweetness that hid in his layers, tugging at that emotion called love that I was afraid to show him.
I took the flowers with me to my room, showered, and dressed.
I had two purposes in choosing the top with its scooped neckline and corset-like ribbing that traveled over my breasts. It was moderate enough to meet with the FBI and seem professional, but feminine enough to attract Nash’s eyes. Plus, the champagne color was a shout-out to the joy I was feeling.
I was still smiling when I entered the kitchen with my flowers in hand, looking for something to put them in. Maribelle was at the table in the alcove again, and we greeted each other with warm good mornings. The twinkle in her eye was still there.
“Can I borrow something to put these in?” I asked, waving the beautiful flowers.
She eyed them, and her smile widened. “Did Nash give those to you?”
I nodded, and she laughed softly.
“Why?” I said, suddenly eyeing the flowers doubtfully.
“They’re camellias,” she said as if it should answer my question.
“Are they? I’m afraid I know absolutely nothing about plants.”
“You don’t know what they mean, then?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Red and white camellias are given to someone significant to you, and the basic message is, ‘my destiny is in your hands.’”
I stared at the flowers, unsure of how to respond. Had Nash known their meaning as well? If you’d asked me a few days ago, I would have said no way, but now I knew the truth. He was smart and gentle and romantic. A lethal combination. The thought of his destiny being in my hands was almost too much to comprehend.
Maribelle rose, went to a cupboard, and took out a bud vase. She took the flowers from me, adding water and a softly tinted pink flower from the large bouquet on the counter.
“There, it’s perfect now,” she said, handing them back to me.
“What did you add?” I asked, a little breathless.
“An iris…for hope.”
My throat caught on the emotions as they flew through me.
“Is it okay if I make some coffee?” I asked.
“You don’t need to ask. Please make yourself at home.”
That one word pushed me over the edge. It was all too much. Home and hope and destiny twined with the love flowing through me. My heart seized up. Something of what I felt must have reflected on my face even as I tried to pull the curtain down on my emotions, because Maribelle changed the subject.
“The camellias were some of the first specimens Nash’s parents brought back to the farm after their honeymoon. Most camellias don’t have a noticeable scent, but they’d found a family
