Page 49 of Luck Be Mine
◊ Hold On, Feel Again ◊
The next day, Cait struggled with the clip for her long blonde hair. Stifling the constant frustration with her dead hand, she lether hair drop and paused in the kitchen doorway. Her husband shuffled methodically through mixing ingredients in her favorite yellow mixing bowl. Crispy bacon, cooked to perfection on a baking sheet, cooled on the stove. The waffle iron on the counter gave away his intent. He had yet to go to Coronado and was making her breakfast.Be still my heart.
“Lieutenant Commander, please note it’s not fair to tease me with the aroma of bacon before I’ve had coffee.” Hand on her hips, she evaluated the state of her kitchen and the man in it. He was nothing if not organized and neat.
He tipped his head and gave her the once over, lingering on her red QM polo. “New?”
She dropped her clip on the counter and fussed with how the shirt tucked into her slacks. “Yes, red is medical. Think aircraft carrier designations. Quaid and Mackey wear black. Well, Quaid mostly wears suits. He meets the clients. Operatives are in navy blue, operations white, armory is green, training is blue, Elizabeth and Celissa wear purple for admin. So on and so forth.”
She turned this way and that. “Not an Army uniform, but it’ll do.”
He looked her over again. “I like this much better.”
“These are supposed to be our professional wear. You sure?”
“I’m the man who fell for you on first sight. I’m sure.”
She went to him and kissed his cheek. “You cooked?” She snagged a piece of bacon and munched.
“Yes, waffles and bacon. Might even put whip cream on the waffles. Going for celebratory here. You want your hair up?”
“Yes, in a minute. You can cook for me anytime.” Cait opened a cupboard for a coffee mug. White-hot stinging spasms jerked through her left elbow and shot down her arm. She gripped the counter.
Painful pins and needles assaulted her dead hand. “Aaagh, my God.” She bent double and cradled her arm against her stomach, lungs seizing from the burn.
Hunt grabbed the waffle plug and pulled, turning it off mid-waffle. A second later, he slipped his hands to her waist. “What’s wrong?”
Tears flooded her eyes. “Pain. In my hand.”
“Your dead hand?” He hovered close.
Cait flexed her fingers and hissed, knife stabbing pricks attacked tissue and nerve. “Yes.”
“9-1-1?”
She forced herself to take air in small, gulping increments, dizziness swamping her. She leaned into Hunt. “No.”
Putting hands on her hips, Hunt walked her to a kitchen chair. “Sit.”
“I’m okay.” She bit her lower lip.
“No, you’re not. You’re pale and trembling. Let me get some water.” She shut her eyes while he went to the fridge for a bottle. The stinging ebbed letting her draw a breath, but the respite didn’t last. A brutal wave shot through her.
Groaning, she used her good hand to massage the fingers, praying for relief. Skin too sensitive, her nerves screamed. She dropped her forehead to the table and used her good hand to cradle the bad hand. She wanted the feeling to return, but was this it? Was this as good as it got? With all the one step forward-two steps back of her recovery, being hopeful felt like a sham, a joke, a mistake.
Hunt ran a gentle hand over her shoulders. His solid presence made her want to fold into his lap and have him make it better. She followed the instinct.
Reading her intent, he sat and settled her against him, safe in his lap with arms tight around her.
He kissed her temple. “It’s all right.”
“It hurts,” she whispered. Deep, fractured breaths tore from her throat, words choppy against the hot pain.
“Good.” Hunt eased a hand against her nape and rubbed with a light touch.
“How the hell is this good?”
“Because it means it’s not dead anymore, Cait.”
