Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(15)
She thought she’d explained herself. She thought she’d made herself inexplicably clear. But he didn’t get it. He didn’t understand that she—
“In fact,” he continued, oblivious to her growing distress, “catching reruns of Mystery Science Theater is one of my favorite things. You know what I’m talking about? When the guys sit down front and comment on the B-rate movies that—”
“I know what Mystery Science Theater is,” she interrupted, exasperated. For such an intelligent man, he sure was pulling that whole porch light’s on but no one’s home gambit here.
“Oh, good.” He nodded, hitching her another inch closer, until she was forced to either let her arms dangle uselessly or put her hands on his chest. She chose the latter—poor, misguided woman that she was—and could feel his heart beating beneath her palm. It was so solid. So steady. And the urge to lay her head there and listen to its heavy cadence was overwhelming. Almost as overwhelming as the impulse to throw all her carefully constructed plans right out the window. To give in to him in all ways. Even if it meant a lifetime of frightened tears and lonely nights. “Because here’s the thing, Harper. Since the very first day I met you, I’ve felt certain of something.”
She swallowed, staring into his wonderful face, trying not to read the blatant affection shining in his eyes. This would be so much easier if my feelings were one-sided. “Wh-what’s that?”
“That you would change my life.”
Oh, good gracious. “Michael, I don’t want—”
“And not that I ever thought you were a uniform junkie or anything.” Unfortunately, there were women out there who chased soldiers just for the thrill or prestige of bagging a guy who bore his nation’s medals. Growing up an Air Force brat, she’d met her fair share of them. “But all the same, you have no idea how happy it makes me to hear it’s me—me, Michael Wainwright—and not the Navy SEAL you like so much.” He grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Because you see, me and the boys are cashing in our chips after this mission.”
Harper’s breath hitched. Digging a finger in her ear, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. What did you just say?”
“You heard me. We’re bugging out. Finished. Done. Kissing the Navy good-bye and going back to live in Civilian-ville.”
No, no. It was just too good to be true. “But…why?”
A shadow passed over his face, a subtle muscle flexing in his jaw beneath his beard. He dropped his hand from her face, and her chin immediately missed the contact. “It’s a really long story,” he sighed. “And I promise to tell you someday. But suffice it to say, there was a bad mission, a vow to a dying friend, and the realization that maybe there is more to life than sorties and submachine guns.”
As the words fell from his lips, the small spark of hope that had ignited in her chest at his first mention of cashing in his chips turned into a flame. “So y-you’re—” She had to stop and lick her lips before she tried again. “You’re really quittin’ the Navy?”
“Roger that.” And if there’d ever been two more beautiful words in the whole English language, she’d never heard them.
A million questions grew wings and flew through her mind. Which was why she was surprised when the first one she landed on was, “But what’ll you all do?”
For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine the seven SEALs she’d come to know over the past six months as anything other than gun-slinging, mission-taking, hard-assed frogmen. She cocked her head, trying to envision Michael in a polo shirt. It just didn’t work.
“Well, the other guys are headed down to the Florida Keys to take over the marine salvage business LT’s father left behind when he died. They think they’ll either make a go of it or else find a legendary missing treasure and as Chris Rock would say, get ree-atch, bee-atch.”
She blinked, did a double take, then blinked some more. “I’m sorry. Did you just say missing treasure? As in, The Goonies?”
He laughed. She could feel the deep vibration in her chest, right where that flame of hope was burning bright. “I suppose it’s something like that.”
“But not you?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Not me. You know I grew up in Atlantic City, yeah?” She nodded. “Well, one thing that place taught me is that the odds are stacked against you when you gamble on the big payout. So, they can go try their hands at treasure hunting. As for me? I figure I’ll take some time off first. And then I’ll take over my father’s job as the head of the family ship-building business. The man has been on my ass for years to come home so he can retire and—”
Ring, ring! The phone in the wall jangled emphatically, the little yellow light blinking its interruption.
“Hold that thought,” he said, walking over to pull open the door to the cubbyhole. Lifting the phone’s receiver to his ear, he barked one word. “Go.”
She watched his eyes sharpen as he listened to whatever was being said, still feeling a little numb and disoriented from the bomb he’d just dropped. But she didn’t have time to pull her spinning thoughts together, because he quickly hung up and walked to the door. Twisting the lock, the safe room opened up with a thunk and a hiss. And there was Bran Pallidino standing on the other side of the door.