"Our?" he asks.

"Carrick," I say in frustration.

"Alright, alright. Sorry. Back to my story. My parents dealt with me joining the Marines, but passing up a job with a top firm in Manhattan? It didn't fly. But I did. I just left."

"A Kennely left the nest without mom and dad's blessing?" I ask in disbelief.

"I figured they'd come around eventually. There are lower expectations with the middle child."

"Is that true?"

"No. They were pissed." He shrugs. "Anyway, with little more than a backpack full of clothes and my laptop, I went overseas. I spent a lot of time walking and thinking and realizing that I'm a lucky bastard having been educated, am healthy, smart..., and suddenly not so lucky. My father, in a fit of rage locked down my credit cards."

"Whoa. How did I not hear about this bit of gossip?"

"They blacksheeped me. They'd been looking for an excuse since I enlisted."

"But you're in Colby's wedding so..."

"My ordinary sheep status has since been reinstated. This story has a happy ending," he pauses and looks up at me, "at least I hope so. Lonely and broke, I also missed home, but it wasn't the house on Seaside Terrace. It wasn't my parents. It wasn't the money or the yacht for that matter." His eyes linger on me with suggestion. "Totally broke and stranded, I'd devised an elaborate plan to get aboard the yacht-it was docked off Monaco at the time-and sail back to the US."

I chuckle despite myself. "A stowaway on your own boat?"

"Something like that. I was in Rome, making my way north... There's something magnetic about that city: the fountains, the alcoves hidden behind flowers and vines, the food-the glorious smells of bread, garlic, pastries... Everything there is so sensual. I thought of it as romantic Rome." He lets out a laugh. "Imagine that, me, having romantic thoughts." His eyes twinkle.

"Yeah, crazy." The two simple words explode from my mouth with sarcasm.

"If you knew me during college-"

"I knew you before," I say despite the lump in my throat.

His smile spans time and continents. "Yeah, you did." He speaks at a whisper as if saying something sacred.

"I didn't mean that as a good thing."

His eyes lock on mine, blue flecked with gold like the summer sun glinting in the sky.

"I thought I knew you," I whisper back. "I entrusted the fragile pieces of my heart to you." It pounds in my chest, scared, in warning, begging me not to look or listen or do anything but keep my eyes down and my attention averted.

"And I'm sorry I wasn't more careful." He reaches for my hand, sending hot arrows blazing through my arm, volleying for the place in the middle of my chest.

A car alarm blares outside, breaking the spell.

I wrest my hand away, but once more, I'm unable to ignore the tingling heat where his fingers left an impression.

"Despite what you may think, I am sorry. You don't have to accept my apology, but I'm offering it in every way I know how." Carrick's voice chills a few degrees. "I've been in combat, defending freedom and fighting to survive. And what I'm doing now is a version of that. It's different, a more peaceful battle, but a fight nonetheless. I'm trying to win you back, Navy."

His confession alters the landscape of this late night chat over pie because that would mean he had me in the first place and I will never trick myself in thinking I was his again.

This is war.

His words land on my inner terrain like bombs, exploding the land of hate, destroying anger, blowing up sadness. I want to flee; I see how easy it was for him to run away from the difficulty of all these emotions years ago. Things get challenging and retreat is the most obvious option. But I'm stronger than that, than he was, running away from us.

I lift my chin, prepared to fight back. I do not flinch. I don't quake or shudder under attack. "You were saying about Rome," I prompt him, holding my ground.

"Right. I was making my way through Italy toward the yacht when I came upon an opportunity to work at a book festival. It was fascinating and reminded me of you, which reminded me of home. And I realized, Navy, you are my home. Every good memory I have, you were there: the clam bakes, the bonfires, the sailing trips..."

I recall afternoons by the pool, the country club, the beach, or just snuggled on the couch watching movies. It was no accident that I always sat next to him at his house or he slid into the booth next to me when we were out. I got a ride from him to school-even after Claire's boyfriend started bringing her when he got his license, and we still went together when I was dating Zach. I made it a point to go to his games and he rarely missed a field hockey match. We were together on holidays, birthdays, nearly every day. While watching a movie, on snowy afternoons, sitting next to him under a blanket wasn't always because I was cold. Our hands always found their way to clasp the other.

