Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(94)

“I took some shrapnel to the back. Kirkpatrick, my commander at the time and a f*cking dick wad, wrote me up for insubordination. When I filed my papers to leave the navy, I ended up with an ‘Other than Honorable’ discharge.”

“What does that mean?”

His lips twist in a bitter smile. “It depends who you ask. For someone like you, who doesn’t know anything about the navy, it doesn’t mean much at all. For someone like my father, who retired as a highly decorated navy captain, it’s almost as bad as if I were some street thug, murdering innocent human beings.” He pauses. “It means that it can be hard to get a job, and a lot of veteran benefits don’t apply to me, even with my years of service.”

“But you did get a job.”

His lips twist in thought. “Yeah. Through a friend.”

“Well, then . . . screw that less than honorable discharge, because you’re doing what you’re good at anyway. Right?”

He studies the sand for a moment. “Right.”

No wonder he doesn’t like talking about the navy. I wouldn’t either if those memories were tied to it. And it sounds like he doesn’t have anyone in his corner, now that he’s trying to move on. “Are you and your parents close?”

“Not really.” He hesitates. “But I haven’t made much of an effort, to be honest. I haven’t made an effort with anyone.”

“Where are they now?”

“Still in Potrero Hill.”

I frown. “Don’t you live in Potrero, too?”

A slight frown touches his forehead. “Right.”

So they’re probably minutes away from each other? While I’m not necessarily one to push family bonding, after watching Ian miss out on making amends with his father, I don’t want to see it happen again. “Thanksgiving is in a couple of days. Maybe it’s time to make an effort?”

“Maybe.”

Silence hangs over us as we both watch the waves crash in.

I finally reach up to smooth my hand over his back in a soothing way. Wanting to take some of his agony away, to make him feel less alone. “So . . . I guess creepy Esmeralda was right about a lot of things.”

“Fuck, was she ever creepy,” he mutters, and we share a laugh. Sebastian pauses to toss the seashell into the water. “These anchors she talked about . . .” He shoots a sideways glance my way.

“What about them?”

“Well, they sound like they involve some commitments, and I remember Ivy Lee telling me that she didn’t make commitments.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Has that changed?”

It’s endearing, watching Sebastian—a man who’s normally so controlled and in charge—hesitantly probe in a way that he wouldn’t have before.

How has he not figured out that everything has changed for me, and it’s all because of him?

I answer by throwing a leg over his thighs to straddle him, my back to the ocean. Because I’d rather be looking at this man anyway. “Maybe.”

His eyes scan my face, settling on my lips, and I expect that he’s going to lean in and kiss me. But he suddenly scoops me up in his arms and trudges easily through the thick mounds of sand toward his car. I squeal like the kind of girls I mock.

“We should get home. Get some sleep.” His deep voice hums through my body, because I know we won’t be going to sleep immediately.

“When is your plumbing going to be fixed?” I’m desperate to see Sebastian’s home. To be surrounded by his things. To invade his life like he’s invaded mine.

“Don’t know yet. Soon.”

I groan. “Are you sure you don’t have a wife there?” That would be just my f*cking luck. I hate that I asked, but it’s beginning to drive me nuts.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Girlfriend?”

“None.”

“Boyfriend?”

He chuckles. “Trust me, after last night’s dinner, I’d rather be bringing you to my place than risk meeting another one of Dakota’s friends.” We reach the car and he sets me down, opening the door for me.

I climb in and watch him as he rounds the front, his raptor gaze scanning our surroundings.

When Sebastian told me we were going to his parents’ for Thanksgiving dinner, I remember being happy that he actually listened to me, and that this was a big step for him. I completely dismissed the reality that Sebastian’s parents would be meeting me.

And, most likely, judging me.

Normally I wouldn’t give a damn. But these are Sebastian’s parents.

I give a damn.

“So, on a scale of one to ten, how much do they hate tattooed women?” I ask, taking in the perfectly manicured little house before us, the American flag drifting ever so slightly in the cool fall breeze.

Sebastian’s eyes float over me from head to toe, settling on the black turtleneck I chose for today’s meeting. The temperatures allow for it, thank God; it’s only about fifty degrees out. “You look great.”

“Right. And you’re sure we shouldn’t have brought flowers or something?” Showing up at someone’s house for Thanksgiving dinner empty-handed feels like the wrong thing to do, even though I really have no experience in this sort of thing. Aside from meeting Jesse’s father—albeit years later, when he nearly arrested me—I’ve never actually met a guy’s parents.