Page 67 of The Way Back Home

CHAPTER THIRTY

Olivia

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” I say, as I adjust Betty into the crook of my arm and follow August through the scrubby underbrush. It’s hot as Hades out here. We’re two days into a heat wave and you’d think the whole world had gone crazy.

I’m starting to think the same of August. I have half a mind to just dart back to the car, because I can’t see how walking farther into the scrub is going to help us cool off, but I follow dutifully behind him because he accompanied me to Fairhope to help Jake with one of his pups, and he sat around patiently for a half hour talking to Jake while Ellie badgered me with more questions.

On the way home, August had said he wanted to show me something, and when a hot Marine tells you he wants to show you something, you damn well better take a look.

Zora jumps around excitedly between us, getting lost in the tall grass. She might have a hard time letting her inner Marine go, but apparently, she turns into a damn puppy-dog when she’s walking through the scrub. It must have been so hard for her all those long months in the Afghani desert, not to mention being cooped up in a kennel all day long after her service. In fact, this is the first time I’ve seen her drop her guard and switch off her internal soldier. A working dog can’t ever just be a civilian again. Their training stays with them always, just like the rest of our infantry men. War doesn’t end when a Marine returns home to U.S. soil. For some, it’s just the beginning.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” I say with a teasing lilt to my tone because I just can’t help but push this man’s buttons. The angry Marine turns around with a raised brow, and I raise my own in return.

“You know,” he says, continuing to walk at a clipped pace despite his prosthetic. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d jumped up out of that hospital bed and demanded to get back to work just hours after he lost his leg. “You harp on about me not trusting anyone, but I wonder if you’ve ever noticed that about yourself?”

I stop in my tracks. “I do not have a problem with trust. I’m very trusting.”

“Uh-huh,” he says with a laugh. “You know you’re a control freak, right?”

“I am not.”

“You are. And you’re slower than molasses in January,” he says with another dark chuckle. “And I only got one leg, so I know slow.”

“Did you just make a joke?” I laugh, and then my breath is stolen from me as we come to a clearing. August’s lips pull up in a grin. “Oh my God.”

“Aren’t you glad you trusted me now?”

There’s a small waterfall—only about fifteen feet high—and a deep aquamarine pool glistens in the sunlight as if it were a mirage. Everywhere there is lush, green vegetation and craggy rocks slick with wet moss. “It’s beautiful . . . I . . .”

Zora makes a beeline for the water, running and splashing nose-first as she barks and doggy paddles to the middle. Betty squirms in my arms and begins squealing. I set her down because I don’t want her to hurt her leg, and she takes off after Zora.

“Can she swim?” August says, watching her.

“Apparently,” I say. Jude’s gonna kill me for getting her cast wet, but I don’t say as much to August because I know how he gets when I mention the good doctor. “Is that safe from gators?”

“Well, if it’s not then we’re screwed.” He pulls off his T-shirt. I ogle every inch of his broad scarred back, longing to reach out and touch it, wanting to kiss the hollows and dimples where I assume pieces of shrapnel were once buried. Other women might see his scars and be intimidated or pity August for all he’s been through, but not me. I find them beautiful. Glorious in their imperfection. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and trace my hands over the worst on his upper right shoulder. He stiffens. My insides tighten, and the breath leaves me in a rush. He turns to face me. My fingers trail over sweaty marked flesh, and he meets my gaze. I retract my hand, but he grabs it and presses it back in the spot it was resting. Not in the center of his chest, exactly, but over another deep scar on his left pectoral muscle, the side that took the brunt of the blast. He lets my hand go, and I trace my finger lower, over hard flesh to another scar marring his abdomen. I long to explore all the valleys and plains of his body, every indentation, every muscle, every mark.

August watches my expression with his head bowed. His lips are just a few inches from mine. It would be so easy to stand up on my tiptoes and kiss him, but the moment is stolen from us by Zora dashing out of the water to head-butt my leg and shove her way between us.Clearly someone is a jealous bitch.

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