Free Girl Gear 6: Indiscreet by Alison Kent

and it meant more to her than any single memory of her mother that remained.
    Her grandmother had done all that she could for both of her grandchildren, finally moving them to Houston to be near more of her own family when it was clear their mother had left, never to return. Annabel couldn’t have asked for a better example of serenity in patience and purpose.
    Inheriting more of that attitude would have served her well, but at least she knew that when she parted ways with Patrick, she would do so having given his redemption her very best shot. If she failed in her efforts, it would be because he wasn’t ready to be redeemed. She stroked her thumb over the smooth jade before returning it to the box and going to salvage what she could of her Saturday night.
    “Listen, Patrick,” she began, rounding the wall of lava lamp sculptures and entering the kitchen. Once again, the empty kitchen. She sighed heavily and turned off the fire beneath the skillet of braising garlic.
    On the countertop next to the stovetop, she found the New Year’s Eve menu notes she’d left on the coffee table earlier in the day. This time her sigh was even heavier, as was the weight of her heart. She recognized his effort to apologize for being an ass this morning.
    He’d taken the initiative and jumped right to what had to be a trial run of the recipes, taking care of what she wanted him to do. Holding up his end of the bargain they’d made. The only reason she’d agreed to keep him around.
    That thought shouldn’t have caused her such grief, such a sense of foul play. She certainly shouldn’t be thinking of taking it all back—and she wasn’t, really. She was simply surprised to find Patrick so deeply under her skin.
    Steeling herself for what she’d find in the bedroom, she walked out the kitchen’s back entrance and down the short hallway. He stood at the bedroom window. Even though it wasn’t yet dusk, the interior remained dim due to the cloudy evening skies.
    With the miniblinds open but left down, stripes of what light there was outside fell across the hardwood floor and across Patrick’s body. From the rear, he appeared more as a silhouette than a three-dimensional man.
    His head hung down, his focus on the floor rather than the street below. Having his hands in his pockets seemed to add more width to his already impressive shoulders. He stood with his feet apart as if he were on point, ready to pounce.
    The bronze of his skin, the black of his T-shirt and jeans, his crop of dark brown hair combined in a sort of camouflage. She could so easily see him in the tropics, in the jungle, fighting to stay alive. He had the look of a freedom fighter, a guerilla, and he stirred her emotions as well as her blood.
    She drew in a full breath to steady her shaky nerves, and approached slowly. She wanted him to hear her steps; she’d learned from their first night together not to surprise him. It was best for both their sakes.
    He stiffened. She saw the slight shift in the set of his shoulders, saw him tighten further the closer she drew. It wasn’t until she slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her face to the center of his back that he relaxed at all. The breath he exhaled seemed to deflate his entire body until she thought he might fall should she let go.
    Breathing deeply, she inhaled his scent, looking to calm herself with his familiarity, but remembering too many other times when she’d held him this close without the burden of clothing between them. Separating the sensual from the sexual had become an impossible task.
    She embraced the aesthetic feel of his body, the muscles that bulged, that rippled, that stretched into elongated contours beneath his skin. Yet another part of her knew this body simply as the one that brought her such pleasure.
    Her own now reacted, her breasts tightening, her thighs clenching hard in response to the rush of inner heat and dampness waiting to spill. Patrick finally movedhis hands from his