The Officer Says I Do

by Jeanette Murray

  She shifted until she could cross her legs beneath her, adjusting her skirt to cover her knees. Two fingers restlessly traced and worried the hem of her shirt and she forced her hands to lay flat on the armrest. “Do you really want this marriage to work? Be honest.” She couldn’t look at him when she asked. Too afraid of his face giving away more than his answer.

  “I don’t half-ass things. Skye. Hey, look at me.” She did. “I either go balls to the wall or I don’t go at all. I wouldn’t have bothered asking you to move in if I thought this was a bad idea. Or a pointless idea, I should say. I don’t know what’s going to come of this, but I’m trying.”

  She nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. I want this to work too. And if it doesn’t, then I want to make sure we put forth every effort first. There’s just something here that Fate has for us.”

  Tim rolled his eyes at that. “Fate again?”

  Anger simmered on the surface, but she fought to keep it down. Three cleansing breaths later, she said, “Yes, Fate. It’s what I believe in. It’s what I believe led us to this spot. Ignore it all you want, but we’re in this position for a reason.”

  “Please don’t get started on that again.”

  The thin hold she had on her anger snapped. She let out a muted scream from the bottom of her throat, leapt out of the chair, and started to pace, realizing this was in some vague parallel to her conversation with Madison a week earlier.

  “No, I will get started on this! If you don’t want to call it Fate, then fine. Call it something else to yourself. But at least respect where I’m coming from.” She reached the end of the room and whipped around, feeling powerful and in control. The effect was ruined when she had to spit out hair that had flown into her open mouth.

  She glanced over and saw Tim fighting a smile. “Not. Amused.”

  “Do you do this a lot?”

  “Do what?”

  “Pace like a pissy tiger?”

  She continued her pacing, but her anger had abated. “Yes. It helps me work out the tension.” When he smiled, she sighed and let the rest of her anger flow from her body. “I want this to work. And sex is going to get in the way.”

  “Sex can only help, the way I see it,” he muttered.

  Skye skidded to a halt in front of him. “Care to explain that, soldier?”

  One annoying eyebrow winged up. “Number one, I’m not a soldier. I’m a Marine. Number two, you heard what I said. Doesn’t get much more clear than that.”

  When he didn’t elaborate, she grabbed a handful of her hair and gave a sharp tug, letting the pain clear her mind. “How?”

  Tim settled back further in the cushions and crossed his arms over his chest, straining the old T-shirt around his shoulders. She could physically see the seams straining. And damn it, she was checking him out again.

  “We’ve already had sex. Plus, we’re married. So morally there’s really no problem. Besides that, from what I remember, the sex we had was pretty fuc—pretty awesome. Sorry.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “As I was saying, sex feels good. Right now, I think feeling good sounds like an excellent way to start off this marriage.”

  “Sex is all we have, though.” Skye flopped back into the chair and propped her feet on the coffee table. “I want you. You want me. There, I said it.” She laughed when Tim’s eyes widened. “It’s the truth. Don’t bother denying it. But we can’t let that get in the way of working through this marriage. How can we get to know each other, to know whether we fit together—”

  “We fit just fine.” He smirked and propped his feet next to hers.

  She kicked until his feet landed with a thunk on the floor. “Shut up. The fact is, we don’t know how compatible we are—don’t say it—within the marriage. Removing the haze of lust or the happy pheromones we get from making love will help us focus more on bringing the emotional aspect up. I’m very serious about this. You can laugh at it, but I believe abstaining—for now—will help us grow in the relationship.”

  Tim was silent, staring at the mantel above the fireplace for what seemed like a lifetime. She glanced up, following his eye line to see him staring at a wooden picture frame holding a smiling family of four. A much younger Tim and Madison, and what was most obviously his parents.

  “It’s important to me,” she added quietly.

  Finally he propped his feet up next to hers again and sighed. He looked at the ceiling and called out, “God, are you listening to this? Is this some kind of sick humor?”

  “Oh, She has a great sense of humor,” Sky teased.

  “I’m choosing to ignore that.” He ran a hand down his face then looked at her. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I get your point. And I guess that we can try it.”

