Epilogue

EPILOGUE

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

Amanda waited outside the gate area at Logan Airport, clutching a small bouquet of multicolored tulips. Because of the unpredictable Boston traffic, she'd left much earlier than necessary and arrived twenty minutes before. She couldn't wait to see Mark, to feel his arms around her, to feel his breath on her face.

She couldn't wait to feel his lips against hers, to welcome him home with a kiss.

According to the screen overhead, his flight was due any second. Had time ever moved so slowly?

It was Friday afternoon, and people jostled for position all around her. If Mark were returning with his platoon, there would be spouses and children and family and friends, eager to welcome their returning heroes. There'd be signs and flags and balloons, music and fanfare.

Mark deserved all that and more, but he was arriving without his platoon, home for a few weeks to recover from an injury.

"It's minor—nothing to worry about," he'd assured Amanda on a rare and precious phone call a few days earlier. "The doctors won't clear me for duty for thirty days, and Major Sapp insisted I recuperate stateside."

Insisted?

Amanda hadn't asked why his CO had been forced to insist. Mark had been drowsy and distracted. He hadn't told her about what he'd been through—not on that call or in any of his emails or letters. He hadn't shared details about his injury. He hadn't told her about any of the difficulties he must've faced. Instead, he kept their conversations focused on her and her life. Occasionally, he talked about the future. But when she asked about his world, he kept his remarks surface-level—the weather, his living conditions, his buddies.

Amanda had read everything she could get her hands on about the war in Afghanistan, and though she didn't know exactly what Mark endured, she knew, regardless of what he said about his injury, none of it had been minor.

If Mark was conflicted about returning home, she wouldn't heap guilt on him for it. All she wanted was for him to feel welcome and comfortable and loved.

If only she didn't have to share him with his parents.

The thought of them made her stomach flip, as if she weren't already nervous enough. After she and Mark had spent those amazing—well, bizarre and amazing—days together, he'd been deployed. Since then, they'd shared letters and emails and a couple of phone calls, but this would be the first time she'd seen him since the weekend she'd met him.

The first time in a year and a half.

What if his feelings had changed? What if…?

She shook off her fears. He'd called her, hadn't he? He wanted her there. And she knew her feelings hadn't changed. With every word he'd written, she'd fallen a little more in love.

Stragglers from the previous flights wandered down the aisle created by retractable belt barriers and toward baggage claim. People surrounded the barrier on both sides, some glancing at watches, others chatting while they waited for arriving passengers.

Two college-aged guys across from Amanda were trying to decide what bar to go to that night. One older woman beside her complained about the increased security since the September eleventh attacks as if they weren't warranted. Funny how quickly people forgot what'd happened.

A loud voice joined the cacophony. "…cannot imagine why he invited that girl." The woman speaking must've stopped a few feet behind Amanda, because by the end of her sentence, her words were clear.

"Because he cares for her." A man answered with a patient tone that implied he'd endured this conversation before. "He wants to see her."

Amanda glanced at the screen, which showed that Mark's plane had just landed.

"He barely knows her." The woman let out an arrogant humph. "He spent two nights with her and fancies himself in love. You'd think a Marine would be a little more worldly."

Amanda stiffened, her nerves zinging with awareness.

Surely…surely these weren't Mark's parents.

When Mark had invited her to meet his plane, he'd warned her that his mother probably wouldn't welcome her. Come to think of it, there'd been no probably about it. "No pressure," he'd said. "I want to see you more than anything, but I can come to Providence after I spend a couple of days with them. You don't need to meet them yet."

Didn't she, though?

She was in love with their son, and he was in love with her. Of course they needed to meet.

Second thoughts…and third and fourth…assailed her now.

But she was jumping to conclusions.

"Give him some credit," the man said. "Mark knows his own mind."

Mark.

Oh, no.

Was it too late to run?

"Pfft. Please." The woman scoffed. "He's been surrounded by sweaty men and burkas for a year and a half. Of course he's eager to see the girl again. If he'd just wait a few days, he could find a willing bedmate?—"

"Patricia!" The man's voice was low but vehement. "This is our son you're talking about."

