“What are the projects you want help with?”
I shake my head. “Never mind about that.”
She crosses to me, her gaze dropping to the chairs. “These are really neat.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you make them?”
My eyebrows jerk up in surprise. “Yeah. How’d you guess?”
“I don’t know.” She trails her fingers over the curved metal frame, and my gaze follows her movement.
It’s inexplicable how she’s so fucking captivating. Literally makes no sense, so I do my best to ignore it.
“Did you make the chairs inside, too?”
I nod.
“Is that what you do? You come up here by yourself and make furniture?”
Something catches in my throat. “Not always.” I clear it away. “This time I brought supplies to repaint the window sills, and build a cover for the deck.”
“Hard work on a vacation.”
“One day I’ll retire here. Don’t want to be doing the work then.”
“Oh?” She tilts her head to the side, her gaze curious now. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.” Fourteen years older than her, but years aren’t the only things that separate us. I have a lifetime of experience on the edge of losing absolutely everything, and fighting for more than anyone else will ever know. I’m a man who will be haunted by memories for the rest of his life. And she’s a girl who drops five grand on hiking gear on a lark.
But her next question surprises me.
“Did you join at eighteen?” There’s a sharpness to her question.
“Nineteen.”
“So you’ve got three more years to your twenty, or will you go longer?”
I lean back against the rail and cross my arms over my chest. “Come on, that’s a leading question. Now you know I have to ask how you know about military retirement options.”
She winces. “Oops.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I like you sharing a little bit with me.” I wave one hand at her, then tuck it back under my arm. “It’s okay, I won’t ask why. Just add it to the list of clues we know about Goldilocks.”
She sticks her tongue out at me.
“Brat,” I mutter.
She giggles, and my cock pulses in response.
I turn around, looking out to the glittering lake beyond the trees, so she can’t see my erection growing. “I’m a SEAL,” I tell her without looking back. “If you know the military, you might know that special warfare operators can’t do that role forever. So whether I get out or stay in depends on what my options are after I’m done on my team.”
The creak of my chair tells me she’s sat down. “But eventually, sometime in the near future, you’ll move here.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Tiny place.”