Military Matchmate

by Jade Alters

  Military Matchmate

  Jade Alters

  Contents

  1. Cassandra

  2. Hunter

  3. Cassandra

  4. Hunter

  5. Jacob

  6. Cassandra

  7. Hunter

  8. Cassandra

  9. Hunter

  10. Cassandra

  11. Hunter

  12. Cassandra

  13. Hunter

  14. Cassandra

  15. Hunter

  16. Cassandra

  17. Hunter

  18. Cassandra

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by Jade Alters

  © Copyright 2020 Untamed Love, LLC - All rights reserved.

  It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  Cassandra

  “Super healthy birthday breakfast, coming right up!” I laid the tray stacked high with pancakes in front of my son. “Happy eleventh, sweetie.”

  He grinned up at me. “Thanks, mom.”

  I took a moment to memorize his face, his brown eyes, his shaggy hair, and his smooth skin. He was a preteen now, and he looked less like a little boy every day.

  But he was still a kid, so I’d made our kitchen as magical as it could get for a Saturday morning in upstate New York.

  Each of the homemade pancakes had a lightning bolt drawn on the top with an icing pen. With the windows covered to block out the May sunlight, candles lighting the room, and a wooden wand lying across the tray, I hoped I’d created a mystical atmosphere.

  I sat down next to him. “I have something to tell you now that you’re so big.” He’d always loved Harry Potter so much. After his dad passed away, he’d thrown himself farther into the fantasy world.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Something good, or something bad?”

  “Something true.” Surely this wouldn’t be so hard if he hadn’t already lost so much. Taking his dreams away from him really sucked. “I know how much you love Harry Potter, but…” I took a very deep breath. “Hogwarts isn’t real.”

  He leaned closer, studying me with his big brown eyes. “And?”

  “And? I thought you’d be upset.”

  He put his hand on mine. It was still smaller, thank goodness. He was five feet tall now, and soon enough he’d outgrow me. His father had been a big guy, and Jacob was Richard’s spitting image.

  “Mom. I’ve known for a while now. It’s fun to pretend, but I know it’s fiction.” He nodded, and his mop of brown hair shook. He needed a haircut as soon as I could schedule it. “But it’s okay.”

  My thoughts reeled. “How long have you known exactly?”

  Under his gold and maroon t-shirt, one skinny shoulder lifted. “Eh. Since I was about eight.”

  Okay. My baby wasn’t crushed. That was a good thing. So why was I the one that felt let down? Was it the normal growing pains that any mom experienced? Or was it because Jacob was the only child I’d ever have? Sometimes looking at him was like looking at Richard. Maybe it was a little bit of both.

  “Okay then. Well, tell me what you’d like for your birthday.”

  He’d want something wizard-themed, and I was ready for that. I’d saved up for us to take a trip to Universal Studios in Florida. Neither of us had been before, and I knew Jacob would go wild when he found out.

  “I don’t think you’re going to like it,” he said.

  “I won’t like what you ask for?” I asked. “Don’t worry if it’s expensive.”

  “It’s free.”

  “Okay. Now I’m really curious.”

  “I want you to try the new Military Matchmaking Mission.”

  “What?” Surely I’d heard wrong.

  “Yes, matchmaking. Don’t judge me.”

  What the hell was happening? I’d said those words so many times. Never to Jacob, but to family, friends, even acquaintances. Now he was picking up my behaviors.

  He whipped out a black and white flyer out of his pajama pocket and pointed at the graphics. “There’s a cocktail hour tonight. You can go mingle. You have plenty of time.”

  My baby was talking about cocktail hours and mingling.

  “And don’t say you don’t have a dress. You have plenty you can wear,” he said.

  Where was the little boy who always had a toy car in each hand? Who cried when it was time to wash his hair? “How in the world do you know what I need to wear?”

  “Jessica showed me pictures on Pinterest. Her mom’s going. And Charlie’s dad is going.” He pushed my phone toward me. “Sign up now. It’s easy.”

  “Give me a second and let me think about it. Do you want your gift now, or at your party?”

  “At my party!” he shouted, dimples flashing.

  It was nice to see some kid-like excitement from him.

  “I think I’m going to go shower first, and then clean the kitchen.” I ruffled his hair. “You get the day off dish duty, birthday boy.”

  He bolted from his chair and grabbed me around the waist. “Love you, mom.”

  “That’s more like it,” I said, kissing his head.

  Jacob hardly asked for anything. He was an easy kid, and if he wanted me to try dating, I’d do it.

  Inside my closet, a row of dresses hung in a straight line; hanger after hanger, featuring nearly every color in the rainbow. I’d worn the formal ones to the military balls. I had semi-formals from parties, and more casual from weddings, showers, and graduations we’d attended in the ten years I’d been married to Richard.

  I ran my hand over a full-length formal. It was the last one I’d ever worn. Richard had been killed three months later.