"Don't be such a prude. You know that's all this is. I'm sure she's not as pretty as she is easy."

Indignation had Amanda's heart pounding. She wanted to turn around and give this woman a piece of her mind. But this woman was the mother of the man she loved. Amanda needed to think before she said something she couldn't take back.

She definitely didn't need to be overhearing this conversation. She inched away, but the crowd was as thick and unyielding as over-kneaded dough.

"I will not have you talking about my son that way." Mr. Johnson's voice hummed with anger. "And you will be kind to Amanda."

If she'd held onto hope that she'd been wrong about who was talking, it vanished there.

Amanda was close enough to hear Mrs. Johnson put-upon sigh. "I suppose it's just for one meal. It won't be long before Mark remembers who he really loves. I don't care who this woman is, she's no Annalise."

Annalise?

"You're going to have to let it go." Did the man sound disappointed? "He's made it clear they're not getting back together."

Who was Annalise?

Someone Mark had been with. Someone his parents liked.

Amanda felt sick.

She reached the end of the barrier just as two people hurried through from the gate area. Had they been on Mark's flight?

Amanda's jostling put her in front of a couple of women who'd been there before her.

"Do you mind?" one said.

"Sorry. Let me just…" She scooted to the side, trying to get out of the way.

And then, Mark stepped into view.

She froze, unable to take her eyes off him. Unable to move.

Oh. She'd forgotten. How had she forgotten?

Not just how tall he was, how broad and beautiful. How strong and powerful and fierce.

She'd forgotten the way everything inside her leaned toward him like iron to a magnet.

Behind her, one of the women breathed a low, "Yes, please," earning a giggle from her friend.

Amanda wasn't laughing. This was her Mark, no question, but he was different. He looked older. Tougher. More guarded.

Haunted.

She scanned him, searching for a sign he was in pain. He seemed healthy and whole in his camouflage uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, his duffle bag slung over his other shoulder. He scanned the crowd, skimming right past his parents as if he hadn't noticed them.

His gaze landed on Amanda, and he picked up his pace. He didn't smile, but relief filled in his eyes as if he were dying of thirst and she were a pool of clear water.

Though she itched to launch herself forward, she stayed behind the security line. Had time ever moved so slowly?

"Mark!" His mother had pushed her way to the front and was waving at him. "Mark, sweetie."

He cringed. Visibly cringed.

His expression shifted to apologetic, and disappointment clouded her vision as she watched the man she loved step around the barrier and draw his parents away from the crowd before dropping his bag and greeting them.

Amanda walked toward them but stopped a few feet away.

Mark's dad was about two inches shorter than his son, dark-haired and barrel-chested. He had a wide smile and kind eyes, and Mark resembled him so much that Amanda couldn't help liking the older man immediately. Of course, some of that came from having overheard his remarks earlier.

His mother was tall and slender, her blond hair cut to chin-length, sharp as a cleaver. Her face was thin, her nose and cheekbones so prominent that Amanda could imagine the skull beneath. She had a bright yellow cardigan draped over her shoulders like she'd just stepped off a golf course. Her sleeveless sheath dress showed off ivory arms, long fingers, and sharp claws.

Nails. Not claws.

Even so, as she wrapped her arms around Mark's neck, Amanda had the irrational urge to shout a warning.

Mark survived the dragon's embrace and leaned back to kiss her cheek. They said a few words to each other, and then he stepped away.

When his eyes locked with Amanda's, the force of his gaze had her heart stuttering. Before it regained its rhythm, he was there, sliding his arms around her waist. He pulled her close, lifting her off her feet, holding her against his chest as if she weighed nothing.

"Sweetheart." The word was a warm breath in her ear. "I missed you so much."

Arms around him, she nestled against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, musky and perfect. There was so much she wanted to say, but her throat clogged with tears. She clung to him and cried and hoped this moment would never end.

He didn't rush her, just held her while her breath hitched.

Finally, she managed, "I'm so glad you're home."

"Me too." His voice pitched a little lower. "I'm sorry for what's about to?—"

"Well, aren't you going to introduce us?" His mother didn't bother to hide her irritation.

