Page 117 of The Soldier

“Stop playing sliding doors,” I growl at myself. If I’d done any number of things differently, the situation would change.

But I didn’t.

Marshall still left. I still got in the Uber with Roger. And lost any chance of being with Marshall Adams, my beautiful toy soldier.

Tears slide down my legs and I sniff, wiping my eyes.

Knock, knock.

Startled, I stiffen and stare at the door to my bedroom. I scan my memory. Was Briar coming over? Alice? Did Mom say she might turn up?

God, if it’s someone selling insurance or wanting a damn donation they are going to get a fright. I haven’t brushed my teeth or hair in over a day.

Nor showered.

Wearing a pair of black and pink flamingo sleep shorts and a Pink Floyd T-shirt, I clamber off the bed catching a look at myself in the mirror as I pass.

Bird’s nest hair and dark rings under my eyes. Oh well, Mr. or Mrs. Insurance Sales Person is just going to have to enjoy the view.

I pad across the floor, blinking at the sunlight in the living room where I left the curtains open.

Then open the door.

Oh, shit.

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“MARSH,” I STUMBLE back, shocked to find him on my doorstep.

Oh god, my breath.

It’s rancid. I’ve never needed to brush my teeth more in my entire life than this very moment as I take in the gorgeous man before me.

Marshall’s wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black BHS T-shirt. The sleeves strain around his biceps and I feel the need to whimper. A few days growth on his jaw gives him an even more than usual masculine appearance. But it’s the dark shadows around his eyes that capture my attention.

Okay, lies.

It’s the way his T-shirt hugs his pecs.

I’m a pec girl.

But still. What is he doing here?

“Can I come in?” Marshall asks roughly.

When I go to answer, he reaches up and grabs the door jamb as if holding himself up. Damn him for looking so damn sexy.

“I know you don’t want me here.”

Wrong.

“I think you know me well enough that I’d slam the door in your face if I didn’t,” I say, studying his face to see what he might be thinking.

Feeling.

Is he here to work through his guilt? Because I don’t know if I can give that to him right now. Not after working out that I have true feelings for him.

“That’s why my hand is there.” He glances up. “I figure you don’t hate me enough to crush my fingers.”

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