Page 118 of Luck Be Mine
There were other ways to work this out without taking down his marriage. Other team members did it.
Follow her. Or lose her. That’s the choice.
Pulling in the driveway, relief washed through him.
We go home. Rule #3.He followed it. So did she.
Cait parked her SUV in the garage. She got out and stared at him, her surgical clothes and hair in sad shape. Worse, the beaten look on her face pierced him.
She thought he was hedging on their marriage, making excuses to not fully engage. Was he? The idea roared through him. His job had a risk. But couldn’t he be vulnerable for his wife? He would never leave Cait, but his messed-up head was an enemy.
He followed her into the house. Normally, she would have stopped in the kitchen, pulled things from the fridge, and started to cook.
She didn’t.
Doogie wasn’t cooking either, not that they needed any more food.
Voices from the family room suggested someone had woken Carter.
Cait went through the living room in a succession of soggy footsteps. Those nights he’d stayed behind his workroom door rose to haunt him, but he pushed on.
The afternoon light was dim in the bedroom, the blinds turned to mute the brightness. Cait shed her wet clothes in the middle of the bathroom floor. The deep burgundy color of her scrubs was like a splash of blood across the tile. The shower turned on. The door was ajar, but it wasn’t inviting.
Hunt wanted a shower, but given everything, he wouldn’t assume getting in with her was okay. Instead, he went to the guest bathroom, stripped his clothes, and showered in ninetyseconds. Towel around his waist, he returned to their room and donned a pair of shorts and a plain white T-shirt.
Cait was still in the shower. She’d worked all night, did some hours at QM, and spent the afternoon looking for him.
He pulled the white comforter back on the bed, perched on the side, and waited.
Does she even want me here?
He rubbed both hands down his thighs and blew out a breath. His body felt tight, on edge, like it couldn’t quite remember how to rest.
She finally came out with a pink towel around her body.
Her splotchy face told him she’d cried in the shower.
Her tears cut deep.
Hunt held out his hand. “I’m tired of not sleeping with you. I shouldn’t have taken that step. I’m sorry.”
“Fix it then.” She dodged back in the bathroom and returned sans towel with her old gray Berkeley night shirt on, freshly washed and clinging to her curves.
It was one of hers, not his. The burn deepened.
“It’s going to get messy.” He left his hand stretched to hers.
She finally took it. “It already is. I don’t care how much sleep I lose. I want us back.”
“Me, too.” He settled on his pillow, waiting.
Her hesitation left him bleeding.
She eased onto the bed, the tentative moves not working for him. He gathered her like a lifeline and coaxed her on top of him. Her skin, damp. His hands, dry. The distance between them taut.
She finally relaxed against him. Thank God.
She hadn’t asked him to come back.