Mark sighed and let Amanda slide to the floor. She caught the barest hint of pain in his expression before he took her hand and faced his parents.

"Mom and Dad, I'd like you to meet Amanda Prince. Amanda, my parents, Hayden and Patricia Johnson."

"Hello, dear." The two words dripped with sarcasm. "How lovely you could be here."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Johnson." Amanda lifted her hand to shake, only then remembering the flowers.

Mark quirked an eyebrow. "For me?" By the look on his face, he hoped not.

"Uh, no." She held them to his mom. "For you."

"Tulips." Her lips turned up in a look nobody would mistake for a smile.

"For spring," Amanda said. "Mark told me you're having a party tomorrow, and I thought, for company…"

"Well." She seemed reluctant but took the gift. "They are certainly…pastel."

There was no suitable response to that.

Mark's father stepped into the tense silence. "Call me Hayden. Pleasure to meet you." He shook Amanda's hand, clasping it in both of his. "Mark's told us so much about you. It's wonderful to finally meet you."

"Thank you. I feel the same." About meeting him, anyway.

"You know where we're having lunch?" Mrs. Johnson asked.

"Yes, Mark said?—"

"You have a car?"

"I'm parked in?—"

"Good. You can meet us there. Mark, as soon as you change out of that getup, we'll leave. Let's go." She spun and stalked away.

Had she just called his uniform a getup? Amanda was still reeling from that remark when Mark leaned in and spoke to his dad, who nodded and followed his wife.

Mark took Amanda's hand. "I'll ride with you."

"I don't think… Don't you need to change?"

He straightened as if she'd wounded him. "Do you want me to change?"

"No. I think you look…beautiful."

His eyebrows hiked, and he almost smiled.

"But your mom?—"

The expression faded. "Ignore her. Where are you parked?"

Amanda started toward the door she'd entered, opposite the way his folks had gone, and he hefted his duffle bag and followed.

"She's going to be angry," Amanda said. "She already hates me."

"Right." Mark stopped to face her, and the force of it, the force of him, silenced her. He was there. Right there, after so long.

And, wow, she loved this man.

Which made his mother's reaction so much worse.

Emotion prickled her eyes.

Mark dropped his bag again, seemingly unaware of the crowd streaming by in both directions. He wiped a tear from her cheek. "It doesn't matter. She doesn't matter."

"It's true?" He hadn't argued, so he must agree. This was a nightmare.

"My mother's opinion is irrelevant, Amanda." He trailed his fingers on her cheeks and into her hair, sending tingles across her scalp. "I like you. I more than like you." He skimmed his lips on hers, the lightest kiss that wasn't anywhere near what she craved. Then, he held her against his chest, and his heart thumped in her ear. "It's so good to hold you. I thought… I wondered if it would be different. If you would be or I would be or…" He leaned back and looked down at her, eyes narrowed. "Maybe I shouldn't have said that."

"I'm pro-honesty."

His lips tipped up at the corners, and though it was barely a smile, she realized it was the first she'd seen from him in a long time.

"It's just that we knew each other such a short time before I deployed, and then…" His words trailed, and dark scenes played across his face. There had already been so much about this man she didn't know, and now he'd been to war, a whole world she wouldn't understand even if he did open up to her.

But, for all her talk of being pro-honesty, there was a lot in her past he didn't know, either, and she wasn't about to tell him. As much as she wanted to know all of his secrets, she was hanging onto her own.

He'd called her innocent.

What would he think of her if he knew the truth?

In his expression, she saw wariness—or was it fear?

She had a million questions, but the important ones had been answered that November weekend eighteen months before. She gripped his hand, tapping his duffel bag with her toe. After he picked it up, she started walking again. They stepped outside into the warm afternoon—he let go of her hand long enough to put his hat on—and crossed the busy loading zones to the parking garage. "I figured you'd decide you could do better than a lowly chef."

"Lowly?" He chuckled. "Try talented. And kind. And generous. You're lovely, not lowly."

