Chapter 5

James

She sees me as macho, huh? Sure, it’s a boost to my ego. Not that I needed it. But coming from her… It feels different.

I’m not immune to the zing of attraction between us, either. It’s the fact that she’s Phe’s friend that stops me from making any overt move on her.

I flick a glance in her direction. She takes a lick of her ice-cream. The sight of her pink tongue sends the blood racing to my groin. My cock stabs against my zipper, wanting out. Heat squeezes my chest. My breathing grows erratic. A few more seconds, and I’ll have no choice but to haul her over the center console and across my lap, and⁠—

I push my door open and step out. The cool air washes over me. I take a few cleansing breaths. It somewhat dispels the vanilla and coconut of her scent. Combined with the strawberry and mango of her ice-cream, I was drowning inside.

I walk over to the bin by the side of the road and drop my half-eaten ice cream cup inside. I roll my shoulders, brace myself, and walk back to the Jeep. When I slide back inside, it’s to find her watching me with a quizzical expression on her features.

At least, she’s finished her ice cream cone. That’s something. Unfortunately, her scent of vanilla and coconut engulfs me again. My dick instantly perks up. I ignore it, turn the key in the ignition and move into the road.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

I stay quiet. Yep, I’m taking the easy way out, but fuck that. The faster I get her home, the quicker I can forget that the girl who’s haunted my dreams is all grown up, and is now a seductive siren, and move on.

She sighs. “You’re back to your TDH stance, I see.”

I shouldn’t ask her what that means. Likely, it’s another ploy to get my attention. Something she seems adept at. “What does TDH mean?” I snap.

“Tall, dark and handsome,” she replies, a pleased tone to her words.

Of course, I shouldn’t be pleased that she thinks that of me. But I am.

I can’t stop myself from sitting even straighter. No more than I can stop my chest from swelling with pride. What a cliché I am. Allowing a woman’s admiration to get to me. Not just any woman. Her admiration.

How lucky I am to be sitting here, driving my Wrangler, with a beautiful, young woman determined to distract me.

How my fallen teammates would have given anything to be here, instead of me?

How I’d have given my life for them to be alive instead.

I squeeze my fingers around the wheel, bringing my focus back to the present. The last thing I want to do is crash this car with my precious cargo. Once I see her home in one piece, I can go home and get stinking drunk. It’s one way of dealing with this remorse I carry around. Survivor’s guilt can be a terrible thing. It wrings out your heart and destroys your capacity to feel.

She reaches over and touches the panel on the dash. The music shuts off. I’m grateful for the quiet. Not sure how she knew I needed the silence. But I’m not going to ask.

“You all right?” she asks softly.

I must be losing my touch for keeping my feelings in check, if she could read the emotions my face. I blow out a breath. “I will be.”

“Hmm.” She looks out the windscreen with interest. “Why don’t we get a drink?”

“Eh?” I shoot her a sideways glance.

“Just a drink. No funny business, I promise.”

I frown.

“Look, all I have to look forward to is another long day washing dishes in a restaurant tomorrow. I need a night cap to help me sleep.”

Despite myself, I’m intrigued. “You work in a restaurant?”

“For my sins.” She leans back with a sigh. “I got a scholarship to go to culinary school. Not that it helped. The only job I could find on graduating was as the kitchen porter, aka the dishwasher.”

She purses her lips. Her tone is casual but there’s frustration behind her words.

“I have a culinary degree. At the very least I should have been able to get a job doing prep for the chefs, but no.”

She throws up her hands.

“The London restaurant scene is so competitive. There were so many applicants even for this dishwashing role.” She half laughs. “I was lucky I got it. At least, it’s a decent restaurant. I should be grateful for that, I suppose.”

“You want to be a chef?”

She stares at me.

“What?”

“That’s the first complete statement you’ve spoken to me.”

I snort. “No, it’s not.”

She grins. “No. You’re right. But given how you’ve answered me with grunts, it might as well be.”

I can’t stop my lips from quirking again. She makes it easy for me to smile. To forget the horrors I’ve seen. To not spend time mulling over the dangers and the darkness in this world and to focus on the brightness instead. She carries a certain lightness in her that lessens the weight I’ve carried on my shoulders since my last mission. That is the only reason why I take the next turnoff and head for a nearby bar. A quiet one, this time.

The bartender slides a glass of something pink and frothy in her direction. I eye it meaningfully, then her.

She flushes slightly. “Yes, it’s a frozen strawberry daiquiri, so?”

“Pot. Kettle.” I say mildly.

She raises her glass. “What should we toast to?”

How the fuck am I supposed to know? I stay quiet.

She frowns, then her face brightens. “Oh, I know. Let’s toast to getting to know each other.”

Something I’m not sure is wise. I worry that the more I get to know her, the more complicated this non-relationship between us will get.

She reaches forward and taps her glass to mine. “Cheers.”

“Or not.” I shrug, then take another sip of my water. I’m driving so I’m not drinking.

She takes a big gulp of her daiquiri and sighs, “I needed that.”

“Water is better when you’re thirsty.” I glance at the bartender, who instantly fills a glass and sets it in front of her.

She stares, first at the bartender, then at me. “How did you do that?”

I frown.

“Get the bartender to do your bidding without talking to him.”

I shrug. Then slide the water closer to her. “Drink.”

She scowls. “You’re bossy.”

“Or not.” I shrug.

She stares at the water longingly, then lifts the glass to her lips and swallows half of it. She puts it down with a sigh. “Thanks.”

I tilt my head.

She wraps her fingers around the stem of her glass. “You’re a Marine?”

I stiffen, then nod slowly. It’s not something I want to talk about right now. Not when I’m trying to move on from my last mission.

Something in my stance must give away my thoughts, for her voice softens. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’re not.” My voice comes out gritty. I clear my throat. “I don’t like talking about what I do when I’m on leave. It’s my chance to recharge and put some distance between my job and myself.”

“I understand. I don’t like talking about how I’m spending all my time washing dishes, after completing a Professional Chef Diploma.” As if simply talking about it is traumatic enough, she takes another big gulp of her daiquiri.

“A friend joined the Marines. It seemed like such a heroic thing to do. It spurred me to do the same.”

She nods. “I had a childhood friend who insisted she wanted to become a chef. She made me apply to become a chef with her. I got through; she didn’t. Suffice to say, our friendship didn’t last, but I became a chef.”

“How long have you known Phe?”

“We met at university. Of course, our disciplines were different. But we became fast friends.” She eyes me speculatively, then opens her mouth and shuts it. The struggle to not ask me the question on her mind is real on her face.

I half smile, finding her attempt at granting me my privacy almost endearing. When she flattens her lips and looks like she’s about to burst with the effort I sigh. “Go on, ask your question.”

A look of relief filters into her features. “Do you enjoy being a Marine?”

“Enjoy?” I twist my lips. “That’s not quite the word I’d use.”

“Of course. How crass of me. I mean, do you think it’s your calling?”

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