She covered her face with her hands and groaned. “Oh, Lord, I’d been trying to block that out. How can you possibly want to been seen in public with me—the girl who threw up in front of the Stars & Bars?”
“If I limited my associates to people who hadn’t thrown up at the Stars & Bars, I’d be a pretty lonely guy.” He shrugged. “Around a military base, nights like last night kind of go with the territory.”
She peeked at him from over her hands. “Do I have to drink for that answer?”
He raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. “No. But it counts as number five. Looks like we’ve got plans for tomorrow night.”
She took a large gulp of wine. “You’re moving too fast. We’re not done with our game. What’s my favorite color?”
“They’re not going to ask that.”
“Favorite color is something a fiancé would know.”
“Fine.” The yellow underwear popped into his mind. “I’ll go out on a limb and say yellow.”
“Drink.” She tapped her wineglass to his empty beer bottle. “It’s a trick question. I love so many colors I couldn’t possibly choose a favorite.”
“All right, cheater.” He took her glass and drank deeply, not so much because he liked Chardonnay, but because he didn’t want her waking up with a headache tomorrow. “What’s my favorite color?”
Her eyes raked him up and down, but, considering he wore camouflage pants and a plain white T-shirt, he figured his outfit offered precious few clues. She scanned his apartment and took in a couple of framed photographs one of his copilots took of the Hindu Kush Mountains at sunrise, bathed in shades of blue and white. “Blue?”
“Just lately, I’ve found myself partial to gray.”
“Gray?” She frowned, obviously disappointed. “Dull, not-quite-black, not-quite-white gray?”
“Sure.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared at her. “I never really appreciated all the amazing nuances of gray until I saw your eyes. When you’re amused, they sparkle like polished silver. When you’re upset, they go dark and opaque, like thunderheads stacked along the horizon of a winter sky. And my personal favorite,” he lifted the wineglass from her fingers and took a swallow, all the while watching her pulse flutter at the base of her throat, “when you’re turned on, those eyes of yours go soft and smoky.”
The gray eyes in question stared at him. She blinked slowly. “Wow…that’s pretty good bullshit.”
The scary part was his response involved none whatsoever. He forced a smile. “You think?”
She nodded.
“Awesome.” He handed her back her empty wineglass and pulled out his phone. “You heat up the lasagna. I’m going to text the colonel and tell him we’ll see them tomorrow night.”
“Oh, God. Okay.” She shot up and wiped her palms on her shorts. “Tell them we’re bringing a homemade apple cobbler, and—”
“We are?”
“Yes, that’s my one dessert specialty. And ask if there’s anything else we can bring,” she said as she retreated to the kitchen.
“They invited us, Chlo. I think they’ve got it covered. And you don’t have to put yourself out cooking. I’m going to the gym tomorrow morning with my friend Dane. I’ll stop at the store on my way home and pick up a nice bottle of wine as a hostess gift.”
“It’s polite to offer,” she said as she preheated the oven, “and a homemade dessert says your fiancée is the type of woman who makes the extra effort.” She started looking through cabinets. “Shoot. I have to put together a list of things I’ll need for the cobbler. If you’re stopping by the store anyway, will you pick up some things for me?”
“Sure.” Shit. She was getting all wound up again. He could feel the nerves radiating off her all the way from his safe zone in the living room. He hit send on the text and then pocketed his phone and wandered into the kitchen. He found her bent over, sliding the casserole dish into the oven. Maybe he startled her or maybe drinking games and hot ovens didn’t mix, but she suddenly hissed in a breath, yanked her hand back, and brought her wrist to her mouth. The oven door snapped closed.
“Here.” He put an arm around her waist and pulled her to the sink, then turned on the cold water, stepped behind her, and held her wrist under the spray. She flinched when the cold water hit the burn, which caused her body to jerk against his, which, in turn, caused a predictable reaction from his dick. Talk about making up for lost time. After weeks of dormancy, Chloe showed up, and he’d had a near constant hard-on ever since.
He held her a little tighter. “Hold still. Let the water cool the burn for a few minutes.” With his arms wrapped around her, they both stared down at the side of her wrist, where a red welt from the hot oven rack rose on her skin.
“Stupid,” she said, shaking her head.
Her hair brushed his jaw and a few strands tangled in his five o’clock shadow. He fought a sudden compulsion to bury his face against the back of her neck and just drink her in, scent and sensation. Hey, Romeo, maybe you could do that when she’s not suffering from a second-degree burn?
“An accident,” he corrected, speaking softly while forcing himself to back off, “could happen to anyone.” He tip
ped the hand holding hers and showed her a similar scar on his wrist. “Old college injury—frozen pizza.”