Buried In Buttercream

put her hand over his and pulled it back up to her face.
    Tears rushed to her eyes. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, that she was choking. She turned her face away from him and started to cry.
    “Van ... honey ... what is it?” he asked, turning her face back to his. “Please, please, tell me what’s wrong.”
    For what felt like a very long time to her, she fought the fear and the overpowering sense of shame and grief.
    Finally, between gasping sobs, she managed to say, “I don’t want you ... to see ...”
    “See what, honey?” He put his arms around her and held her close to his chest. “You’re a beautiful, beautiful woman, Savannah. You’ve always been so comfortable with your body. I love that about you. Why wouldn’t you want me to see you?”
    “It’s,” she cried, “it’s the ... the scars.”
    “The scars?” He pulled back and looked down at her. “What scars? Do you mean where you were shot?”
    Hiccupping, she nodded.
    “But, babe, I’ve already seen them. I saw them that day.” He kissed her cheek and then the other one. “Savannah, they were awful when they were open and raw and bleeding and—”
    She felt a violent shudder run through his body. Then he said, “But they’ve got to be a lot better now. Please, let me see them. I really need to see them ... better.”
    Gathering more courage than she’d ever needed to do anything in her life, she reached down and slowly pulled the fabric back, revealing the puckered red scar above her left breast.
    He reached over and picked up the votive candle from the nightstand. Holding it near her shoulder, he bent his head and looked at it closely. “Oh, wow, Van! Honey, that looks great! I can’t believe how well it healed.”
    “Really?” she asked tentatively.
    “Are you kidding? Of course. Sweetie, it was a horrible, gaping wound. It’s all closed up now and healed over. It’s like a night and day difference. Are they all that good?”
    She gazed up at him and knew he was telling her the truth as he saw it. She could see the joy and relief on his face. And it washed over her so powerfully that she began to cry again. Only this time with soul-healing happiness.
    He bent his head, softly kissed the scar, and said, “Every time I see that, I’m going to think how strong my wife is, that she could survive something like that. And I’m going to think how lucky I am that I didn’t lose her that day. I’m the luckiest man in this world.”
    She threw her arms around his neck and held him close, wetting him with her tears and loving him with all her being. “Thank you, Dirk,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”
    Finally, she released him. He pulled some tissues from a nearby box and wiped her eyes.
    “Now,” he said, “are you going to let me see the rest?”
    She nodded. “If you want to.”
    He laughed and said, “Oh, baby. I want to. I really, really, really want to.”
    “I love you,” she said as he pulled her body tight against his.
    “I love you, too. You don’t know how much.”
    “Oh, I think I can feel how much.” She giggled. “And I think you might be up, off and on, all night ... with or without that lighthouse shining in here.”
    “Grrrr!”

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

    Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10018

    Copyright © 2012 by G.A. McKevett and Kensington Publishing Corporation

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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    Library of Congress Control Number: 2011943219
    ISBN: 978-0-7582-7823-4

    First Hardcover Printing: April 2012