“Liza,” Tom said urgently. “Please.”

There was something in his tone that gave her pause. “Fine. But just for a minute.”

I need to get out of here. Now.

Tom pointed to the laundry room, then followed her in and closed the door. It wasn’t a small room, but Tom filled it like no other man could. It wasn’t just that he was big, because he was. Six-six and solid muscle. Or that he was handsome, because he was that, too. He had a presence that filled her mind, and she couldn’t look anywhere else. He was her true north and she’d been in love with him since she was seventeen years old.

Fritz had caught her staring at Tom’s NBA team photo once, before they’d first started dating. Luckily, he’d been more interested in the fact that she knew the Tom Hunter than that she’d been mooning over another man.

Guilt filled her at the thought of Fritz. He deserved more than she’d been able to give him. He deserved to at least be claimed verbally as the man she’d married. So far, she hadn’t told anyone about him. Not stateside anyway. His family knew, as did their friends in the army. And they’d grieved with her, not knowing that most of her grief was guilt for not loving him enough.

Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wall as far from Tom as she could get. “What’s up?”

There was silence. Long, long silence.

Finally, she opened her eyes to find Tom staring at her as if she were a stranger. “What is up?” she asked again, enunciating every word.

He swallowed audibly. “What the fuck, Liza? What were you thinking?”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 12:55 P.M.

Tom closed his eyes. Of all the things he’d wanted to say, that hadn’t been on the list. “Shit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Liza said. “Now, if you’re finished, I need to go home and walk your dog.”

He opened his eyes to see her holding herself rigidly. She was a tall woman, five-ten without her boots. With her boots, she could meet his eyes with a chin lift that, at the moment, seemed more vulnerable than defiant.

Fuck. Now he’d hurt her feelings. “That’s not what I meant to say,” he whispered, taking a step closer. She backed up a step—or would have if she hadn’t already been up against the wall.

Something stirred within him, a desire he’d tamped down years ago, right after they’d met, in fact. It still reared its head from time to time, but he was usually able to smack it back down.

She’d been too young, only seventeen to his twenty. Then she’d been deployed. Then . . . Tory had come along and he’d thought he’d found his forever. But . . .

She’s not too young anymore. She’s not deployed anymore. She’s here. And Tory is not.

That last one had him taking a step back. His Victoria was dead. It had only been a year.