A blush warmed her cheeks. "Well, at work, I'm as lowly as can be." Not that she wanted to talk about her job. And he didn't want to talk about his mother, obviously. Now that Amanda had grown accustomed to his presence again, she saw things she hadn't noticed at first. Beyond his tan, he seemed pale. And though he'd put on muscle, he looked drawn. Dark smudges below his brown eyes told her he hadn't slept much on the long trip—or maybe in days. "How was your flight?"

"Uneventful." But at the thought of it, he rubbed his shoulder.

"Are you in pain?"

"No." He dropped his hand, looking around at the rows of cars. "What section?"

"I know where I'm going." They took the elevator, and she led the way to the proper aisle. "Your shoulder? That's what was injured?"

"It's fine."

She stifled a sigh. She could drop it, but how many subjects were going to be off-limits? "It's a simple question, Mark."

He shot her a look, lips flattened in a smirk. "Yes, my shoulder."

"What happened?"

"It's a long story."

She stopped to face him, crossing her arms. "Are we together, or aren't we?"

He blinked. "We are. I mean, aren't we?"

"You were injured badly enough that they sent you home. I think you could spare a couple of words to tell me what happened. Or at least in what way you were hurt. Were you shot?" He shook his head, but by the way his lips were pressed closed, had no intention of elaborating. "Step on a landmine? Trip over a tree trunk? Slip on a banana peel?"

That brought only the slightest quirk of his lips.

"I don't need the whole novel. Summarize."

"Fine." He hitched his duffel higher on his uninjured shoulder. "I had a run-in—a slight run-in… It was no big deal. It was just a local and a little…knife."

"A knife?" Her volume rose, the words pitched too high. "Someone stabbed you?"

"It's fine, Amanda. I'm fine."

"You were stabbed." Maybe if she kept saying it, the words would penetrate.

"It's okay." He pulled her close.

She squeezed his shirt in her fists, then loosened her grip for fear of hurting him, which didn't make any sense at all.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you."

"No, you have to tell me." She hadn't realized she was crying until she heard tears in her voice. "I'm sorry. I can handle it. Really, I can." She sniffed and swallowed a sob and stepped back. "I'm okay. It just surprised me, that's all. Anything serious?" She swiped her eyes and shook her head. "Stupid question. You were stabbed. Of course it was…" She looked at his shoulder as if she could see past the thick fabric of his shirt.

"I'll show you, if you want to see it." Raising his eyebrows, he took a pointed look around the parking garage. "I'd rather not disrobe in public. Can it wait?"

"Of course. But it's…?"

"Just skin and muscle. The wound was deep, which is why they're making me take so much time to recover. I'll do a little PT. It'll heal. Nothing to worry about."

"But the person who did it… How did he get so close? How did it happen?"

Mark started walking again, though he'd never seen the car her parents had bought her for graduation. "We were in a village. Someone pretended to be friendly. The knife came out of nowhere."

It was obviously a long story, and he hadn't shared the half of it. When they reached her little hatchback, she unlocked the doors.

He tossed his bag in the backseat and held out his palm. "You want me to drive?"

"Not unless you want to."

"I'm exhausted, so if you don't mind?—"

"I got it. Climb in."

He folded his oversize body into her tiny car, pushing the seat back as far as it would go and then reclining it.

She maneuvered out of the garage and through the busy airport traffic toward Route One. The steakhouse wasn't far, and she'd mapped the route before she'd left that morning.

Mark was quiet beside her. At a light, she glanced at him and saw he'd fallen asleep. The peace in the set of his lips and around his eyes highlighted how anxious he'd been before.

It said something that he knew she was safe, that he could relax in her presence. She wished she could relax as well.

But the man she loved had been stabbed, and in two weeks, he'd return to a war zone.

In twenty minutes, she'd have to endure a meal with his mother, who'd decided she hated her before she'd even met her.

And…who was Annalise?

Mark's mother had chosen a high-priced steakhouse, then complained about the food, the ambiance, and the service.

Amanda knew the restaurant industry and thought maybe they could connect on that subject, but when she tried to engage with her, Mrs. Johnson looked down her nose as if she were as second rate as the establishment.

