An Accidental Gentleman

by M. Q. Barber

  He tried to limit his glances as they talked, gazing out toward the field instead, but goddamn she stunned with her sweat-dampened shirt and her helmet-frizzed hair.

  A post-workout woman, her cheeks pink and her blood flowing, she didn’t run to the mirror and pull out a comb. She’d shown hustle on the field. He wouldn’t have brought a woman playing the learned helplessness game. The men and women he’d served with, and the ones he’d met through the company, respected skill and determination. Grit. Anything less would be an embarrassment.

  “You know what’s great about softball?” Aside from him getting a solid grip on her temperament. Once she committed, she went all in. She would with him, too, if he made her see the value. Made himself trustworthy, upstanding, but with the bad-boy bedroom appeal she demanded. “A non-contact sport is the perfect excuse for full-contact praise. You nailed that run in the first inning. I’ll have to make sure I’m close enough to smack your ass in congratulations next time, Foxy.”

  She burst into nose-huffy laughter and waved him off. With the back of her hand pressed to her mouth, she finished chewing and swallowed. “Okay, now you sound like every guy who’s ever tried to get in my pants. Foxy? Really?”

  He locked down his glee at matching her bad-boy expectations. Shrugging, he played up his hurt-feelings protest. “Foxes have kits.”

  “So do skunks, weasels, and wolverines.” The arch in her eyebrow more than met the slow-pitch minimum-required height. With her unimpressed superiority, she came close to perfect deadpan. “You think they’re sexy, too?”

  Heart pounding, he slid to the end of his bench and threw his arm across her shoulders. “I’m a Michigan boy.” When she didn’t push him away, he chanced a hug and a friendly head-knock. “Wolverines were my first love.”

  Relaxed in his embrace, she dipped her head but failed to tame her smile. “You want a ferocious killer ready to rip your face off and bite through your spine?” She chomped her teeth, her ferocity closer to adorable than terrifying.

  He flew back, hands up, laughing. “Let’s not be hasty. At least wait until our second date.” Fuck, fuck, no, he’d pushed the wrong button. His chest seized.

  She shot him an I-know-what-you-did glance and swigged her beer. Three swallows she took, all while the condensation rolled down the bottle and across her suckable fingers. She set the bottle down and snorted. “That’s a long wait, smart guy, since we haven’t had one date yet.”

  Yet. The woman beside him was more Katherine than Kit, teasing, playful, and almost snuggly. She leaned her bare knee against his.

  “Well, I worked in satellite intelligence in the service. We have to extrapolate from the existing data and form plans for every contingency, no matter how remote. So it’s vitally important, should such an event occur, that I have an appropriate endearment waiting.” Overtalking, throwing his hands around like an Art of Gesture textbook, he tried to rein himself in and failed. His mouth kept going, determined to fill the hours until sunset and the starry night after. “I feel ‘babe’ is a little too bro for me and maybe demeaning for you to endure. But, you know, diminutives are a traditional choice. What about Kitten? Are you—”

  “No.” As her voice gained a clipped edge, she lost her merry smile. Her eyes turned hard. She crumpled her napkin in her fist. The muscles in her neck stood tight and prominent.

  “Whoa, Kit, I’m sorry.” Christ Jesus, she might truly rip his face off. Whatever mine he’d landed on, the blast left him stumbling around blind and dumb. In one misstep, he’d blown every hard-fought inch of ground he’d gained sky-high. “I won’t say that word again. Fair?”

  She stared past him.

  Something an ex had called her. Had to be. The asshole who’d messed up her head and turned her off of dating. Plenty of women he’d slept with preferred to keep things casual, but none had been so adamant. They’d been comfortable with choosing one night, not closed-off and defensive. Or he’d missed their signals in the static. With Katherine, he’d damn well fine-tune the resolution to peer at every pixel.

  Breathing out slow, she hung her head and dropped her hands in her lap. Her knee wobbled.

  Back straight and leg a steady rest, he didn’t dare move. She’d hop in her car and pull another disappearing act on him. The awkward conversational fumbles he’d joked his way out of a thousand times hadn’t prepared him for her.

  She swayed toward the table. “My grandpa had these pet names for us.”

