Beyond What is Given(11)

Maybe it had to do with me cranking the water temperature all the way to frigid, but I showered even faster than I did at home where I fought for shower time with four sisters. I made it back a minute after Sam’s deadline.

She pulled the shells from the oven as I took down two dishes, keeping my eyes on the cabinet and not the curves of her ass. Holy shit. Eight days with this woman and I was turning into a sex-starved perv. Sister. Treat her like a sister.

Yeah, only problem was I’d never wanted to jump one of my sisters. This attraction had to wear off, right? Sam tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Your hair looks nice,” I said carefully.

She fingered the ends of the strands. “Yeah? I found the only place in Enterprise with an opening. I just…”

“Needed a change?” I supplied.

She raised her eyebrows.

“My mother,” I explained. “She told me if a woman cuts her hair that much, she’s looking for a compliment or a change. I figured you didn’t really need a compliment.”

“I’m going job hunting again in the morning. They all want a college degree, so I haven’t found anything yet, but I haven’t given up. This guy I know told me to get my shit together, so I’ll find something. Anything.” She smiled, and my heart f*cking stopped. Dead. Right there in the kitchen.

I remembered to breathe, sucking in air slowly, and gripped the plates. That pounding in my chest, I’d only felt it with one other woman in my life. Well, make that two, now.

“Only two?”

“What?” Was she reading my mind? Was I that obvious?

“You only took down two plates,” she said, motioning to my hands.

“Walker and Bateman are on late shift.” And we were alone.

“Doing what? You guys don’t even start your next classes for a couple weeks.”

“We still have to work. They’re rounding up SERE students running through the woods so they can get tortured.” Her eyebrows shot up, and I shrugged. “Practice. Just practice.” Survive Escape Resist Evade training had sucked. I didn’t envy the students getting rounded up.

I barely suppressed a groan as she bent over into the fridge, pulling out two hard ciders. Couldn’t she not bend over? “Then shall we?”

I shook my head, taking the cider she offered and slipping it back into the fridge.

“That’s right, you don’t drink,” she said, filling her tacos.

“I drink,” I countered, heat rushing up my arms where our skin touched at the stove. “I just have rules about it.”

She took the seat diagonal from me. “Rules. For drinking.”

I bit into a taco instead of answering her, groaning at the taste. “Wow.”

“Yeah, my mom likes Mexican food. It’s the only thing I do well, so don’t get used to it. Now about these rules?” She looked at me expectantly. Were it Walker or Bateman, I would have simply ignored the question, but there were circles under her green-rimmed hazel eyes, and something lurked in them that looked like loneliness. I was all too acquainted with what a bitch loneliness could be.

“I don’t drink outside the house. Ever. Not if there’s the slightest chance I’ll need to drive anywhere. I don’t drink if there’s no one else sober. And I don’t drink if I know I’m in a situation that requires me to be in complete control of myself.” I downed two more tacos and avoided her eyes.

“Do you have to control everything?”

“Yes.”

She leaned back in her chair, sipping on her cider. “Care to elaborate?”

“No.” I’d already told her more about myself than I’d ever told Walker or Bateman. I waited for the crushing guilt that usually pulverized what was left of my heart whenever I let someone close. After all, I was having dinner alone with a woman I was attracted to, shouldn’t that trigger the betrayal clause of my conscience? But none came. Odd.

She raised a single eyebrow and chased a drop of cider off her lip with her tongue. I shoved another taco in my mouth to keep it busy. “I’m trying to understand you…”

“Good luck.” Not today.

“I’ve got some of the pieces already figured out.”

“Oh?” This should be interesting.

“Right now I’m leaning toward narcissistic control freak, but the jury’s still out.”

I choked on my food and started sputtering. She calmly handed me my drink, and I swallowed the lodged pieces of my temper. “Narcissistic?”

“No one spends three hours a day at the gym for their health. Do you get off watching yourself in the mirror?”

“Do you get off dancing on bars for strangers?”

Her bottle slammed onto the table, and I bit my tongue so hard it almost bled. Shit, that came out all wrong. Why the hell couldn’t I control my mouth around this girl? I lifted for the same reason she drank—to silence the demons.

“Let’s adjust that first thought. Narcissistic control-freakish *”—she pushed back from table—“who is now doing the dishes.”

I fought every urge I had to apologize, to go after her. I had no business screwing up that girl’s life more than it already was, and there was no room for her in mine.

It was better this way.