Jason
Naomi arrives at six thirty on the dot with a chipper smile and a bottle of white wine. My military nature likes the on-time arrival. My male nature likes the white shorts she’s wearing even more, but I’m not going to dwell on my chemical reaction to her. After the way she ran off like a scared bunny rabbit at the sight of me in no shirt this afternoon, I’m even more positive that getting physical with this woman just ain’t going to happen. She’s not my type. I’m even further from hers. And the way I’d like to get down in bed with her would probably give her the fucking vapors.
This afternoon in the driveway, I thought I saw a spark of reluctant interest in Naomi, but I was definitely mistaken. She’s holding that bottle of wine in front of her like an exorcist presenting a cross to fend off the evil spirits. Fine enough—it’s better this way. Birdie came back from their run this afternoon…excited. I haven’t seen her that way since I got home.
Before Naomi arrived on our doorstep, Birdie seemed determined to compete in the pageant for Natalie, but winning wasn’t a possibility. I had to sign off on the paperwork, so I know she wrote for shits and giggles under the question, “Why do you want to compete in the Miss St. John’s County Pageant?” Yet an hour ago, I walked past her room and saw her practicing a runway walk. Maybe having someone in her corner who knows what the hell they’re doing is making all the difference. Hell, it’s more than she had going for her yesterday when she only had me.
Bottom line. Naomi is giving Birdie a fighting chance and I’m not going to fuck that up. It’s all I know how to give my sister. I’ve failed at protecting the person she was closest to in this world. And thanks to my working hours and lack of warm fuzzies, I’ve been unable to give her a healthy, welcoming home. On the rare nights we manage to have dinner together, we eat silently in front of the television and part ways with an abrupt goodnight.
I don’t have a clue how she’s supposed to deal with her grief. I’ve lost so many brothers, I’ve stopped taking the time to process the horror of it. Pick up and keep moving. There is always the next job to perform. Prisoners to be liberated. Firefights to win. Intel to gather. It’s what I should be doing now. It’s what I’m built for—not comforting a teenage girl.
Maybe this is it. Maybe this pageant is Birdie’s version of pick up and keep moving. If that’s the case, I’m keeping my hands off of this beauty queen from Charleston. I’m just going to jerk off thinking about peeling those prim white shorts down Naomi’s legs and giving her the business while she sends me stern, disapproving looks over her shoulder. Again. I’ve already given in to that fantasy twice since we shook hands in my kitchen last night. The fact that she’s made me surrender to a physical weakness twice, while clearly finding me off-putting, makes me want to rattle her the only way I know how. Being an asshole.
I nod at the wine beneath her arm. “Who the hell is going to drink that?”
Somehow she manages to make an eye twitch look graceful. “As a host, the proper protocol is to invite me into your house, then offer me a glass. Are we going to have a sparring match on your porch every single time I arrive, Mr. Bristow?”
“Jason.”
“I’ll start calling you Jason when we’re on friendly terms.”
“Is that the protocol?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
That censorious pout is the exact one she gives me in my fantasy, which is making things pretty confusing and inconvenient for the man downstairs. “Come in. We’re having fish.”
“Oh, yay.” She looks down at the bottle and does a little dance. “I picked the right wine.”
“Fish tastes just fine with beer. Better, even.”
“Have you ever tried it with wine?”
“Hell no.”
“Then how would you know?” She presses her lips together, and I find myself doing the same, so I won’t smile. Why does she suddenly look so excited? Why do I like it? “I have a great idea. Why don’t you try a glass of wine and I’ll try your beer?”
I’d rather drink piss, but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. One, it’s a friendly game, and friendly is where I need to be so she’ll call me Jason. Why I give a shit is beyond me. Two, I really want to see this Southern belle drink a Budweiser straight from the bottle. “Done.”
Naomi bends a little at the knees and pops back up. “Fun.” She blinks those blue eyes at me, and I have to command myself not to lean closer. “Technically, this is a beer drinking contest. Of a sort. Isn’t it?” She adds under her breath, “That is definitely not boring.”