  Granddad. Not ex. Christ. Least he hadn’t opened his mouth and made a bigger fucking ass of himself.

  Hugging her elbows, she tugged her sleeves. “My sister was always Clover. I was Kitten. Even our parents don’t use them. Just Grandpa Jake.” She lifted her head and swallowed. Voice dull and eyes shiny, she radiated cracks as dangerous as ice snapping under her feet. “He died. Last summer.”

  Might as well’ve been last week, so tight the anger and grief clung to her. He ordered his hug to stand down. Get too emotional, and she’d bolt—and this sharing wasn’t about his wants but hers. So no wrapping his arms around her, no dotting her face with as many kisses as freckles, and no spouting bullshit platitudes. Truth and nothing but.

  He covered her fingers with his cupped hand, firm and gentle as the first time he’d cradled his youngest brother, the family oops baby. ’Bout as terrified, too. “I’m sorry about your granddad, Katherine.”

  Nodding, she laced their hands together and studied the interlocked result. As she squeezed, he matched her pressure for pressure until their hold turned fierce and white-knuckled.

  She exhaled and let go. “He would’ve liked you.”

  Acceptance of his attempt at comfort and approval from a man she respected. They were dating. Whatever her mouth said, her heart had gotten the message. Long as he followed her lead, they’d be together when her ice cracked. He wouldn’t let her spark drown.

  And he wouldn’t press his luck with arrogant prattle about wishing he’d met the man and what great friends they’d have been. “You must’ve made him awful proud.”

  She finished off her bottle. “Tell me something about your family. Something funny.”

  Quick pivot. Well all right then. S’pose the maudlin tone didn’t suit the raucous fun-having around them. But he had the perfect answer to lighten the mood before some well-meaning busybody asked if Katherine needed a tissue and spooked her.

  Swiping through his phone, he bypassed the clutter and pulled up shots from last summer. “Can’t tell me this ain’t hilarity at its finest.”

  He plonked the phone in front of her. Lucas and Nora grinned at the camera in mid-chicken-dance, flapping their elbows as they mocked his missed turkey. Freaking five-pin. After coming in too soft to make the third strike, he’d bought the next round for the lane.

  Kit wiped her hands on her shorts. Raising the phone, she squinted. “That’s Rob’s wife. Who’s the kid she’s with? He yours?”

  “Hell no.” A kid. His shoulders jerked before the idea settled in place and cursed him with that bad luck. “I am one hundred percent kidless, thank God and unbroken condoms.” Fuck, what if she’d— “Are you?”

  The longer she eyed him, the thicker his blood grew. The more sluggishly the sludge traveled, threatening to shut down his heart. A foot-in-mouth mistake that huge couldn’t be undone.

  Ducking her head, she laughed. “Fastest I’ve ever seen the color drain from a man’s face.” She reached across his plate and swiped his bottle. “I’m a fan of unbroken condoms myself. They’ve answered my prayers so far.”

  His fear flattened out, a swell lapping his toes instead of threatening destruction. No kids. No accidental insult to the woman who’d come so beautifully in his hands. Hell, at least he’d made her laugh while she’d given him a heart attack.

  As she dragged the rim of the beer across her lips, she made him lose his breath for a whole new reason. No beer tasting required a tongue flick so pink and sexy. A dare in the offing. On
e he’d best shut down before his dick took her up on it.

  Ahem-ing, he tilted the phone in her hand. “Yep, that’s Nora. She wasn’t Rob’s wife then. They’d just met.” A pinch-zoom magnified Lucas until his face filled the screen. “And that smart-ass is my baby brother. I’d invited him down for the summer.”

  “He looks exactly like you.” She studied the photo while her half-eaten burger got cold. “What is he, sixteen?”

  “Twenty-two next month.” Fuck. Lucas was closer in age to Kit than he was. And yeah, chicken-scrawny and young-looking. A proto-him, minus the demanding basic training regimen and boxing that had filled him out at eighteen. “Fourth of four boys. Me and Lucas scored the luck with Mom’s hair.”

  “Aww, are you fishing for compliments, Blondie?” She waggled the phone and the beer. “I’d ruffle those golden feathers for you, but I don’t have a third hand.”

