Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

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СКАЧАТЬ in the morning.

      Liz urged her legs to follow—after all, what was she doing?— but then a series of notes overpowered the thought. A slow version of “Stormy Weather.” A melody of her past, towed through every dramatic measure.

      “This tune”—Morgan gestured toward the band—“reminds me of my mom. Sang it around the house all the time.”

      “Really?” Liz remarked at the coincidence. She tried to think of how many times she’d heard the original playing behind her mother’s locked bedroom door. Must have been a thousand. Liz had every reason to hate the song, yet somehow it persisted as one of her favorites. “Mine liked it too,” was all she added.

      Eyes toward the singer, Morgan shook his head. A tender smile played on his lips. “Funny. She always made it sound so upbeat, I never noticed how sad the words are till now.”

      Liz listened to the lyrics, about gloom and misery, and realized she hadn’t either. She verged on volunteering as much, but the glow in his expression stole her focus. Before she knew it, her gaze sloped down his arms, leaving her to imagine how they would feel wrapped around her.

      When the tune ended, she jerked her eyes away, hoping he couldn’t actually read her mind. Then another ballad began, “At Last,” based on the opening bars. A horn sang soft and sultry and filled the silence between them. A silence that suddenly gaped for miles as he fidgeted in his chair. Staring in the other direction, he tapped his heel at quickstep tempo, as though antsy to reach the exit. She wanted to say something, yet nothing came to her. Their wordlessness dragged every second into a torturous crawl. Unsure of what to do, she peeked at her watch to verify time hadn’t stopped.

      “So, Liz,” he said finally, “would you mind if I, um, asked you to dance?”

      She was so relieved he had spoken it took her a moment to weigh his invitation.

      It was a slow number.

      She should decline.

      Then again, he was leaving tomorrow.

      “Sure—I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.”

      They rose and walked to the edge of the dance floor. As she slipped her hand into his, unfamiliar nerves rippled up her sides. His other hand cupped the small of her back and drew her close. She fought the trickle of a chill on her neck, willed moisture into her mouth gone dry.

      This was a mistake, she warned herself. Still, she rested a palm on his broad shoulder, the starched fabric separating her from the skin beneath. At the shift of his muscles, the feel of his gaze, her heart pounded twice as fast as the beat. She didn’t take in a single lyric, yet everything about the song was perfect. It seemed the spiraling combination of notes was commanding her emotions to lead; her body to follow.

      She turned her head and closed her eyes. Vanilla, lemon, and cedar—the scent of his talc or aftershave was soft but masculine. The slight rasp of his chin brushed against her temple; a rush of warm breath passed by her cheek. She tightened her grip on his shoulder as subtly as she could. Cracking her eyelids, she noted goose bumps prickling her arms. She desperately hoped he didn’t notice the effect he had on her. Unless he felt the same.

      What was she thinking? They’d only just met. Sensible. She needed to be sensible.

      Then his hand adjusted on her back. His fingers moved up slightly, pulling her closer. Never before had she been so aware of being touched. The air enveloping them thickened, a dense cloud, smothering sensibility.

      She relaxed her neck, her shoulders, her rules. Unable, unwilling to stop herself, she angled toward his gaze. Her mind reached for his lips, and—

      “Watch it!” a stranger’s voice shrilled.

      Liz startled back to the room, and to the sailor falling straight into them. Morgan tried to slant her out of the way, but wasn’t fast enough to dodge the man’s red drink. It splattered an S down the side of her dress.

      “Hey, I’m soor-ry,” the stocky guy slurred. He floundered off, rubbing his hairless head.

      “You okay?” Morgan touched her bare arm.

      Chills again. She pulled the damp portion of her dress from her legs. “I just need to clean up in the powder room.”

      “Take your time,” he told her, and smiled.

      She turned to hurry away, not from anxiousness to leave, but rather to return.

      With the fog Morgan found himself in, he almost wondered if fumes from his brother’s whiskey were to blame. Liz had disappeared into the crowd, yet here he was, grinning like a possum. He couldn’t stop. He’d never met anyone so captivating. From her amber eyes that glowed and dimmed with her mood to the fragrance of a lavender field on her soft skin. More attractive still was the blend of her gentleness and outward strength.

      But there was something else. A feeling of understanding, a comfort that defied reason. It was as though kissing her, a near stranger, would have made all the sense in the world.

      He’d certainly had the impulse. Maybe he should have acted on it. Most guys at the dance would have done so without a second thought. At this very moment, his brother was likely coercing a smooch out of some girl in the room, a last favor before heading off to war.

      The war.

      How could he have forgotten?

      Tomorrow they’d be at Union Station, one step closer to deploying to some country thousands of miles from home—and a world away from Liz.

      Would a girl like that be willing to wait for a soldier she’d only known a single night? Or was he screwy to even consider the idea?

      He drained a sigh heavy with doubt.

      “Don’t tell me you lost that dame already.” Charlie’s voice turned Morgan around.

      “She’s in the ladies’ room.” Promptly diverting, he said, “So what happened with the redhead? Not as irresistible as you thought you were, huh?”

      “She was engaged. Doesn’t count. Besides, Jack says there’s a juice joint nearby, lots of gals there dying to show their patriotism.”

      “Hope they don’t charge much.”

      “Hey, I didn’t crack open my piggy bank for nothin’.” Charlie beamed. “I’m guessing you’re not going anywhere?”

      “Think I’ll stick around awhile.” The answer formed so effortlessly Morgan almost missed the pricking of his conscience. When the town sheriff caught little Charlie drilling peepholes at Mrs. Herman’s Lingerie Boutique, their father had made it abundantly clear Morgan was responsible for keeping tabs on his brother. A passage of years hadn’t relinquished the duty; if anything, need for the role had risen.

      But tonight, with the promise of Liz’s return, how could Morgan leave?

      “Now, if the skirt comes to her senses,” Charlie said, “and decides to hide in the john all night, be sure to come looking for us.”

      “Yeah, all right. Stay out of trouble, though, you hear?”

      “Absolutely.” СКАЧАТЬ