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“What the hell. I’m married to, like, Captain America or something.”
The nightshirt clung to her, black hair stuck in damp curlicues to her neck and cheeks. No shoes. Was she hoping to round off this fine fucking morning with a tetanus shot? Or was she more of a hypothermia girl?
Rest in peace to his headboard.
She’d lost count of how many times they’d made love last night—the only marathon she’d ever participate in.
As long as she was breathing, he’d be negotiating for more time with the man upstairs. Surely God would understand. Natalie was his finest masterpiece.
The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when August sat down exactly five feet and nine inches from Sam’s headstone, not wanting to sit on his friend.
Act sooner than I did with Hallie. You’ll have less of a hole to dig out of.” “I’ve been digging a hole from day one, man. I’ve reached China at this point.”
“You want the truth?” He turned his nose into her hair and breathed deeply. “I’ve been through Hell Week, injuries, training that nearly killed me, giving myself stitches without so much as an Advil. And none of it, Natalie, is worse physical torture than being away from you.”
They fought over control of the television remote. They fought over a lot of things. She couldn’t cook for shit. And he loved her with the fire of a thousand suns.