  He pulled the slick bottle from her grip and took a swallow. Mouth where hers had been. Almost a kiss. He fucking ached for a real one, a sunset, fireworks, bonfire, laughing, full-body-press of a kiss. A perfect moment with relaxed, teasing Katherine. “Problem solved.”

  “Cocky.” She rubbed the top of his head in a speed challenge. Probably left a haystack behind. “Your brother have trouble with authority, too, or is that just you?”

  “Might could.” He’d let Lucas stay with him last summer to head off those problems. Show him opportunities and job advice. Give him a break from being stuck in-between boyhood and independence. “He’s bunking at home, going to community college. It’s rough, being an adult living in your parents’ place. A whole pack of frustration. Unnatural, right?”

  She clenched the phone’s protective shell as her back stiffened. “Oh?”

  Hell, she wanted the bad boy. He’d have been irredeemably down that path without one goddamn miracle of an Air Force recruiter shoving literature at him.

  “Think about it—you can drive and vote and maybe drink, but they’re still up in your business, setting the rules.” A curfew. A slam against friends who, okay, yes, ripped off the mom-and-pop gas stations and encouraged him to do the same. Pocketing shit here and there, skating by on a fucking tsunami of luck and look-the-other-way-ism because boys will be boys. “It’s not like Dad suddenly believes in democracy because you turned eighteen. You’re a grown man stuck in a place where everybody sees you as a kid, at least in my family. You gotta have respect for anyone who can hack that mission. I couldn’t. Partly why I blew out of the house and enlisted the day after graduation.”

  The travel. Fucking Hawaii in the brochure the recruiter handed him, and visions of warm sand and perfect waves had him signing his name without a second thought. Nobody mentioned they’d be sending him to Texas for basic first, hours from the gulf and no leave time to enjoy the summer swells at Padre Island.

  “Respect, yeah.” She passed him the phone and rolled her shoulders. “You and your dad didn’t get along so good?” Elbows on the table, she settled in with the rest of her plate. “But the military turned you around?”

  “The military kicked my ass. Sherwood—Rob—turned me around.” The good influence scraping off the barnacles of his older brother’s bad habits. The wiser-than-eighteen man who’d slammed the books open on his desk and demanded he learn the goddamn material because no way would the class leave him behind, no matter how hard he tried to prove himself a fuck-up. “I owe him for that. Huge debt.”

  Like the one he’d paid on his first visit home. Dress blues neat and clean, shoes polished until they glowed, and three crisp hundreds, straight from the bank, in his pocket.

  The two-pump gas station on the corner had been their favorite spot to hit. The owners were old, the cashiers young, and the unblinking security cameras for show. The old man had been behind the counter. Good, because he hadn’t had to ask for him with his throat screwed tight. Bad, because the confession reminded him of every time he’d taken advantage, and the apology couldn’t set things right. The money covered the financial loss, but nothing excused his callous behavior.

  * * * *

  “I dunno if you remember me, sir. I used to come here a lot with my friends.”

  The old man scanned his uniform, his eyes dark and sharp in a face crisscrossed with the grooves of age and experience. “I remember you. Pack of young hooligans. There’s no trouble a boy can’t find if he goes looking for it. But you’re not dressed for trouble today.”

  “No, sir.” Fuck, this’d be easier with Rob at his side, being the stand-up guy so he could laugh the whole thing off as clowning. The rows of candy bars and packs of gum mocked him. He’d taken a fucking eyeglasses kit once, because it’d been small and slim and easily tucked in a pocket. Didn’t wear glasses, but he’d still ripped off the old man and his wife. “I’m here to apologize. For the things I took.”

  “Less than your friends did.” The old man’s stare came down as heavy as a superior officer’s. He stood tall despite the bow in his shoulders and the faded gray of his hair. “I remember that about you, because you stood lookout. Chatted and joked to hold attention while them boys loaded up their jackets. Studied your feet a lot, like you’re doing now.” He swiped the counter with the side of his hand. “You were already ashamed of yourself, son. I figured you for a boy who didn’t have nothing else.” With one pointed finger, he waved at the single row of color decorating the left breast of Brian’s uniform. “Looks like you do now.”

