Page 13 of Loving at 40

“I was worried about you today.” Archer’s tight tone breaks into my memories, and my heavy lids lift. His back slouches into the cushions. His bare feet are on the low table before the couch, ankles crossed. He spoke so softly I wasn’t certain I heard him correctly. He’s fiddling with the medal I’ve seen dangling off that silver chain around his neck, and I’d love a closer look. Reaching over, I hesitate.

“May I?”

Placing the medallion flat in his palm, he angles his hand so I can see the item better. An inverted sword looks like a cross with angel wings on either side of the crossbar on a circular disc.

“What does it mean?”

“It’s St. Michael. For protection.”

“The archangel? The slayer of evil.”

“The very man.”

“The very angel,” I tease. “Although I don’t ever recall seeing emblems of him like this. He’s usually draped in a robe with extended angel wings and stabbing at something, like a snake.”

Archer narrows his eyes at the object. “This is incognito. Keeping me safe without giving away which saint is offering protection.”

“And you needed protecting?” I arch a brow.

“I was once a police officer. Michael is our patron saint.”

I nod, a little confused. “But you need to hide that he’s protecting you?”

Archer’s head snaps upright, and he stares at me. “I used to be in hiding, but now I’m not.” He pauses, staring down at the medallion in his palm. Then he closes his fingers around the sacred item and tucks it back into his shirt. Tipping back his head on the couch cushion, he lowers his lids, and in the quietest voice, he adds, “I’m through pretending.”

I have no idea what that means, but my own lids weigh heavy, and after a final sip of whiskey, I can’t seem to open them to ask Archer for further explanation. It’s been a long day.

I’m drifting in one of Ryan’s boats on the lake, and a smile crosses my lips. It’s a glorious summer day and hot. So hot, the heat is almost too much. The sunshine permeates my skin, and I breathe in the sunny scent of man. My man.

Only he feels bigger, harder, more defined, and his scent is different. His T-shirt is soft and worn. His chest smooth and firm beneath the cotton. His hand coasts up my back, tugging me closer to him. I can’t seem to open my eyes, and I want to look into his, which match the blue sky overhead.

“I’ll protect you from anything, even me,” he says, but the voice is wrong. The sound too rough, the gravelly tenor not Ryan’s.

Again, I want to look into his eyes, but the ones I envision next are dark and deep, like midnight over the water. The tide is suddenly steady, the boat no longer rocking, and a rhythmic beat thumps at my ear, mixing with the lulling sound of the lake waves.

Shaking my head, I will my lids to lift as I pull back from the body holding me.

Suddenly, I realize I’m not adrift in a boat or even in the sunshine of day. The night is still cloaked in darkness, and the body giving off the heat and sunshine has me pinned between him and a couch cushion at my back. My face is buried in the softest cotton over hard pecs and a racing heartbeat that belong to none other than . . . Archer.

6

[Archer]

I don’t know why I mentioned the archangel or the protective symbol of the cross at my chest. I’d been given a more traditional St. Michael charm on a silver chain when I first joined the force but quickly had to find something less obvious for undercover work. St. Michael medallions screamed cop. With the sword and the wings, I could say it was any angel to someone unsuspecting, but for some reason, I told Jenna the truth.

I was done pretending. Only I didn’t know what exactly that meant.

Lying on the couch, I sense someone watching me, and open my eyes to find the questioning gaze of one hot mama positioned between me and the couch back. Her leg is hitched over my hip, and my hand rests under her thigh, fingers digging into the flesh to tug her closer to my dick.

“Hey.” My morning voice is groggy.

After Jenna spilled her story, she wanted something from me, but I didn’t know what to give. I didn’t want to tell her anything about myself, and suddenly, I realized I didn’t know who I was. I had nothing but hard topics with hard limits. I’d been lost in that thought when she drifted off to sleep beside me, still sitting upright, still holding the glass of whiskey on her lap.

She was so beautiful, so exhausted, and so absent yesterday. I’d wrestled with constant thoughts that wavered between concern and confusion. Why had she run away for the day? Where had she been? And finally, as the night grew later, what was keeping her? My imagination ran to the extreme.

I’d been hardened enough in my past to know the worst was never the worst, but still, I already had this strange, strong desire to protect Jenna and her little ones. The longer she’d been away yesterday, the deeper my imagination dug. I hadn’t meant to snap at her when she entered the apartment, and I hadn’t missed the reacting flinch, similar to the one she’d displayed the first night we met. Her response told me someone had hit her in the past, and if her husband wasn’t already dead, I’d bury him myself. Still, she spoke of him fondly, taking on the burden of his death when it was clearly anything but her fault. She wouldn’t have been half as heartbroken at his loss if her man was hurting her, though.

However, women can lie. They could cover up emotions just as quickly as they could express them. My last mission proved such a thing.