Page 68 of In Every Chapter

She giggled. “You’re amazing.”

While I steeped the tea, she set up the movie, and soon we were both on opposite ends of the sofa while the dramatic love story played out. Apparently, there was a worldwide debate about the superior adaptation of the book.

“I’m still firmly 2005,” Paisley said, sipping her Earl Grey from the forget-me-not-patterned china tea cup. “But I love the 1980 version over the 1995 one for accuracy.” So we watched the first two episodes.

Paisley had gradually sunk further and further into the couch until her feet nearly were in my lap, but she scrunched her legs up to keep them from touching me.

Gently, I rested my hand on her shin and lifted her feet into my lap.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” I squeezed her calf lightly. “I want to.” I kept my hand there, massaging gently until her eyes rolled back with quiet pleasure.

“Am I Darcy?” I asked, smirking down at her after a while, her skin soft under my touch as I traced the faint outline of a crescent scar on her knee. A leftover reminder from tripping on a broken beer bottle at her mom’s house when she was eight.

Paisley shifted her head on the throw pillow to a more cuddly position and blinked up at me, half lidded and perfectly kissable.

I adjusted the blanket that was now half off the couch, thanks to Rosie lying in front of us and hogging it the best she could. Our dog hadn’t met a blanket she didn’t try to steal.

“No, you’re more of a Knightley meets Tilney.”

“How so?” Did I know either of those men? Nope. But anything to keep her talking. Opening up to me. And I was desperate to get a peek into her mind—how she saw me now.

She yawned and sagged further into the couch, her voice growing sleepy. “You have Knightley’s honour and nobleness.” She hummed softly.

“And this Tilney guy?” I prompted. I sensed a Jane Austen education might be in my immediate future.

“His beautiful sense of humour and his thoughtful care. I know you hate the word, but that makes you . . . my hero.”

I almost missed the last words, breathed on a soft exhale as she fell asleep, and I didn’t dare move. Paisley had a history of insomnia, so I’d keep still as long as needed if it meant she could sleep without having to struggle.

Hero.

Growing up, I wanted to be one. Maybe it was because I was the middle child, desperate to prove myself and keep up with my three older brothers. Or maybe it was because Cal and Juliet looked up to me and I accepted them as my responsibility. Dallas, Brett, and Shane were all wildly successful, and Cal and Juliet had followed in their steps. But me? Sure, I was a Marine. But I didn’t deserve the moniker or the praise. Not when it was my fault Liam was dead.

Mama was right when she said no one blamed me. Not even Liam’s wife, Nora, did. Of my own accord, I’d taken the mantle of blame and draped it on my own shoulders. But maybe Mama was also right about heroes not being perfect. It was their courage and sacrifice that mattered. Not their flawlessness.

Something in me eased at Paisley’s words. I wanted to be my wife’s hero. I wanted to be the man she depended on.

The third episode of the miniseries had just finished when Paisley jolted with a jerky movement. Like when you’re trying to fall asleep but feel like you’re free-falling instead.

“I should go,” Paisley muttered groggily. “Thanks for tonight. It was . . . fun.”

“Same time tomorrow?” I teased, and she laughed.

Like it had become tradition for us, I walked her to her door and said good night. It was hard not to lean down and kiss her. Soon. Don’t rush it. She’s not ready yet. I went back downstairs to lock up and finish the last bit of paperwork I’d brought home from the shop.

Then I got distracted on my laptop, trying to find a part my buddy, Ben, needed for a job in Spokane. Ben Walker was Paisley’s best friend Liz’s husband and a fellow mechanic.

I lost track of time, and my shoulders were starting to cramp when Rosie’s head popped up with alarming speed, tilting at a hilarious angle.

“What is it, girl?” I asked softly, reaching down to pet her.

The telltale creak of the fifth stair cut the silence. Ah, Paisley was up. Not surprising given her insomnia.

Paisley trudged into the kitchen, hair falling loose down to her hips, her silky maroon housecoat wrapped around her and fuzzy socks poking out from below her sheep-print pajama pants.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked, leaning back against the couch.