“You said you didn’t date military guys.”
“Oh. Well, yeah. But not because I don’t like them. Just because—well—I know what’s involved. And I don’t want to sign up for more of it, you know?”
Holy crap. It really is best that I gave up that detective dream from my preteen years. I suck at it. “Yeah, I totally get that.”
“Harris—my brother—he was wounded a while back. For a while, we weren’t even sure whether he was going to pull through. It was just…” Her voice trails a moment. “…it was a time in my life that I’d love to never have to repeat. And dating a military guy—well, that’s pretty much doubling my chances of that, you know?”
My mouth forms a tiny o as I breathe out. “Yeah, I can totally understand that.” I ponder her words for a moment. “You said you don’t know where he is now. So he’s a SEAL?” I guess.
“Wasa SEAL. Now he’s in intelligence.”
“He’s in intelligence?” My face elongates. “Well, hell, they protect the intel, Millie. Seriously. I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s a totally different mission when you’re intel.”
She stops. “Really?”
“Yeah. Think about it. Intel is the brains of the mission. You cut off the head, you’re dead. Cut off the hand or a foot, you’ve still got a chance. But keep the head—the intel.”
“I never thought about it that way.”
“Yeah.” I scoff a little. “I’m the hand or foot in that metaphor by the way. Expendable. And apparently not dateable either.”
“Only by my unique standards. If you go to any local bar, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of women who find you more than dateable.”
“Arethere any bars on this island?” I joke.
“A few.” She stops and turns to me and seems to almost search the features of my face as though to see if there is truth in there somewhere. “So you really think he’s not in danger?”
“Well, you’re never totally safe on a mission. But if he’s intel, then he’s barely going to leave the forward operating base where they’re running the mission from.”
Her forehead creases thoughtfully. “But when I spoke to him, he just sounded—I don’t know—different. He’s traveled a lot since he left the SEALs. But this time…” She shakes her head. “…there was something in his voice that made me worry. And Ava is worried too.”
“Ava?”
“His wife. They just got married this past winter. He’s even got a stepson now.”
“Geez….” I draw it out, frowning. “If he’s newly married and there’s a kid in the picture, he’s probably just worried aboutthem. It’s one thing to deploy or be TDY, but when it’s black ops—hell, that can kill a relationship.”
“You sound like you speak from experience there.”
“Oh, yeah. My battalion could fill a stadium with the women who dumped us while we were away on black ops.”
“Seriously? That’s terrible.”
“Seeing aswe’rethe common denominator there, it might be us,” I offer with a smile.
She chuckles warmly. “I don’t know aboutthem. But I don’t think it’syou.”
She presses her lips together and brushes her hand against the side of my arm lightly. A sign of reassurance is all it is, I know. But the way it makes my body respond, half the blood in my brain flowing south, makes me feel like a damn teenager.
I can’t put my finger on why I’m so attracted to Millie. It’s not just the way she looks, or the way she walks or talks. It’s just the way all those things mesh together into something that speaks to a part of me that, if I were a romantic, I’d call my heart.
But I’m not a romantic. In fact, some might say I’m the exact opposite.
Yet here I am, walking along the shoreline with a pretty girl, who looks even prettier with the moonlight touching her soft features.
Yeah, I should totally hang with the battalion some Friday night and find some woman who might help me get Millie out of my system.
I should. But I doubt I will.
“Thanks, Dax,” she eventually says. “I actually feel a lot better about it now.”
“No more worries about him?”
“Maybe I’m at about…” She pauses, thinking. “…fifty-percent worry.” There’s humor in her voice as she says it.
“That’ll do for now. But I’m going to keep working on you until that number’s cut at least another twenty percent.” I’m sorely tempted to tuck all four of our shoes under my arm so I can take her hand again. It’s just one of those moments—one of those star-filled nights when it would feel good to have her hand in mine. And she might like the show of support. Of friendship.
Or not.
So I keep my hands to myself, which, sadly is the rule for the summer.