by L. A. Witt
I chuckled and kissed him softly. “It’s kind of a relief for me too. I guess having it out in the open like that, whether it happened to you or me, does make it easier.”
“It really does.”
“So, um. Now that that’s out of the way . . .” I hesitated. “Do you want to come by my place tonight?”
Travis held my gaze, and I had two seconds to be preemptively disappointed before he smiled and pulled me a little closer. “I’d love to.” He started to say something further, but of course the phone on his desk picked that exact moment to ring. “Damn it.”
“Figures.”
He gave me a quick kiss, and leaned across to pick up the phone, not quite hiding the wince as he moved. With his hand resting on the receiver, he said, “It’s the CO. Come by when you’re heading to lunch?”
“Will do.”
I stepped out of his office, leaving him to his call, and released a long breath. So that was out of the way. We’d been through a PTSD-induced shitty night. Neither of us had had a lot of sleep, but we were a step closer to really knowing what it was like to function together with the not-so-great cards we’d each been dealt.
On my way down the hall to my own office, I couldn’t help smiling. It had been a rough night, and it wouldn’t be the last one like that, but now I wasn’t quite so worried about what could happen when one of us slept over. It was progress in its own fucked-up way.
Tonight, we’d see what happened.
And for right now, I needed another goddamned Red Bull.
The night I’d woken us both up with a nightmare quickly became a distant memory. Now that I’d broken the ice in a way, we relaxed with each other. We could both sleep as much as our fragged brains would let us. There was no more fear of the other seeing us in that vulnerable, disoriented state.
It wasn’t all smooth sailing. Clint’s trauma was much more recent than mine, and the psychological wounds were much more raw. I hadn’t even realized how little he’d been sleeping when he was beside me until after my bad night. Now that he wasn’t afraid of me seeing him like that, he slept. Which meant he dreamed. Which meant there were some rough nights. We both had to drag ourselves to the coffeepot in the morning, and there were occasional mysterious bruises thanks to one or the other of us thrashing in our sleep.
I didn’t mind, and he didn’t seem to mind my back interfering with our sex life at every turn. Not that I had any illusions of that lasting forever, but hey, I’d enjoy it for the moment.
Today, the pain had been a constant irritating ache. Not a spasm yet, so I was doing everything I could to keep it that way. Motrin, ice, TENS, Motrin, ice, TENS.
Clint, being the saint that he was, hadn’t just caught on that I was barely moving today, he hadn’t missed a beat in coming up with something else to do for the evening.
“Why don’t I cook something?” he’d asked. “In fact, if Kimber’s not working, she’s welcome to join us. Then we can all watch a movie or whatever.”
Fine by me, so at six thirty, he came into my kitchen and set a handful of plastic commissary bags on the counter. “So, I need a couple of pots and a casserole dish.”
“Um.” I looked around. “They’re . . .”
Kimber pointed at the drawer below the oven and the cabinet next to it.
“Got it,” Clint said.
“Good thing someone knows their way around in here,” I said.
“Mm-hmm.” Kimber shot me an earnest look, forehead creased as she put a hand to her lips. “Has that stove even been used since we moved in? Do you think it’ll work?”
“Really?” I rolled my eyes. “We’ve used it.”
“Like twice. Maybe.”
Clint snickered. “Not the culinary type, are we?”
Before I could respond, she burst out laughing.
“Oh my God—he is so not.”
“Hey.” I wagged a finger at her. “You’re not helping.”
She shrugged. “Wasn’t trying to.”
“Like father, like daughter.” He snickered as he took out the pots and casserole dish. “Tell me you at least have a decent set of knives.”
“Right behind you.”
He turned around and looked over the knife block. I barely used it, but at least it wasn’t a cheap, dull set.
“You need help with anything?” I asked.
“Nope.” He took three knives out and laid them next to the cutting board. “I’ve got this.”
“I feel like we should have a camera out,” Kimber said in a stage whisper. “To prove that actual cooking has happened in here.”
I glared at her, but as Clint started making dinner, I wondered if she was right. He definitely put my cooking skills to shame. I thought I was doing all right when I managed to follow the directions on a box and didn’t set off the smoke detector in the process. This guy . . . holy shit. He chopped and sliced without seeming concerned that the blade might land on a finger. And weren’t you supposed to measure things before tossing them in?
I was almost afraid to talk to him while he worked. He was spinning so many plates, I didn’t want to distract him and cause the whole thing to fall apart.
He looked up from dicing some green peppers and said to Kimber, “So your dad says you work in tech support?”
“Yep. In between going to school.”
“What are you studying?”
“I’m finishing a bachelor’s in computer science. I took a year off to—” She tensed, eyes flicking toward me. Then she cleared her throat. “Anyway. I’ll graduate in June, and then I’ll start working on a master’s.”
“Wow.” He glanced up again. “All that while you’re working as many hours as you do?”
“Eh. I can do computers in my sleep.” She snatched a piece of bell pepper off the cutting board and tossed it in her mouth. “I just hope graduating means I can get a decent job someplace else, or move up to supervising my department instead of doing what I do now. Seems like most of my friends graduate, only to turn around and rack up more hours at the job they’ve had all along.”
