Page 73 of Loving at 40

Winter comes early, and it’s so frickity-frackity cold, but it’s also nice to be out of the house. We have a long weekend now that the first-semester parent-teacher conferences are over, and while I’d hoped to head to Lakeside for a visit with Anna, the predicted snowstorm arrived. Everything is covered in a thick blanket of the white stuff. I shouldn’t bother shoveling, leaving it for another day and allowing myself and the girls to stay trapped in the house. We’d sit before the fireplace, watching movies and scarfing popcorn, but today, I need this. I need to burn off some energy as I’d had the most vivid dream about Archer last night.

I know better than to drink tequila to celebrate the end of conferences.

Despite a slight headache, the cold doesn’t bother me, and I’m reminded of a song from Frozen. The girls decided to stay in the house so I could at least get the front stoop and the walkway to the driveway cleared. My back is to the street as I heft thick piles of snow to the left and right, recalling when I used to grumble that Ryan needed to do this job. Whenever bad weather struck, it seemed he conveniently was out of town at a boat show or convention, and I’d be the one shoveling this shit or calling in a favor from a friend’s husband who has a plow on the front of his truck.

I hated asking for help, though.

“Jenna.” Hearing my name in a masculine voice doesn’t stop my lifting the shovel as I assume it’s Archer whittling his way into my thoughts, shoving Ryan out of the way. I recall Archer telling me how he didn’t want me thinking of Ryan when I was out with him and then retracting the statement, telling me I could think of him, even talk about him if I wanted. Archer just wanted to be in the forefront of my brain. I understood in some ways. You can’t keep living by loving a ghost.

Did he love a ghost? Had he been thinking of that Viviana Quintero woman when he’d been with me?

“Babe.” This time, I pause and slowly stand upright, my mittened hand gripping the shovel’s handle. God, I hate what that word, in the ruggedness of his voice, did to my insides. Even though he called her that term in that same tumbled tone, the endearment triggers something inside me. I ache for Archer.

“’Locks, turn around.” A soft chuckle follows the command, and I spin so fast I nearly slip on the icy ground where I’ve cleared the snow. I stare at the mirage before me because I must be dreaming. He can’t possibly be standing here looking sexy as hell in a dark brown, Sherpa-collared jacket. I’ve only seen this man in T-shirts, but dressed in winter attire, his appearance says outdoor adventurer, and I want to climb him like a mountain.

Instead, I resist going to him.

“Archer,” I whisper still not believing he’s standing here. In my town. In my yard. I take another moment to wonder if I’ve conjured him from that dream last night. The one where he appears in the middle of the night, climbs over me in bed, and tells me how he loves me. How sorry he is he left me behind and makes it up to me by plying my body with his tongue and teeth and lips. My body shivers, and it isn’t the cold but his sudden presence and the things I know he can do to me.

Like break my heart.

“What are you doing here?” My voice is edgier than it should be. I should be asking about his welfare. How is he? Where has he been? But if I ask those questions, I’ll start to lose it. I’ll become a raging banshee of anger and relief that he’s standing before me. Even if he isn’t mine, I’m so relieved he’s alive. He isn’t dead like Rosie defended.

“I want to be home.”

I stare at him, slowly registering his words. Be home? Does this mean he’s completed his assignment? Is he back at Lakeside? Why didn’t his sister tell me?

“Anna must be so happy to see you.”

“She doesn’t know I’m back yet.”

I stare at him again, using the propped-up shovel for support as my knees tremble.

“What do you mean she doesn’t know you’re home?”

“I came here first.”

“Why?” The word bursts forth like a snowball launched at a moving vehicle.

“Because I want to be home.”

Shaking my head, I lower it a moment. “Then what are you doing here?”

He steps forward, and I drop the shovel, stepping back. He stills, and his hands slowly lift upward, palms outward. Those hands. Those fingers. The tips of them. Oh, God. I close my eyes, feeling too warm despite the cold around us.

“Let me be home . . . ’Locks.” The catch in his voice has my eyes springing open. Did he struggle against calling me babe? Is he playing a role again? “Please.”

The soft plea in his voice twists my belly, and I glance over at a large pickup truck parked on the street near the end of my driveway. Shiny, black, and looking brand new, it’s not the temporary car he was driving last summer. The one he explained had been given to him by the department and was unmarked for his protection. I didn’t understand the depth of that security. I still didn’t understand anything about the man before me.

“I don’t have anywhere else I want to be.”

My shoulders fall, and I glance back at him. His hands have slipped into his pockets. His face is still that edgy, rugged man of three months ago, but his dark eyes have softened. He doesn’t seem the type to beg, but those eyes . . . they are down-on-his-knees pleading with me to let him . . . what? Spend a night? Land a little while? Stay forever?

“What do you want?” My voice croaks around the question.

“You. And the girls.”

My breath hitches.