"I'm sure you've been to some lovely little places down in…where is it you live again?"

"Providence." Did Amanda's smile look as fake as it felt? She was glad the table separated her from Mark's parents—and that he sat right beside her. "But I grew up west of Boston."

His mother named the more crime-ridden neighborhoods near the city. "Plenty of authentic options." She added the last with a curled lip.

Amanda ignored the digs. "I do love cuisine from all over the world."

"Amanda's from Natick, Mom." Mark found her hand on the booth they shared and held it. "It's not exactly the inner city."

Amanda kept her press-on smile in place. "I know food because I'm a chef."

"And a very talented one," Mark added.

Mrs. Johnson dabbed the corners of her lips with her napkin, then folded it on her lap before aiming her gaze at her son. "You know this how? She's cooked a lot of meals for you?"

"She cooked for me, yeah."

Amanda was glad Mark didn't share which meal. Telling her Amanda had made him breakfast would have only confirmed what she already believed.

"I also watched her teach kids to bake biscuits and croissants."

She faced him, flushing with pleasure. "I forgot you were there."

"They smelled great." He directed his words at his mother. "I didn't taste them, but she sent me boxes of the most delicious homemade candy and fudge."

The woman's face turned a very unattractive shade of red.

Mark either didn't notice or pretended not to as he kissed Amanda's temple. "She's always sending me things. Her parents too." To Amanda, he said, "Did you know they send me something every week? Letters, cards, care packages. The guys hang around my bunk at mail call, just in case one of you sends me food. Your family is the reason I have so many buddies."

"That and your winning personality."

"That too." He spoke to his father, taking on a more serious tone. "I devour your letters. They remind me I'm not alone."

"The Lord is with you, son, and you're never far from our thoughts."

Our?

Amanda thought Hayden was generous to include his wife in that statement.

"Well." Mrs. Johnson cut a bite of her steak. "None of it would be necessary if you'd just gone to Princeton like I told you to."

Hayden sent his wife a warning look. "Mark gets to choose his own path."

"Don't worry about it, Dad. It's not like it's a newsflash. She doesn't exactly hold her opinions close."

"You're both being ridiculous." The woman dropped her fork with a clatter. "I'm only stating the obvious. You can't be happy you've gone to war. And you"—she glared at her husband—"pushing him to put his life in danger. What kind of father does that?"

"I didn't push him. I told him to do what he felt called to do. I served. There's honor serving your country."

"Oh, please." Her predator eyes homed in on Amanda. "And you. I bet you love telling people your boyfriend's a Marine."

Amanda's spine stiffened, her heart hammering with outrage. "You don't know me. You don't know anything about me."

"I know your kind."

"My kind? What kind is that?"

"The kind that tricks a foolish man into thinking he's in love in three days with false-innocence and lash-flapping. Where'd you learn those skills? Not in community college or chef school, that's for sure."

"That's enough, Mother." Mark shoved out of the booth and held out his hand to Amanda. "Let's go."

She took it, slid to the edge, and let him pull her to her feet.

"Sorry, Dad, but I can't… I just can't."

"I understand, son." Hayden's expression wasn't disappointed but resigned. Apparently, his wife's behavior didn't surprise him at all.

What was wrong with her?

When Mark tried to tug Amanda away, she didn't budge, looking down at the woman who'd looked down on her all day. "Your son is the most amazing, most wonderful, most courageous man I've ever known, and you don't even see it. Am I happy he went to Afghanistan?" Her volume rose, but she didn't soften it. "Am I happy that he's going back? Obviously not. But am I proud of him?" She let the question hang there, giving the woman a moment to say something, anything.

But Patricia Johnson was silent.

"What rational person wouldn't be proud?" Amanda finally asked. "Of course I'm proud of Mark. Your son…my boyfriend, is a hero."

"Yeah!" The word came from somewhere behind her.

Suddenly, people applauded.

Mrs. Johnson's face flushed.

Mark groaned, dropping his head and rubbing the back of his neck.