  Not a single one of them would cover my tattoo.

  I chose a red cocktail dress and pulled it on, managing to reach my arm around enough to zip it all the way up. If I was doing this, I might as well pick something bold. I spun each direction, looking in the mirror. Yep, just what I thought -- the back was cut out. Every dress I had was mostly backless.

  The bathroom door banged open, cracking against the plaster. Every damn time. Jacob had busted and repaired the drywall at least three times now, but he never stopped shoving the door open.

  “You look great, mom.”

  “Thanks, little fawn.”

  He scrunched his nose up. “You’re going to have to stop calling me that.”

  “Never,” I said. We went through this at least once a week. His dad and I had called him little fawn, because of his big brown eyes, and I was loathe to ever quit. However, Jacob did not approve of the name at all these days.

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t worry. You’re going to have a blast.”

  Who exactly was the parent here? “You know, I think the tables are going to be turned pretty soon. I heard from the neighbors that the middle school is going to have a dance in September.”

  His entire face contorted. “Nope. Not going.”

  “They’re going to sell candy all night to raise money.”

  He twisted his mouth to the side and tapped his fingers against his cheek. “In that case…”

  Grabbing him in a hard tackle, I kissed him on the head. “Alright, you. If I’m going, you’re going to Charlie’s house. Go get packed.”

  Hunter

  Upstate New York in late May wasn’t sweltering, but the sun was way too hot for my aunt to be outside.
Especially after she’d been stung by about a million bees.

  When I tried helping her inside, she batted my arm away. “I’m fine,” she said, but her words slurred from all the medicine. Clutched in my aunt’s hand, the familiar pink packet shook. “Shouldn’t even be allergic. Shifters don’t get allergies,” she grumbled.

  “You heard the clan doctor. Shifters do get allergies once they’ve exposed themselves to an allergen over and over again.” My aunt had been beekeeping for decades. She’d always refused a beekeeping suit, citing our superior shifter immune system. Apparently, it wasn’t foolproof, because now she was reacting to the copious bee stings.

  “It’s a scheme,” she said. “Someone’s poisoning older shifters.”

  Right. Someone was injecting bees with poison. Sounded efficient. My aunt might sound batty, but she was one-hundred percent sane. She just had some non-mainstream beliefs. I plucked the cardboard box from her hand. “You cannot take that much Benadryl at once.”

  She was going to kill herself with this stupid beekeeping hobby. She was allergic to fucking bees now, even if she didn’t accept it.

  She rolled her eyes. “Watch me.”

  From the back of the box, I read symptoms. “Confusion, hallucinations, heart arrhythmia, want me to keep going?” She was kooky, but she was the only family I had, and I loved her. I don’t know why I thought reasoning with her would work. It never had.

  She tried to point at me, but with the way her arm trembled, it wasn’t particularly effective. “Your threats don’t scare me.”

  I managed to lead her to the front porch, which was at least shaded. “I hardly think reading side effects count as a threat. If you’d just get the EpiPen, then we could stop having this discussion.”

  “There is one way I’d consider it.”

  Groaning, I rubbed my hand over my face. “Not this again.”

  “It’s a fair trade. Those EpiPen medicines are full of poison. And you know it’s part of the government plan to get us all on heavy medication. They know about shifters. Those doctors will kill me.”

  Right. But overdosing on Benadryl wouldn’t kill her. I bit down on a sigh. That wasn’t going to help. “Just tell me.” My aunt wasn’t senile. She didn’t have dementia. She’d been a conspiracy theorist for forty years.

  “The Military Matchmaking Mission party is tonight.”

  I couldn’t think of anything worse, besides my aunt seriously harming herself with her antics.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Go to the cocktail hour. I got an invitation, but I won’t be using it.”

  “You should go. You never know.”

  “Your uncle was it for me. But watching you fall in love… Nothing would make me happier.” She patted me on the arm. “I even had your service uniform pressed to make sure it was ready.”

  “When is it?”

  “Tonight,” she declared with a note of triumph.

  Oh, God.

  She moved from my arm to pat my cheek. “No time for you to think of ways to back out.”

  “Fine. If I go, then you’ll get an EpiPen. And if you need it, you’ll use it.”

  “Agreed.”

  For the next few hours, I reviewed my latest mission reports. As a member of the Adirondack Bear Special Forces, I usually had to spend half a day per week catching up on reports and paperwork.

  Delving into the details of the last mission also served as a nice way to avoid thinking about the upcoming cocktail party. My knee ached, and I shifted to get into a better position. I’d never been the life of the party, but after I lost my leg, I liked socializing even less.

  The shifters were mostly fine about it, but humans who saw me in uniform were quick to thank me and then ask really invasive questions. Their concern was nice, but it always made me feel like my aunt’s bees were buzzing under my skin.

  Those were the better reactions.

  The worst were the ones that stared and gaped but said nothing.

