His rough fingers pinch my chin carefully and turn me toward him. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six. You?”
“Forty-three. I was joining the Corps the year you were born.”
“At seventeen? Is that allowed?”
“When you want something bad enough, there are ways.”
I can see that about him. I like that about him. “Desert Shield?”
“No brain damage for you.” He seems surprised. “How did you know?”
“My uncle died in the Gulf the year after. I heard bio dad was never the same.”
“Bio dad?”
I wet my dry lips. That’s the last thing I want to talk about tonight. Why did I bring it up? “You mentioned food and whiskey?”
He blinks, his long lashes distracting. “Shit, I did. Sorry about that. You really do need to eat something.” He reaches for the food on the bedside table. “Take it slow now. Eat first, then you can have the whiskey while I see if anything needs patching up.”
Carter holds the plate for me while I grab the most perfectly cut sandwich I’ve ever seen in real life. I’m not exaggerating. This doesn’t look like he slapped something together for an injured stranger. It looks like one of those beautiful but poisonously glued together commercial sandwiches that are meant to make you crave one certain processed meat above the others.
I bet I wouldn’t find a single wrinkle on his sheets either. It’s a good thing he hasn’t seen my bed. No matter what I do it always ends up looking like it’s been hit by a tornado.
I need to stop thinking about messing up his sheets.
It isn’t until I swallow my first bite—and get over my self-pity about how painful it is to eat with a recently punched jaw—that I focus on my taste buds. “Wow.”
“All I had in the fridge was leftovers. I should have thought of that on the way home. I hope it’s okay.”
“Are you apologizing? This is your version of leftovers? It’s exactly what I needed to make everything better.” I chew on the barbecued pork and swallow with a groan. “No joke, this might be the best sandwich I’ve ever had while mildly concussed. And the flavors are so… Did a new restaurant open up around here recently?”
“No. Why?”
He doesn’t know me yet. Doesn’t know about my secret stash or my recipe collection. “I need more of this sauce. I’d love to get the recipe. I don’t think I’ve ever had better, and I’m a barbecue snob.”
His smile is wider than I’ve seen it all night. “Glad you approve. Unfortunately, Gran asked me to take that information to my grave. But I can make some fresh and bottle it up for you to take home.”
Is this real life?
Carter Willis makes barbeque sauce. This glorious, bearded Marine makes my favorite condiment and looks like my favorite wet dream. Oh and he saved me from the asshole brigade and smells like he’d taste delicious.
If I knew for sure he wouldn’t freak and I wouldn’t pass out, I’d get down on my knees to thank him properly. With my mouth. As it is…
“Did we just become best friends?”
His shoulders shake, and I know he got that movie reference. By the time he hands me a shot-worth of whiskey we’re both grinning like idiots.
I think we did. I think we just became best friends.
Dear Diary,
I want a dirty one-night stand with my best friend, Zeus.
Chapter Four
Sometimes all you want in life is to cuddle up on your couch and binge-watch your favorite shows, taking the occasional break to eat or jerk off to fantasies of last night’s rescuer until you feel better about the world.
And sometimes shitheads trash your apartment and you realize that isn’t going to happen for a while.
If you cried, this would be the perfect time.
“Why you, Mr. Lumpy?” I whimper, leaning back on my slaughtered, stuffing-oozing couch and petting it pathetically. “Why did it have to be you?”
I catch Carter—aka my new bodyguard—out of the corner of my eye, and I’m not surprised to see he’s still steaming mad. Things are bulging and pulsing that don’t normally bulge or pulse on the human body. It’s intimidating and wildly erotic, but still. “Why are you mad? They didn’t stab your ugly couch and steal your ancient PlayStation.”
But of course Carter is mad. My protection is his main priority. At least, it has been since last night. And let me tell you, he’s taking his job seriously. So seriously I’m kind of losing my mind over it.
This morning was a good example. I’d woken up in a strange bed to a whole new world. My clothes had been washed and neatly folded so I’d have something to wear after my shower. Then I’d come downstairs to the smell of Italian sausage and scrambled eggs so fluffy they practically floated into my mouth.
I wallowed in the five star service, trying to ignore how guilty I felt for putting Carter to so much trouble. Then he started poking and prodding my injuries, interrogating me about my apartment’s security, and all the guilt was gone. When the answers I gave didn’t impress him, he’d insisted on driving me home and following me inside to check things out.