Maybe she'd embarrassed him, but he was a hero, and the world should know it.

Amanda leaned down and spoke just loudly enough for the horrible woman to hear. "You know nothing about me. But after this meal, I know you. You're a fool, and you're missing the best thing in your life."

She straightened and looked at Hayden, whose eyes were wide with shock. "Thank you for lunch."

"It's been"—his lips tipped up in the barest smile—"a pleasure."

Patricia was spluttering at her husband, but Amanda paid her no attention as she turned and walked beside Mark.

The sound of applause followed them to the exit.

Amanda was trembling—with rage or victory, she wasn't sure. She drove east, unsure where she should go, where Mark wanted her to take him. Much as she'd like to, she didn't think she ought to head south to Rhode Island, considering his parents lived north in New Hampshire.

They needed to think and regroup and breathe.

Was he mad at her? He hadn't said a word since they'd left the restaurant. At a straightaway on the winding two-lane road, she shot a look in his direction.

He was smiling. "That was amazing. I am worried, though."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have?—"

"I thought you were smarter than that."

Fear sent acid to her stomach. "You're right. I should've?—"

"A smarter woman would've run screaming, leaving my mother—and me—far behind."

She opened her mouth to apologize again, then changed tack. "You're messing with me? Now?"

"Do you have any survival instincts at all?"

Amanda chuckled, the sound as lighthearted as it was shocking, considering the circumstances. "You know your mom better than I do. What do you think? Does she like me?"

He barked a laugh. "I can't believe you did that. You called me courageous? That was awe-inspiring. I've seen grown men cower at weaker attacks."

She would've cowered, too, if the dragon lady had satisfied herself by criticizing Amanda. But the way the woman had ripped into Mark was unacceptable.

Now that there were some miles between them, though…

She groaned.

What had she done? She didn't make scenes. She didn't stand up to bullies or didn't call people on their nonsense. She brushed people's stuff under the rug and served them cookies. That was Amanda's MO.

"Is that the ocean?" Mark peered between two buildings at the expanse of water, sounding impressed all over again. "Good navigating, sweetheart. Pull in up there." He pointed to a lot, and she found a spot overlooking Revere Beach. Though a few puffy clouds floated overhead, the sky was mostly blue, the air in the seventies.

After she parked, she left her hands on the wheel and breathed, trying to come to terms with what had happened.

"I can see what you're doing, and you need to stop." Before she could argue, Mark hopped out, rounded the car, and opened her door. "Come on." He helped her out, then pulled her in for a hug.

Pressed against his chest, the argument with his mother floated away on the sea breeze. Amanda wrapped her arms around his neck and held on. She inhaled his scent, now mixed with brine and exhaust from the passing cars. Waves crashed against the shore, but she focused on the beating of Mark's heart and the feel of his warm breath in her hair.

They didn't move for a long, long time.

"This is all I wanted." His words rumbled. "This is why I came home."

"I thought your CO insisted."

She shouldn't have said that. At the accusation in her tone, she expected him to go still or get annoyed, but he chuckled.

"You met my mother. Would you want to go home to her?"

Good point. He could come home to Amanda, but they weren't married, and he refused to stay at her apartment with her.

Mark was old-fashioned about such things. She'd minded until he'd explained that he intended to honor her—that she was worth waiting for.

Sweet. But his ideals were keeping them apart, and she didn't like that one bit.

And he'd be going home to his parents' house, and it wasn't like she'd be invited there to visit. "I wanted your mother to like me."

"That was never going to happen."

She leaned back. "Am I so unlikable?"

He smirked. "Yeah, that's the problem. That's why I love you, because you're unlikable."

"I'm serious. What did I do wrong?"

"Are you rich? Famous? Connected?" His eyebrows hiked. "Can you get her into the right country clubs or introduce her to powerful people?"

"She doesn't know I can't."

"She would assume because I chose you, and that's not the kind of woman I would choose. Or, let me put that differently. If that were the kind of woman I'd chosen, I'd have told her so she would like you. Or she thinks I would have, anyway. She thinks everyone values the same shallow things she values."

"So there was never a chance?"

