Page 33 of Curves for the Mountain Man

He smiles broadly, shaking his head. “Whatever you need, Sweetness.”

“I need you, Roscoe.”

His forehead scrunches. “God, I was hoping you’d say that.” His eyes redden, emotion written on his face. I hold out my arms, frantic for his touch.

Letting down the railing, he climbs up beside me, more perching on the bed’s edge than lying in it. He wraps his big, tanned arm around me with a pained groan, nuzzling my neck and kissing my cheek.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just hit where I got grazed. No biggie.”

“You mean, where you were shot? Are you okay?”

He nods, kissing my cheek. “It’s a skin wound, just a little tender.”

“If it hurts to lie like this?—”

“I’m good. Having you in my arms is the best painkiller on the planet, Sweetness.” He chases me further onto the bed, leveraging himself with a leg tangled over mine.

Tenderly, he tastes and teases the shell of my ear, whispering in raw tones, “Now, I finally feel like I’m home.”

“Baby, I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I’ve missed you,” he whispers, kissing my cheek and stroking my tresses. “I’ve been losing my mind without you.”

“So much happened after the fever. I don’t remember most of it.”

“I know,” he croons, kissing my forehead. “By the time I got you here, you were seeing and talking to people who didn’t exist. Your breathing and coughing got so rough, and your forehead burned my hand when I touched you.” He lets out a ragged sigh, squeezing me desperately.

“Mom said I was out for like two days. Bacterial pneumonia caused sepsis.”

“Oh, God,” he exclaims, squeezing me tightly. “I came so close to losing you.”

“You saved me, Roscoe.” I reach back, stroking his freshly shaven cheek and marveling at its softness. “But we’re all good now.”

“We’re all good,” he repeats. “Ginger, if we can make it through this, we can make it through anything.”

My heart overflows at his unexpected and hopeful words. This is what I need to hear from him. That he’s willing to take a chance on me and our feelings. That he’s ready to recommit to life and a future.

Turning, I shower his face in kisses, smiling through tears. “As long as we’re together, nothing can break us.”

“Agreed.” Roscoe threads his fingers through mine, nodding against my hair. “I’ve had a lot of time to think in jail … aboutways to become the man you deserve … like getting help for my depression and PTSD.”

“You already are the man I deserve,” I whisper. “But I’ll support you in every way that you need.”

“And there’s a trip I want to take with you to Arlington National Cemetery to show you where the rest of my squad is.” His voice strains over the last part, and I bring his hand to my mouth, kissing his fingertips as tears streak my face.

“I would be honored to make that trip with you, Roscoe.”

“I want to do right by you, Ginger. And I don’t want you to ever doubt my commitment to you … to us.”

“To life.”

He nods.

Silence fills the air, so many unspoken things between us. “I’m sorry,” I finally manage, breaking into an uncontrollable sob.

“What are you sorry for, Ginger? You’ve got no reason to apologize,” he shushes. Whispering comforting words against the shell of my ear, he makes my brain and spine shimmer with relaxation. This man’s presence, his physical touch, and his deep, steady voice are the antidotes to my anxiety.

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