  As he pulled out the hundreds, his hand shook as hard as the old man’s. “For everything we took, and the trouble we caused. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You were a troubled boy.” The old man clasped him with both hands before he accepted the bills. “You’re a better man. And you and me? We’re square.”

  * * * *

  As she finished off her burger, Kit reclaimed his beer. “Maybe you owe Rob a debt, sure, but no amount of support’ll make someone do something they don’t have it in them to do.”

  She took a slow sip, her head tipped back and her throat exposed and vulnerable. Same as she’d look straddling him, except she’d be bare and moaning and he’d have her breasts in his hands. Fuck, not a good thought. Later, later, later—when he’d made clear sex belonged in a package deal, inseparable from real dating.

  Offering him the bottle, she eyed him sideways. “You might’ve played at being bad for a while, but you’re a good guy at heart. The Air Force—and your buddy—gave you an excuse to be that man.” When their fingers grazed, she laughed and shook her head. “Sorry. That’s not my business. I don’t know you now, and I sure as hell didn’t know you then. Beer talking.”

  “No, you’re right.” He refused to grip the bottle when her fingers fit so perfect inside his hand. She might not know him yet, but she sounded like a woman who wanted to, finally. “The service wasn’t what I expected, but it was what I needed.”

  “To prove you could be your own person. Nobody controlling you or waiting for you to mess up your life like—” As she slid her plate away, raindrops pinged off the pavilion roof and splatted in the dirt beyond. “Jesus, that’s stupid. Not you, me, I mean. It’s the fucking military. You had nothing but people controlling you.”

  “Orders, yeah, but proving to myself I was capable of being a man? That’s the best thing basic taught me.” Better by far than learning that one-handed pushups impressed uniform chasers, which he’d definitely believed the most valuable lesson at eighteen. “I pulled a ton of stupid shit as a kid because I wanted to be liked. Keep up with my big brother, impress my little brother.” No dare turned down. He flashed her a grin. Her sort of dare, he could get used to. “Now I do stupid shit just for me.”

  “Ohh, so that’s why—” Palm out and forward, she mimed a circle over his face. “I thought you’d forgotten to shave. But clearly you lost a bet.”

  “I’m growing a beard.” He scrubbed his face. Still scratchy. Approaching scratchy, at least. Theoretically over-the-top attractive to a woman who
liked bad boys. “This is my badass scruff.”

  “This?” She touched him. With gentle fingers, she danced across his cheek and down his throat. “Fuzzy and blond is not badass scruff, Prince Charming.”

  Feeling up his face and giving him cutesy nicknames. Forget dating—they’d jumped to sickeningly sweet honeymoon coupledom complete with gagging bystanders. Their next date, first date, whatever the hell he called the damn thing, was an absolute lock.

  “What you have is sweet cottonball fluff.” She ran her short nails up under his chin and let go too soon. A few seconds more, and her fingertips would’ve been in kissing range. “Maybe give it a few days before you try calling it a beard. Or scruff.”

  “This here is five days of primo beardification.” He hadn’t taken a razor to his face since she’d come in his arms. Endured the good-natured ribbing of the rest of the chair jockeys in data analysis all week. Worth every minute to get her hands on him. “It’ll be more impressive when I dye the beard to match my lucky shorts.”

  Collapsing into giggles, she landed with her forehead pressed to his shoulder. A sweet sound and a sweeter weight. He’d carry both a mighty long while, see if he didn’t.

  * * * *

  As thunder boomed, the skies opened up. The ping of sprinkles on the pavilion roof surged into a roaring downpour, drowning out conversation.

  Good thing, since Brian’s so-called beard lacked the substance to survive the teasing. Hell, the minute he stepped out in the rain, the hair would rinse from his face like so much Magic Marker.

  Men. Brian. Ridiculously proud of his scruffy face and his color-riot shorts. God. He’d make her life simpler as an out-of-shape hound dog with a sagging belly and a balding scalp. If she didn’t want to fuck him, he’d make a great friend.

  He smelled different today, musky and male under the sharp storm and fresh with grass stains as spring green as his eyes. The swirling mix of comfort and arousal called for his arm around her as much as his shirt peeled from his back and dropped to the floor.