But this is the battlefield and I will fight. "I was there with Claire."

Hurt scours his features before it solidifies into the resolve of a warrior. "The point is you were there."

I angle my strongest weapon at him. "Why didn't you tell me this years ago? Or in high school?"

"Because I didn't know. You were in a relationship...I was afraid."

"My relationship was a sham, as you know," I say, jabbing him.

"I thought you loved Zach. All the while I was lying to myself-"

"Lying to me."

He doesn't avoid the daggers in my gaze.

"Yes, regrettably lying to you. I was trying to create the perfect life my parents wanted for me. At the time, it seemed impossible to have anything more than a friendship with you, Claire's best friend. The girl next door. My best friend's girlfriend. If I told you about Zach then I'd have to man up and face my true feelings and then everyone else. At the time, I couldn't imagine doing that."

"It was complicated. I won't deny that, but we could have simplified it, if we really wanted to. We could have-" I don't know what.

"We were young. We didn't know."

He's right. I was telling myself a story too: trying to be the picture perfect daughter, friend, and student, keeping my shit together even as it all unraveled before my eyes. It turns out perfectionism has marginal returns, and most of them resulted in me feeling the void of inadequacy.

It's as though my thoughts lay siege to the space between us, carrying us away from this moment and into the past, a place I don't think either one of us wants to be, but neither do we know how to move forward. At least I don't.

Carrick trucks on with his story. "I was at a book festival, working long days to make some fast cash to get to Monaco."

"Couldn't you have called one of your brothers? An aunt or uncle?" His safety net is wide.

He shakes his head. "I was ashamed, I guess. Also, looking back, it was an adventure. It might sound silly or privileged-not everyone's parents had a ship bound for North America off the coast of Monaco-but I wanted to figure it out myself; to jump without my mom and dad's parachute."

"The sales of my book How to Lose at Life have flat-lined and when Kat realizes I'm freeloading off her, at least I have my parents' basement."

My harsh sarcasm hits my target and he winces.

"None of that is true," he says, rallying with a smile.

"You're right, at least I have me." I swallow, surprised by how vulnerable I'm being, showing him both my wounds and my strengths.

Perhaps this battle has gone on longer than I've realized, waged silently within. If so, when you've been through what we have together, there are few risks left. Maybe just one and it still beats inside my chest.

He continues, undeterred. "Back to Europe-a friend worked at a coffee stall at the book fest, and with her generous, never ending donation of coffee to my cup, I was highly caffeinated and highly motivated. I'll never forget, one afternoon, I was in the parking lot by the security office. It had been raining for days, really putting a damper on the event. Everyone was grouchy and muddy. Then all of the sudden the sun beamed out from behind the thick clouds. This may sound crazy, but it was like the rays shone directly at me and an idea struck."

I can't help myself. I take a sucker punch. "Did you suddenly realize what an asshole you were?"

"Blam!" he intones, startling me, reminding me he's a Marine and a storyteller. "It was like a flash from the heavens above. I had the idea for a book. I figured if I could create an elaborate ruse to get from Rome to the States, I could write a novel." He gets to his feet.

I stand up.

We're toe to toe. Eye to eye.

He bends over, picks up the pie plates.

I pick up my fists and follow him. "So that's it? You were at the book festival, wrote a novel in a few days, got an agent, sold the story to a publisher, and..."

Carrick reaches up to a high shelf, revealing that sexy sliver of skin above his waistband. I will not succumb to the catnip. Physically, he could be the lead in some of my favorite contemporary romances. I will not be broken down by lust. I get a double zing: one below my belly, the other like sticking my finger in a light socket. Look away, Navy or fight back.

When he turns, with a glass in hand, I slowly pull my sweater over my head, exposing my stomach and the bottom of my bra.

If he wants to fight dirty so can I. His eyes dance over my skin. I scowl as I pull my shirt down. "Is there more to the story?" I ask.

"If you want to hear it," he says with a smile.

He looks at the glass in his hand as though he's not sure why it's there. "Want something to drink?"

I grab the corked bottle of wine from the counter, making sure to come close enough for him to feel the high voltage crackling on my skin, but not close enough to electrocute him.

