Grey Skies - A Military Romance (Complete)

Grey Skies: Chapter 21

Max watched the red embers and flames crackle in the library fireplace, mesmerized. Finn was talking, but Max wasn't listening.

Sophie had kissed him.

Not a stolen peck on dry lips at the back of a bus, like his initial foray into the world of girls. Not a sloppy, sugar-high-induced smooch similar to his first girlfriend. Definitely not a controlled request like Bug's initiation of intimacy. No, this was... well, he wasn't sure what that kiss was.

But he sure knew what it felt like.

Hot.

The air in the demolished kitchen had already been stifling, perspiration running down the back of his neck. When Sophie took his hand, his internal temperature shot up like a rocket. That was all it took. One touch from her and he was on fire. Like the dry kindling sitting in the grate before him.

He'd passed off the gesture as a byproduct of her excitement at showing off the plans for her kitchen. That excitement charged the air, infecting him as he followed her into the small office space. Of course, Max was only far too aware he'd most likely follow Sophie anywhere, but he was genuinely interested in what made her happy.

Never in a million years would he have guessed mere moments later he'd be kissing her. Or touching her. The fingers of his left hand burned at the memory of caressing her breast, the hard nub of her nipple against his palm, the moan she emitted when he grazed his thumb along the softest skin he'd ever stroked. Max shifted in his seat, unable to ease the discomfort between his legs in now-tight jeans. He inadvertently glanced at the ceiling, knowing Sophie was in her room now preparing for bed.

A sharp pain stabbed at his shoulder.

"What is with you tonight?" Finn swished the ice in his drink around. His first and only so far today, Max noted. Usually this late in the evening, the decanter of Scotch on the bar behind them was half empty. Now it glittered in the firelight, barely touched. "Don't tell me one day of honest hard work turned you to mush."

Max rubbed his shoulder, which did ache a little. Apparently, the last few months playing envoy driver for the Admiral had him out of shape. "You're one to talk. I noticed that limp."

"No thanks to you. Who knew a sledgehammer was a dangerous weapon in your hands?"

Max frowned. The blunt instrument had slipped from his grip and landed on Finn's right foot. Unprepared for tearing apart a kitchen, none of them had been wearing safety boots. "Are you sure the toe isn't broken?"

Finn propped his foot on the low table between them and rotated his ankle. "Only bruised. I've had worse."

Guilt washed over Max like a tidal wave, the heat of the fire extinguished with the sensation of cold seawater seeping into his clothing. Often he woke up shivering after nights, dreaming of being surrounded with nothing but the icy blue water, Finn gripping his Navy uniform to help keep him afloat. Another pang rippled through his shoulder, a shadow of the pain of the dislocated bone as he bobbed in the water, begging for a miracle.

Max popped up and leaned against the mantel, needing to feel solid ground under his feet. "A broken foot might get you out of this camping trip with Simon."

"Why did I agree to that?" Finn closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the chair. "Who goes camping at this time of year? Never mind breaking my toe, I'll be concerned about losing it to frostbite."

"Can't be worse than the week we spent in the HILLS IN ARMENIA."

Finn swore, followed by a chuckle. "That was bad."

"Or that time we bunkered down in the basement of Mama Deliciosa's restaurante." Finn's grin widened and the dark shadow Max carried in his heart over being the cause of Finn's troubles diminished a tinge. This was good. This was nice. Being here with his friend, talking, reminiscing. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of being back on American soil didn't feel so heavy.

"At least she made amazing empanadas. Best Christmas dinner we'd had in years."

The reference to the upcoming holiday sucker punched Max in the gut. "Maybe she'd like a visit this year?"

Thanks in part to the Navy and mostly due to Finn's desire to not be home for the holidays, Max had managed to avoid trudging to Badger for the last five Decembers. This year, however, would be different. This year he had no excuse. His sister had started texting him every morning with her own version of an advent calendar, counting down the days until he'd be home. Only two weeks left. His stomach rolled at the thought of sitting through Christmas dinner either dodging his father's verbal blows or suffering through his silence, never mind a week of living under the same roof.

Somewhere on the second floor, a faucet turned on. Max pictured Sophie standing at the sink in their shared bathroom, her simmering skin covered only by the skimpy shorts and tank she'd worn the other night when she'd walked in on him just out of the shower. The flames of the fire must have flared, because a flash of heat blasted across his lower half.

Finn's eyes popped open, and he raised his glass to his lips. "No empanadas for me. The Montgomery family is taking over this house. Emily invited everyone to stay."

"Are there enough rooms?" The Lakehouse was spacious, but Emily's family was large.

"Beth, Lance and the kids get your room. Simon and Mary, Sophie's."

The news caused goosebumps to prickle on his forearms. "She's not staying here?"

Finn waved his glass in the air. "She'll be in New York, attending parties with the Harringtons."

"The politician?" Max recognized the name from hours of wasting time watching cable news networks during his down time on bases across the world. Christopher Harrington was influential, smart, and stinking rich. Some charity foundation he was head of had made a splash in the news over donating millions of dollars to women's shelters around the country.

"Yeah, she was engaged to his eldest son." Finn stared into the fire.

Max's chest squeezed. Sophie had been engaged to a Harrington? He sank back into his seat, tracing the slight bump on his wrist, seeing her world in a different light. Marrying him would have meant Sophie would have never wanted for anything. Hadn't she said they met at Harvard? The son was probably set to be a hotshot lawyer or maybe a politician.

This was the type of man Sophie was used to. Intelligent, successful, probably good looking. Max bet her fiancé had his whole life planned out. He wasn't a washed up, almost baseball player whose glory days were behind him and who had no plan for the future. He had nothing to offer Sophie, nothing to compare with what had been taken away from her.

"He died in a car crash." Max turned to Finn, the colour seeming to have drained from his face. "All the money in the world and they couldn't protect their kid." His voice dropped to a mere whisper. "What hope do I have?"

Finn drained his glass and glared at the fire, the now empty tumbler dangling from his fingers.

"You don't have to worry about baby Wainwright. She or he will have a platoon of sailors to guard their every step." Max leaned back in his chair. "You do have to worry about your wife, though, if we don't get that nursery painted."

When Finn didn't respond with a sarcastic remark, he turned to find the man at the bar pouring himself another drink. He watched Finn gulp back a hefty shot, a stone dropping in Max's stomach. "With the flooring going in, Sophie's not going to the Vineyard for a few days. How about we finally pick up that paint and make your wife happy? Bet we can whip that room into shape faster than Mama Deliciosa's gave us food poisoning."

Finn grunted, his back turned to Max. More amber liquid slid into the glass as Finn tipped the decanter. "Do I have a choice?"

Above them, a door closed. Was Sophie in bed already? He wanted to talk to her. Get an explanation about that kiss. Was it a fluke? He shivered at the feel of her hand on his, guiding him on how to touch her. No, that was not a fluke. Maybe an impulse then. A moment of weakness she wouldn't repeat. He had to find out. Max stood, stretching his arms in the air, looking for an excuse to head to bed. "Not really. Baby Wainwright will be here soon."

"Don't I know it." Finn knocked back his drink.