Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I scan the room, insides going soft and gushy when I see the huge man. He’s at a booth that offers privacy—back against the wall, view of the whole entrance, azure eyes piercing. His shirt is crisp and pale blue, the kind that’s meant to be casual but looks like it came with its own starch instructions. His hair is slicked back but you can see the rebellion in the few dark curls that refuse to obey. The scar on his jaw stands out against his tan. He looks dominating, like he could take a punch from a moving train and ask for another.
The alpha male sees me and stands, rising to his full six three with a bright white smile. The effect is instantaneous and overwhelming as my knees literally go weak. If I had any doubts about this, they melt under the blast of his attention.
“Eliza,” he growls, and I swear, my panties go wet.
“Hi, Jack,” I murmur, smiling. “You’re early. Military punctuality?”
His laugh is a masculine rasp. “Force of habit. You look nice.” He hesitates, then: “You always do, sweetheart.”
I like the way he says “nice.” Like the word could mean anything from “delicious” to “dangerous.” I slide into the booth, leaving my sunglasses on until the last possible second, then pushing them up and using them like a headband to keep my golden waves off my face.
He sits across from me, the table barely wide enough to keep us honest. I fold my hands in my lap, feeling the eyes of everyone in the café on us, even though they’re not.
Jack’s hands are huge, the veins prominent, and when he wraps one around his mug, the ceramic looks fragile by comparison.
“You want something, sweetheart?” he asks. “Coffee, tea? I heard they make a mean chai.”
“I’ll do a chai,” I say, and before I can protest, he’s up and at the counter, ordering for me like we’re in a 1950’s after-school special. I use the thirty seconds to get my breathing under control because how can this man have such a crazy effect on me after only two minutes? I need to start thinking like a sane person, but it’s hard when I’m with a man so handsome.
When he returns, he’s got a gingerbread cookie on the saucer, which make me smile.
“Oh I love gingerbread,” I murmur. “Especially when they’re in the shape of men.”
“Do you?” he asks, a black brow rising. “And which part do you eat first?”
I laugh merrily.
“The head of course!” But then, I take the gingerbread man in my hand and nibble suggestively at a leg before letting my tongue flicker out and swipe lightly over the cookie man’s crotch. It takes just a second, but Jack’s eyes darken immediately.
“You’re a bad girl, Eliza,” he rasps. “Much worse than I thought.”
I giggle.
“Am I?” while putting the cookie down. “Well, you’ll have to teach me a lesson then, Uncle Jack. But in the meantime, I want to get to know you. So this is weird, right? Us meeting like this? Do you feel weird?”
Jack grins, the lines at his eyes deepening. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t weird, but actually, I feel fine, sweetheart.”
“Oh good,” I murmur happily. “I’m glad you said that because I’m comfortable too. But how are you, Uncle Jack? We haven’t really caught up since you came back to town, so it’s been ages.”
A moment passes where we just watch the steam curl off our mugs, both of us acutely aware of the vibrations in the air between us. Then, he starts in:
“I don’t mean to dump on a young girl, but do you really want to know?”
There’s a shift in the air, and suddenly, I feel closer to this man than I ever have. I nod somberly before putting my hand lightly on top of his big one.
“Yes, tell me,” I say in a soft voice. “Tell me everything, Jack.”
The older man stares down at the table for a moment, his expression tense. “I flew the Bagram run four times,” he says, “First two, routine. But that third trip—” and he’s off, telling me about a supply drop that went sideways, with insurgents on the ground and a storm rolling in overhead. He makes it funny, somehow, self-deprecating, and when he mimics the sound of flak hitting the metal hull—”ka-BLAM, just like in the movies, except you hope the movie ends with a sequel”—I laugh, really laugh, and both of our spirits feel lighter.
He tells me about how he got his wings, how the guys on his team were “goons with hearts of gold,” and how he sometimes misses the discipline, the sense of knowing where you stand every morning. “Civilian life is a constant struggle,” he says, looking at me over his coffee. “You have to remember what mask to wear. Not a literal mask, like during the Covid era, but a mask so that people think you’re normal.”