Chapter 23.

Romantic Marine Back in the living room, Carrick stands in front of the windows, holding his glass of wine, a glowing stoplight against the dark backdrop of night.

I slow down this moment and settle on the far end of the couch.

"I asked you to meet me so we could talk. That was asking a lot." He sits down next to me, invading my territory. "I'm asking you to read the book and if you grant me a third wish..."

"I'm not a genie," I quip.

He grips the side of my head in his hand. "You're magical, Navy."

I resist the urge to lean into his large palm and let it support the weight of the thoughts crashing around in my skull. Instead, I cackle. Less wish maker, more witch.

He jerks his hand away. "What?"

"Is that a line from your book?"

"No. No, I was serious."

"I'm magical? No, Carrick. I'm the walking wounded. I'm a mess. I'm fucking losing at life. And why? Because I've been saddled with a broken heart for years. I've considered ditching the thing, but that would cause bigger problems so now I'm trying to mend it."

I land a mortar. His walls tremble and his voice shakes. "Let me help you."

"I'm sorry, Carrick."

"You don't have to be. I'm the one who is sorry," he rasps. "You have every right to be angry, to be unforgiving." He closes his eyes and inhales.

"That's not why I was apologizing. I can't do this."

He meets my eyes with a sudden intensity and steadiness that wasn't there a moment before. "This isn't going to be easy. Not for you. Not for me. It's like pulling shrapnel. It's resetting bones. It's pushing yourself until your lungs and heart explode. It's going step by step until you think you might die from the pain. But you don't." He gets to his feet and lifts up his shirt to reveal an angry red scar from his collarbone across his firm pec. Beside it is the tattoo of a navy blue anchor.

"I carried my regret over what I did to us into the war. Regret and guilt didn't help me be a stronger soldier. When that bullet grazed my skin, it peeled back the lies I'd told myself. What we had brought me back to my feet, kept me fighting. Ever since, I've been trying to find my way back to you even though I knew you wouldn't be waiting with open arms."

Carrick's heart thunders under my finger as I trace the length of the scar. He tilts my head to force me to look him in the eyes.

"You were my anchor, Navy. You always have been. I'm telling you the truth. What would happen to your broken heart if you did the same?"

The arrows fly again, but this time they pierce me. Hot, searing pain issues from my heaving chest.

Carrick's strong hands grip either side of my face as tears sting my cheeks. We've been fighting each other, but it's for the same thing. Maybe we're comrades and not combatants.

"You're magical because you were with me when I was in the line of fire. You rescued me. You brought me through recovery."

"Why didn't I know about this? Why didn't your parents tell-?"

"I asked them not to."

I push his hands away. "Why? Because you didn't want to hurt me more? That's pretty presumptuous of you."

"No. You're stronger than that. Because I wanted to return to you whole, healed, not the person you knew, but the man I've become."

I drop back onto the couch, clutching my spinning head in my hands.

"You brought me back to life. I felt you there during those days I spent writing in Italy. Every time I was stuck, it was the promise of someday having this moment with you that urged me on, painted images in my mind, created words and scenes. You're magical because every time I close my eyes you're there. In every city, every hotel, with every book. It was like I finally found something I could pour myself into. It was a way back to you-a connection to your love for stories. The poems you used to read, the books, and all the romantic things you did for Zach made me jealous."

I look at him from under my fingers; he pries them away from my face. "I wanted you. I wanted that to be us. I wanted to do sweet things for you. I didn't know how."

He takes a deep breath as though he sets the last of his weapons down. "It's always been you, Navy. You're magical because after all this time, I still miss you. That tells me everything I need to know about how I feel."

However, his words are like bullets because the truth attacks all of the lies I've told myself. I wipe my eyes, not ready to give up. "Finish telling me how it is you became a famous author."

"I wrote the first Love Letters book, like I said, fueled by caffeine and determination. The book festival job led to one in a kitchen, which was good because that meant free meals. I should have learned how to cook, but instead I was learning about publishing. I sent queries to a few agents in the U.S. and got a handful of friendly rejections."

I wonder how much rejection stung, but I can't ask without exposing my position on the battlefield.