Clint scowled. “Yeah, that’s the market these days.” He paused to drop a few crushed garlic cloves into one of the pots. “My ex-wife has an MBA, and she had such a hard time getting a job, she finally threw up her hands and became a blackjack dealer.”
“Really?” Kimber’s eyes widened. “Does that pay decently?”
“Better than unemployment.”
She turned to me. “Maybe I should learn to deal cards.”
I shrugged. “You already know how to count ’em.”
Clint arched an eyebrow, peering at both of us through the steam rising above the pots. “You know how to count cards?”
“I, uh . . .” my cheeks burned, “might’ve taught her.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “You know, most dads teach their kids how to change tires and barbecue. Counting cards?”
Kimber laughed. “It’s a survival skill!”
“What?” Clint scoffed. “How the hell is that a survival skill?”
“Come to a Wilson family reunion and play a few hands,” she said. “Then tell me it isn’t.”
“Yep,” I said. “None of us spend much time in casinos, but my family is cutthroat at blackjack and poker. So I taught her how to count cards so she’d have half a chance when she played against them.”
“Yeah?” Clint stirred something into one of the pots. “So how do you do against them?”
Kimber snorted.
I beamed, patting her shoulder. “I think I taught her a bit too well. My brothers are almost afraid to deal her in now.”
Clint chuckled. “That’s impressive.”
“And let me tell you.” I whistled. “Do not play poker with this one.”
“What? Counting cards doesn’t really help in poker, does it?”
“No, but you can sure benefit from having a rock-solid poker face and a killer bluff.”
“Really?” Clint glanced at her, then me, then her again.
“You?”
Her lips quirked. “Yeah. Why not?”
“Well, you know.” He shrugged. “I can’t imagine a child of his having a poker face or—”
I laughed. “Shut up and cook, asshole.”
After an amazing meal of baked pasta with steamed vegetables, we all hunkered down in the living room to watch a couple of movies. Kimber had been after me for a year to give some Bollywood films a try, and over dinner, she’d gotten Clint on her side. And after the two movies were over, I had to admit they were pretty fun.
“Drag him over again next time I have a night off,” she said. “I’ve got a ton more where those came from.”
“You won’t have to drag me over to watch those.” Clint sighed and looked at his watch. “For tonight, though, I should probably bail. I’ve got a meeting at 0700 tomorrow.”
I grimaced. “At 0700? Who the hell scheduled that?”
“The CO. Obviously.”
“She’s a sadist, isn’t she?”
“Very much so.” He motioned toward the kitchen. “Let me clean all that up before—”
“No, no, no.” Kimber jumped to her feet and shooed him toward the door. “You cooked. We’ll clean.”
“But I—”
“Don’t argue with me.”
He turned to me.
“You heard her,” I said. “Don’t argue with her.”
“Fair enough.”
We both stood, and I winced at a few fresh twinges in my back. As I kneaded them gingerly, I turned to Kimber. “Let me show him out, and then I’ll give you a hand.”
“Okay.” She went into the kitchen, and Clint and I went to the front door.
“Thanks for cooking,” I said. “Dinner was amazing.”
“Anytime.” He wrapped his arms around my waist. “It was nice hanging out with you and Kimber.”
“It was. So are you free tomorrow night?”
His grin made my knees weak. “If I wasn’t before, I am now.”
“Perfect.” I slid my hands up his chest and around the back of his neck. “I have no idea what we’ll do with it, but I’m already looking forward to it.”
“Me too. When I get home, I’ll see if there’s anything good to queue up on Netflix. Anything in particular you want to see?”
Nothing you’ll find on Netflix, no.
“Surprise me.” I glanced back toward the living room. “More Bollywood, I’m guessing?”
“Maybe.” He kissed me lightly. “We’ll see.” Another kiss, longer this time.
As much as I wanted to stand there in the doorway and make out, or maybe go up to the bedroom and do even more, I put a hand on his chest and gently separated us. “You’ve got an early meeting. I don’t want to be the reason you’re nodding off in front of the CO.”
“Yeah.” He scowled. “Being an adult sucks, doesn’t it?”
“So much.”
He smirked. “Though, you have more experience being—”
“Fuck you,” I laughed and drew him back to me so I could kiss him.
He grinned against my lips, and then he cradled the back of my neck and let the kiss linger. As he pulled back, he ran his tongue across his lips. “You know, I just realized the command Christmas party is coming up.” He blushed. “Do you want to go?”
“Is that a roundabout way of saying you want us to come out to the command?”
He laughed, lowering his gaze, and the color in his cheeks deepened. “I guess that’s what would happen if we showed up together, but I . . .” He met my eyes. “I want to go with you.”
I smiled. He was so cute, being all shy like a teenager trying to ask someone to the prom, and who the hell was I kidding? Forty-five years old and I was getting all fluttery inside at the thought of being asked. I hated command Christmas parties almost as much as I hated the Navy Ball. But going with Clint?
“Sure,” I said. “Guess I’d better get my uniform ready.”
