Page 36 of Stella's Christmas Rescue
Devastated. I’d be devastated. I sigh when I realize it.
And what ifhe’sreconsidering all of this? I couldn’t blame him for that. Maybe last night was too much for him. He left the Marines for a reason. He’s a normal guy with a normal life in the capital city of normal. Why should I come along and ruin his whole world? That doesn’t seem right.
For that matter, is he here just because of Wes? I’ve known military guys before and if their brother in arms asks for a favor, they do it, no questions asked. Am I just a favor?
But when I pull away from his arms, he tightens them around me. Maybe this madness hasn’t been too much for him. Maybe Wes isn’t a factor in our involvement anymore. Maybe Jordan is here for me.
I hope so.
The three snorers in the room are too much to resist, so I decide to join them. All these questions, these doubts, they are Tomorrow Stella’s problem. For now, I snuggle back into his embrace and drift away.
13
“Itold you, you don’t have to cook for me all the time, Stella.”
I inhale the heavenly scent of pancakes and my mouth waters. She’s been at it for twenty minutes, which is just too long for breakfast. But she smiles sweetly and says, “You got up early and cleaned up the glass and blood. You get pancakes. No arguing.”
“No arguing, I promise.” I smile and wrap my arms around her from behind, as she cooks. I kiss the nape of her neck and smell her sweet scent. Then I give her a little nibble there.
“Mm, stop,” she fusses and shimmies in my grasp. “I’ll burn the pancakes.”
“Fine, fine, no one wants that.” I pour some coffee for us both, and soon, the pancakes are done. “Good thing I already fed the dogs, or we wouldn’t get any.”
She asks, “You give Max pancakes?”
“Well, sure. He deserves something good, too.”
“You’re right. They both deserve something good for last night,” Stella says. Then she makes them each a plate and sets it on the floor, which they gobble down before she comes to the table. “You know something? A dog’s life sounds really nice right about now.”
I nod, “Sleep all day, someone else feeds you. Massages whenever you get near someone?—"
“You like massages?” she appears surprised.
“Of course. Who doesn’t?”
Stella shrugs, “Seems sorta girlie.”
“Not at all. I get deep tissue massages, sports massages, whatever they have that’ll work through this old body. And after five weeks in the jungle, nothing makes you feel like a human again, like two massage therapists tearing into your hide at the same time.”
“That a sex euphemism?”
I laugh. “Not at all. In fact, after this whole mess is settled, I think we could both use a week at a spa. Massages, manicures, facials, the whole nine.”
Her head tips backward and she groans, “Oh my god, I haven’t been to a spa in over three years. That sounds wonderful.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do soon.”
But right now we’ve got other things to take care of. First eating. Then practice. Stella’s pancakes are to die for, making them a great reward for cleaning up a little blood and glass.
After we get dressed, I set up a redneck range on her fence. Old soda cans provide us something to aim at. The shiny redcans stand out from the snow—covered fence. I set the shotgun up on her shoulder and show her the proper way to hold it. “…just like this. Aim. Take a breath. And when you let it out, squeeze the trigger.”
“Aim.” She takes a deep breath. “Breathe.” Another deep breath. “Pull?—"
“No,” I interrupt her.
“But you said?—"
“I said tosqueezethe trigger. Not pull. If you pull, you wreck your aim. It doesn’t take much force to move the trigger. The squeeze should come from the fine muscles in the hand.”
