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 press the bell and the door opens immediately. There he is, in a gray polo that hugs that athletic physique and blue jeans that on another man, would scream “dad mode.” On Jack, the effect is devastating. He looks every inch a relaxed male animal, but when he sees me, his posture changes—suddenly attentive, every cell vibrating with my nearness.
“Eliza,” he growls. Just my name, but it’s enough. He has this way of putting all his force behind a single word. Then he sees the bouquet and cocks an eyebrow. “Are those for me, sweetheart?”
“Only the best for you, Commander,” I giggle, holding them out. “Picked fresh from your front lawn.”
He takes them, inspects the raggedy green stems, then plucks a single blossom and tucks it behind my ear. His hand lingers just a second on my jaw, thumb tracing the edge of my cheekbone, and I nearly sway off my feet. He steps aside to let me in, and as I pass, the aroma of a juicy steak greets my nostrils.
“Mmm, that smells good.”
The alpha male grins, flashing even white teeth.
“Good. I hope you’re hungry, sweetheart,” he rasps while leading me inside, “because I plan on burning some serious calories tonight.”
I giggle while following behind that big form, taking in the decor. The house is exactly what you’d expect from a man who’s never married, never needed anyone to organize his life: open-plan, floors so clean they squeak, but everywhere, trophies of masculinity. The mantle is lined with brass plaques and little crystal pyramids, each commemorating a tour or a medal or, in one case, a “record for fastest cross-country” flight in some plane I’ve never heard of. The coffee table is built from a chunk of airplane wing, the glass top bolted directly to the aluminum. Instead of pictures of family, the walls hold black-and-white prints of WWII dogfights and one enormous painting of a hawk in mid-dive.
There’s nothing girly, nothing soft—except, weirdly, for the pristine white orchids on the dining table. I run a finger along the petals, amazed they’re real. “Are you a secret botanist, Jack?”
The handsome man shrugs, looking sheepish. “Wasn’t sure what flowers girls like these days. Figured the ones that don’t die easy are the safest bet.”
I laugh, because it’s exactly the answer I expected. He motions me to a dining table off to the side, and it’s set for two: plates, real silverware, actual linen napkins. Steak, thick and perfectly seared, is resting on a wooden board, and asparagus glistens on a tray like little green soldiers. There’s a bottle of red breathing in a decanter, and two glasses already poured.
He pulls out my chair. “I hope you’re hungry, milady.”
“I am, thank you, kind sir,” I smile sweetly while sliding into the seat, legs crossed under the table. Jack plates everything with surgical precision, fast and sure.
“This looks amazing,” I breathe, and I mean it. The table is picture-perfect, the steak a color so beautiful that my mouth waters.
Jack grins, slicing his own portion. “You like it medium rare, right?”
“You remember from my dad’s barbecues?”
“Never forget a thing,” he says. “At least not when it comes to you, Eliza.”
I blush hard because Jack can floor me with a single compliment. I had no idea he noticed! But our banter is easy, the meal better than most restaurants in town. He’s even made potatoes—roasted, crisp, seasoned with a heavy hand.
For a while, we merely enjoy the food, the only sound the soft scrape of forks and the distant thrum of some jazz station he’s left on low. I let the steak distract me, but my real hunger is for him: the line of his jaw, the strength in those hands, the heat of his stare when he thinks I’m not looking.
“You said you’d tell me stories,” I prompt with a warm smile. “War stories, I mean. Or maybe flight stories.”
The alpha male sets down his fork and leans back, wine glass in hand, considering.
“What would you like to hear?” he asks.
I think for a moment.
“Have you ever had any close calls?”
The alpha male takes a long sip of his wine before nodding. “Three times, by my count. But you don’t want to hear about those because it makes me sound like a drama queen.”
I shake my head, leaning forward. “Try me, Commander.”
He nods, blue eyes flashing. “Okay, how about this? One time, over Kandahar, we took fire on approach. Lost hydraulics. Most guys would have punched out, but that’s a good way to get yourself shot. So I hand-flew it down, no flaps, skidding all the way to the tarmac. Landed so hot I thought the wheels would melt off. Tower said it was the prettiest crash they’d ever seen.”
“Is that when you got this scar?” I reach for his hand without thinking, running my thumb over the jagged line just above his knuckle.