“Me too.” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Anyway, I’d better go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
One last kiss—a long, gentle one that made it really tempting to ask him to stay—and he was gone. Still smiling like an utter tool, I turned the dead bolt and went back into the kitchen.
As I came in, Kimber looked up from rinsing a plate. “Can you have him over more often? His cooking is amazing.”
I laughed. “So you want me to use him for the meals?”
“Well, it’s either that or one of us takes a cooking class.”
“Good point.” I picked up a dish towel. “And we both know that’s not happening.”
“Not without the paramedics or fire department getting involved.”
“Oh come on. I’m not that bad.”
She shot me a side-eye as she put another plate in the drying rack.
“Hey now.” As I dried one of the pots, I said, “What do you think of him? Besides his cooking, I mean?”
“He’s a nice guy.” She glanced at me. “What do you think of him?”
My hand stopped. “I like him.”
“You don’t say.” She started scrubbing out the casserole dish. “So is it serious?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll see where things go.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” She held up her soap-covered hand, index finger crossed under the middle. “It’s about time you were happy, you know?”
I forced myself not to visibly wince, and managed to return her smile. “Thanks.” I wanted to believe being happy was a possibility now. Things with Clint had been smooth sailing so far, but seas could change on a dime and so could a relationship.
We finished cleaning up the kitchen, and she went to her room to study while I went to mine to get some sleep.
It had been an awesome evening. My pain had been manageable enough that I hadn’t even needed to wear the TENS unit. Clint had cooked me and Kimber the best meal either of us had had in a long time.
And for that matter, it had been cool to be with both Clint and Kimber at the same time. They’d met before, but this was the first time we’d all really sat down and talked. I’d admittedly been nervous—she hadn’t always been thrilled with people I’d dated—but they’d gotten along great.
One more point in his favor, as if there’d been any shortage of those lately. All the signs were there that this wanted to turn into something bigger. If we let it, God only knew how high it could go.
That thought sent fear and dread surging through my veins. The higher we went, the harder we’d crash when it was over. Relationships that started out this perfect were disasters in the end. So much more so than the false starts—the ones that barely lasted beyond a week or two and had all the emotional investment of a conversation with a seatmate on a long flight. I’d had more of those than I could count. Then there were the flings that kind of leaned toward becoming relationships and didn’t. Those weren’t fun, but they weren’t catastrophic either, because they were pretty much over before they started.
This thing with Clint, though . . .
It was terrifying because a failure to launch was a hell of a lot less painful than crashing and burning.
And even though I was almost certain the crash was inevitable—every relationship I’d ever had eventually wound up a smoldering wreckage—I couldn’t make myself back away. I was even willing to go with him to the Christmas party and practically announce to the command that the rumors going around were true.
Yes, everyone, Lieutenant Commander Fraser is my boyfriend.
Shit. I was being an idiot, wasn’t I? There was no doubt in my mind I’d regret this later.
But for now, on the microscopic chance we got it right, I wanted to see where we could go.
The Christmas party was the first week of December, and it didn’t require dinner dress uniforms. No, it required standard dress uniforms, which meant yet another frantic round of cleaning, ironing, trying on, and arranging insignia. I swore if the
Navy required any more uniforms, I’d need a bigger closet than my daughter’s.
At least this uniform fit better since I wore it more often. The jacket fit much more comfortably than the other one, and also managed to hide any extra pounds I might’ve put on. Winter weight and all that.
Dressed and ready to go, I went downstairs to the kitchen. Kimber was in her pajamas and making herself some dinner, and since the table was covered in notes, pens, books, and her laptop, it looked like she had her night planned out.
“You going to be all right tonight?” I asked.
“Of course.” She put a plate of Hot Pockets in the microwave. “I need to catch up on some homework anyway before things get busy at work.”
I fussed with my sleeve. “So you really don’t mind if I take Clint to—”
“Dad.” She smiled. “You don’t have to take me along to everything.”
“I know, but I can still get a ticket for you too if—”
“Dad.” Kimber rolled her eyes. “I’m not going with you on a date, for God’s sake.”
“Not even as a chaperone?”
She groaned. “Especially not as a chaperone. And besides, things are about to get crazy at work because the new software releases on Monday.” She pointed with her fork at the pile of homework. “I need to finish that.”
“All right. But if you do want to go to the next event, all you have to do is say so.”
“I will.” She hesitated, but then smiled and hugged me gently. “And thank you again for taking me to the ball. It was nice to be able to party without looking over my shoulder.”
I held her tighter. “Anytime, kiddo. And you can always come to stuff with us.”
“Maybe.” She pulled back. “But you guys are still in that gross googly-eyed stage, and I don’t want to be there for that.”
“Really? Gross googly-eyed stage?”
“Just saying.”
“You’re full of it.”
“Whatever. I saw you two at dinner the other night.” She made circles with her thumbs and forefingers and put them over her eyes like mock glasses. “Googly eyes, Dad. I saw them.”
I huffed and was about to fire off a comeback, but the doorbell rang. “Since you’re so bored, would you mind getting that?”