He exhaled, shaking his head. "I guess, if you were the boot-licking sort. But I don't like to kiss boot-lickers. Bad breath."

She smiled at his attempt at humor. "Which was Annalise, then? Rich and famous, or a bootlicker?"

Mark's expression darkened like someone had shut off the light. He stepped back. "Who told you about Annalise?"

She explained how she'd overheard his parents talking at the airport, and the more she talked, the darker his expression became. By the time she was done, his shoulders were hunched, and his head hung low.

"I'm lucky you didn't run screaming before I got off the plane."

"I'm not going anywhere. You're worth whatever your mother throws at me. It's just that I wondered who Annalise is, that's all. Especially when your father seemed…" Amanda wasn't sure how to explain what she'd heard—or hadn't heard. "He said you'd made your choice, but it didn't sound like he thought you'd made the right choice, if that makes sense."

Mark leaned against the hood of her car, facing the ocean. He wrapped one arm around her, and she nestled in beside him.

"I dated Annalise in high school. She wasn't any of those things I said—rich or famous or connected. Her family immigrated from Germany, and she was awkward, sort of a fish out of water. She used to ask my mother a million questions about everything you can imagine. Where to shop, how to dress, how to organize an event, how to host a dinner party. She wasn't a boot-licker, but she adored my mom, which, of course, convinced Mom she was brilliant. Annalise just wanted to fit in, and she didn't have anybody else to ask. She didn't have a lot of friends."

"Why not?"

He glanced at Amanda. "She was…is very attractive. The guys were too intimidated to ask her out, and the girls apparently didn't want to be friends with her for the same reason. I only got to know her because I was assigned to be her partner on a project in school. We became friends and then started dating."

"It was serious."

"Yup."

"What happened?"

"We graduated. She went to New York to pursue her dream, and I went to the Naval Academy."

"What was her dream?"

He rubbed his lips together. "To become a model."

"Oh. Tough business." Amanda could picture a gorgeous blonde with the same name who'd been on covers of every fashion magazine imaginable for years. "Funny. She has the same name as that supermodel…"

It was the way he cringed.

And the worry he'd shown from the moment Amanda had mentioned his ex's name.

"Don't tell me. You dated her ? The supermodel?"

He pushed off the car and faced Amanda. "She was just a girl, sweet and funny and down-to-earth. She's none of those things anymore. Now, she's everything my mother wants for me. She's rich and superficial and has all the connections Mom wants."

"She's perfect."

"She has nothing I want." Mark took Amanda's hands. "You're who I want."

"Right." Until Annalise came knocking. And then what would happen?

"This." He pulled Amanda close and dipped his head, kissing her neck, her cheek. "This is what I want."

How was she supposed to think when he did that? Maybe, finally, he'd kiss her for real.

"But what if she decides she wants you?" Her voice sounded breathy and weak.

He sighed and leaned back. "She's reached out a few times."

"What?" Amanda stepped back. "When?"

"Before I met you. I'm not interested in her or her lifestyle, and she's not interested in mine."

"But maybe she'll decide?—"

"Amanda." He gripped her shoulders gently and bent to look into her eyes, holding her gaze. "I love you. Her paper-thin looks do not compare to your beauty. She was my past. You're my future. That is, if you don't let minor wounds and airbrushed models and cruel mothers scare you away." He raised one eyebrow over his gorgeous eyes. "I might be the Marine, but you're the one taking all the risks. Are you brave enough to stick with me?"

Was she?

There were so many things that could go wrong. But this man was worth every battle she'd have to endure. She slid her hands up his broad chest and around his neck. "Under one condition."

"Anything."

"I'm going to need a kiss, and not like the ones you've been giving me. A proper kiss, like you mean it."

"Oh? I think I can make that happen." His lips met hers, and she opened up to this man she loved with all her heart.

And welcomed him home.

The End…for now.

But Amanda and Mark's story continues, and just like in real life, there is no such thing as a trouble-free "happily ever after" life, not if people live very long.

Especially not when there are secrets involved. And unfortunately, Mark and Amanda are both keeping a few secrets.