Page 152 of Holidating
Now it’s almost Christmas, and her stepmother will invariablyask them when they’re going to start a family. Like it’s any of her business.
Across the table from her, Damien sets down his coffee cup and leans forward in his chair. “Look, it’s more fun talking about you than me, but I have something I need to say.”
“Okay?” she says, relieved to change the subject. “Hit me.”
“First of all, I need to thank you for that box you sent me when I was in the sandbox. It was, like, the best present ever.” He gives her a shy smile. “I mean that.”
Oh. “You’re welcome. I wasn’t even sure you’d gotten it.”
“Yeah, I bet.” He winces. “Look, I need to show you something.” He stands up.
She’s baffled as he thrusts a hand into his pocket and retrieves something. He sits down again and shows her his palm.
It’s her lucky marble.Right therein his hand. She barely manages to hold back a gasp.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I got your package. And I started to write you a letter back but…” He looks down into his coffee. “Well, it got heavy. And then I didn’t feel I could send it. I’ve felt bad about it ever since.”
“Damien,” she says, gobsmacked. “Don’t apologize. I’m just glad it reached you.”
“It reached me all right.” He rolls the marble between his thumb and forefinger. The move looks habitual. Like he’s done this many times before. “All that chocolate—I was the most popular guy in the barracks for a week.”
Something warm blossoms inside her chest. “That makes me so happy.”
He glances up, giving her a fleeting smile. “I’m sorry I let so much time go by without saying so. When I saw you a couple years ago, on that drive from the airport?”
Four years ago, almost exactly, she mentally corrects him. That awkward hour is hard to think about, even after all that time. It makes her cringe to remember the way Cam treated Damien—like the help.
She wanted to snap at her husband, “Don’t talk to my friend thatway.” Except Damien wasn’t acting like a friend, he was acting like a robot. She’d tried to forget the whole thing.
“Back then, I wasn’t in a good place,” Damien says quietly. “It took me a while to, uh, recover from my time in the army. It was ugly there for a little while. I had a full-blown case of PTSD.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says quietly.
He shrugs. “Don’t be. I’m doing much better now. Just wanted to explain myself, because I’m not proud of the way I acted.” He glances away, but then meets her gaze again. “You know that book you sent me? The sketchbook?"
"Of course. Did you use it?"
“I did. But I can’t show you the sketches. They’re gone.”
"Oh no. What happened?” She’s picturing a bad coffee spill.
“Hard to say. Our outpost was attacked, and I ran out of there to a firefight and never saw my stuff again. My friend died in that battle. The notebook was probably blown up or burned up. Or—who knows? Maybe an insurgent is using it to draw the next great graphic novel.”
She doesn’t laugh. "I’m sorry, Damien. That sounds terrifying.”
“It wasn’t great. But I’m here now and a lot of guys aren’t. So I can’t complain. Or at least I shouldn’t.” He clears his throat and swallows roughly.
She can feel in the pit of her stomach how bad it must have been to cause him to make that face.
“I think you should take this back,” he says, extending the marble. “I think it worked its magic on me already. I’m here in one piece.”
Her heart flutters. “All right,” she says softly. “I suppose I could use a turn.”
He grins as he puts it in her hand. “Here. I’m going to want an update on how this goes.”
She pulls a coin purse from her bag and zips the marble carefully inside. “You know, I worried a lot about something happening to you over there. Know why?"
His eyes warm. "Because I’m probably a better taxi driver than a sharpshooter?"
