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She’d thought about it. Many times. What she would eat if she ever got out of the excruciating monotony where time stood still and yet sped along far too fast.
Fantasies about food she wasn’t even hungry to eat.
She’d started with the basics: a hamburger with all the trimmings, juice dripping from the inside, and ketchup and mustard just saturating the outside enough to leave that little drop at the edge of her mouth. A little flick of her tongue and she’d have that sweet mix of tomato-y goodness and the sharp tang of mustard to go along with it.
Another time, she imagined one of her favorite hot fudge sundaes—the kind she rarely allowed herself—with the two scoops of the good stuff. No half ice crap from the bargain brand at the grocery store, but the thick, rich creamy ice cream you paid an arm and a leg for that melted in your mouth with all its sugary goodness. One scoop of chocolate with its rich, smooth taste and one scoop with that little whisper of real vanilla. Drowned in hot fudge sauce, of course, and topped with a ton of the real whipped cream. The kind her mama used to make. Beat by hand from real cream. And one of those beautiful maraschino cherries on top, complete with the stem. And she’d roll the stem around on her tongue, taking off every bit of cream before she tied it into a knot. Just because she could.
Perfect medium-rare steaks to flaky, baked-to-perfection salmon to dripping with cheese pizza to McDonald’s French fries to fresh, ripe strawberries or crisp green peppers or noodles galore…her mind had been a veritable “What’s cookin’?” smorgasbord.
And now, she was here, curled up on the couch in her living room, with Joe and Jenny asking what she wanted to eat, and she didn’t know. What did she want to eat?
It seemed unfathomable that she was actually going to chew and swallow and drink. It was almost as if she’d forgotten how.
“Perhaps I should go out and purchase several different kinds of food. Then there would be many choices, Lieutenant. You wouldn’t have to settle on just one.”
Crane had jumped into the conversation, and it was good and right and so very him. But then the words he was speaking began to sink in. Go out.
Her hand grabbed his sleeve before he had a chance to say anything. “No.”
He looked down at her—those blue, blue eyes all warm and concerned. She probably ought to do something. Deflect. Her brain urged her.
But there was something deep and instinctual and wrong about Crane being out of her sight right now.
He’d been in her head for months—keeping her company, keeping her sane. She’d imagined his clipped British tones, trying to get the timbre just right when she’d given voice to the lines she’d had him say. But it had never quite been him.
And she hadn’t been able to see him—only hear him in her head.
Getting the reverse hadn’t been right either. Seeing him there in that spirit cabinet, limp like a rag doll, had just about killed her. Crane was never still. He was always a whirlwind of movement—pacing, striding, waving those damned hands of his.
And now she had both the body and the soul next to her—back in one piece.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Her fingers tightened on his coat sleeve. Sometimes, when he was home with her, he would take off the coat and boots and relax a bit. But Jenny and Joe were here, and he was in full regalia for company. The coat was him. And she needed Crane in all of his Crane-ness today.
The heavy wool scratched against her fingers, real and raw, awakening her senses. Just like the man underneath it.
Abbie bit her lip, trying to rein in the terror at the thought of him leaving her again, and tried to will her fingers to let go of his arm.
And then he shifted, settling his other hand over hers. He didn’t move her hand. Instead, he stroked it. Each swipe of his fingers was so gentle and so soothing that the tight death grip she had on his arm began to lessen.
She didn’t pay any attention to Crane’s murmured words to Jenny and Joe. She didn’t see them gather their things to leave.
Her full focus was on Crane.
Abbie was finally able to unclench her hand from his coat, and reality came swooping back in a rush. Flustered and embarrassed, she began to tug her hand out from under his. “God, Crane. I…I’m sorry. I…”
She never got the chance to finish her sentence.
Crane immediately reached out his hand, grabbed hers and pulled her into his lap, his arms going tight around her. So tight that the breath just whooshed right out of her. He buried his face in her neck, and she could feel the prickles of his beard against her skin. It was scratchy, ticklish and glorious.
“I missed you so, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Beyond reason.”
Abbie closed her eyes and something settled deep inside her. She snuggled into him, hugging him back as tightly as he was hugging her. Finally, finally, she felt like she’d come home. “Stay with me,” she whispered.
“Anywhere you are is where I will be.” The husky timbre of his voice sent shivers down her spine—that beautiful voice that calmed her frazzled soul.
Abbie closed her eyes and let her head rest against his chest, glorying in the solid, strong beat of his heart.
And for the first time in over ten months, with his arms her safe cocoon and his lips against her hair, she fell asleep, a smile on her face.