  They assumed I was retired, or that I’d accepted a desk position, so I usually had to alter the truth. As a shifter, I could carry out my duties almost as well as I could before. When I was shifted, my missing back leg only hampered me a little.

  I was slightly slower than I’d been before, but I was still capable, and my commanding officer swore he never considered taking me out of the field. That wouldn’t have been true for a human.

  Exactly thirty minutes before I had to leave I showered and put my dress uniform on.

  If I stood still, I could pretend my leg was still there. Pretending was all it was though. The loss was always there. Physically. Emotionally. In every way.

  How could I expect a date to accept my loss when I could barely accept it myself?

  Cassandra

  Alone in my closet, I’d wanted the boldest option. Walking into the renovated barn the Military Matchmaking Mission had rented for this meet and greet, I wished I’d picked black, and thrown a sweater over the top too.

  A blast of cool air hit me as I pushed the heavy wooden door open. In a small foyer, a sign-in sheet lay on a table next to a bowl of mints. Optimistic.

  Beyond the foyer, through sliding barn doors, conversation hummed. The room was packed with men and women. Most of the men wore military uniforms, but so did several women. A few men were in suits, and the rest of the women were dressed like me, in cocktails dresses of every color.

  In the mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself as I walked by. The ink of my tattoo stood out starkly against my skin. I shrank away from the sight.

  Ashamed of myself, I froze. If I’d been the one to die, and Richard had gotten a tattoo to remember me, he wouldn’t hesitate to show it off.

  This tattoo is to honor your husband. The men and women in there will understand better than anyone. Quit acting like it’s something to hide.

  Attending this party was for my son. I was going in, and I was going to try to be polite, which was not my natural state of being. It wasn't like I was rude, I just somehow managed to be the person with her foot in her mouth.

  Jacob would be disappointed when I didn’t find a date, but eventually, he’d have to accept that his father was the only man I’d ever love.

  Deep breath. It had been five years since I’d attended a military event. The last time I’d been at a gathering with this many soldiers, it had been Richard’s funeral.

  My throat stung, but I kept walking.

  Two bars were set up, one with alcohol and one without. At the first bar, I ordered a raspberry mojito. I was definitely going to have a drink. There wasn’t much of a point in chatting if I never intended to go on a date.

  All over the room, people were grouped up, although a few had clearly hit it off already, and broken off into pairs to flirt. Susan, a woman I used to hang out with when Richard was alive, grinned at me and broke away from her date.

  “Cassandra! I’m so glad to see you here.”

  “Susan,” I said as we embraced. Her husband had passed away from a very sudden heart attack. She was a little older than I was, with flawless olive skin and dark curly hair.

  “I know it’s hard. But it’s been years now. I promise you can enjoy yourself.” She lowered her voice. “I have no interest in getting remarried. But I love these parties.”

  She tapped me on the back. “Get going. We can catch up later. I expect a full report.”

  When I tried to speak, she shook her head. “Nope. This is not a Girl’s Night Out. Go.”

  Only six minutes had passed since I arrived. Shit. Longest night ever. Scanning the room, it was pretty clear that not one man was without a companion.

  Except one.

  In the far corner, a tall man with wavy black hair stood alone. The unyielding line of his shoulders said he felt as awkward as I did, but he wore his Army dress uniform well. Very well.

  By now, more of the groups had broken into pairs. It was either go talk to him or stand around by myself.

  What was the worst thing that c
ould happen?

  So what if I got stuck in a dull conversation? Or even a creepy one?

  I was doing this for my son. For his freaking birthday present.

  Straightening myself up to my full five foot five inches -- including my heels -- I made my way to the corner of the room.

  Maybe I needed glasses. At thirty-five I didn’t think my vision was slipping, but as I got closer, it was clear this guy was beyond average in looks, which I definitely had not noticed from across the room. His dark hair contrasted with light blue eyes. Sculpted cheekbones and a strong jaw were striking, yet masculine. His full lips were unsmiling, but the dusting of freckles across his nose softened his expression somehow.

  His posture screamed “don’t talk to me,” but I’d rather wade through his animosity than to tell Jacob I didn’t even try.

  “Hi,” I said.

  His blue eyes focused on my face, but he didn’t give me anything to work with. No smile. No ducked head. Not even a quirk of the lips. He just stood there with a glass in hand -- which looked like whiskey -- and stared at me.

  Now I was determined to make him talk. “Nice corner,” I said. “Come here often?”

  Those icy eyes blinked. “Hello,” he said.

  “It talks!” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I spluttered and liquid dripped from my mouth onto my chin. I swiped at it with my free hand. Lovely. The juice was tinted pink, so my fingers came away sticky,

  Ah. A damp cocktail napkin was stuck to the bottom of my glass. I peeled it away, and it did a heroic job of smearing the rest of the drink across my chin.

  “I know that was pretty cool,” I said. “But I didn’t actually mean to do that.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “To call me an “it?”