  Skye smiled. He was reluctant but willing. It was a good sign. Better than she’d had reason to hope for yet.

  He placed his hands on his thighs and stood up. “So I guess that means separate bedrooms for now.”

  “I can take the guest bedroom once Madison moves out.”

  “Nope.” When she started to argue, he held up his hand. “I know this might be hard for you to accept, but you need to respect where I’m coming from. And this is one of those times that my background trumps all. So you’ll take the big bedroom and I’ll sleep in the guest room.” He shrugged. “Or I will once Madison moves.”

  “Fine.” If he had to give, so would she. She held out a hand to end the negotiations.

  Tim stared at it for a moment, then grasped it and pulled until she flew to her feet and landed on his chest. “I think married couples have a better way to seal a deal, don’t they?”

  She couldn’t get a word out before his lips cruised along hers. Light as a breeze, almost as if it hadn’t happened. But when she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with such an intensity she was shocked that’s all he did.

  “Just remember what we said.”

  He planted another kiss on her mouth—this time a playful, smacking one—and stepped back. “We said no sex. This is just kissing. Which could lead to sex…” he trailed off hopefully. But when she shook her head, he just sighed. “I figured. Can’t blame a guy for trying. Anyway, I can’t agree to not kiss my wife. Not gonna happen. So add ‘kissing’ to the list of things we can do. ’Cause, sweetheart,” he said while he turned and walked toward the staircase, “if that’s all I get, I’m going to take it.”

  Tim walked up the stairs, leaving the light on for her. She waited until she heard the bathroom door close and the shower turn on—cold, if she had her guess—before she sat down and touched a finger to her lips. And thanked Fate once more for the opportunity in front of her.

  ***

  Tim debated asking the question the next morning. He knew Skye would never ask for it herself. Partly because she wouldn’t know what to ask, and partly because she didn’t seem to be the sort to rely on others. He respected that about her. But he’d feel like a shit for withholding the opportunity, since he did know.

  “Do you want an ID card?”

  “Hmm?” Skye stood at the stove, making some egg and alfalfa omelet creation she swore was amazing. Tim thought adding hay to a perfectly decent breakfast staple was near criminal, but he politely declined and poured himself a bowl of cereal. Mornings were clearly not her thing, with her sleep-heavy eyes and hair in complete disarray. He wasn’t even sure why she woke up so early when she didn’t have to. But somehow she was up when he was and had insisted on having breakfast with him.

  Her exhausted, just-dragged-myself-from-a-warm-bed look only made him want to drag her back to bed and spend hours tiring her out some more. His muscles were still tense, his nerves taut as a tripwire. Last night’s cold shower had done nothing to alleviate the sexual tension he was carrying around.

  “An ID card. All dependents carry them. It—”

  “I h
ate that word,” she grumbled at the omelet she was flipping.

  “It…what? What word?”

  “Dependent.” She waved her spatula in the air. “Ignore me. Continue.”

  “Uh, right. The ID card for de—um, spouses gives them access to base stuff. The commissary, exchange, gets you on base, that sort of thing.”

  “Hum.” Her hesitation was obvious. Was the hesitation because of her, or him? She scratched one calf with her opposite foot and didn’t turn around. “I think that would be a good idea. If you wouldn’t mind. That is, if it won’t screw things up for you at work.” Skye dared a quick glance over her shoulder before focusing in on the stove again.

  She was more observant than he thought. He wondered if she’d picked up on the surprise from Colonel Blackwater the day before. Apparently she had. “No, it won’t screw stuff up. It’ll just take some paperwork. I guess while we’re at it, we should make sure you’re signed up for Tricare. Health insurance,” he elaborated when she gave him a confused look.

  Skye said nothing, just flipped her omelet and patted it with the spatula.

  Okay, fine. He could do the talking for two this morning. “And while we’re at it, we could get your car registered on base as well. So you don’t have to wait for Mad or I to take you.” Was he starting to sound desperate? Or was that just his imagination? For a woman who was so concerned about having a nice, healthy marriage, she wasn’t exactly making this easy on him.

  “That’d be nice,” she said absently as she grabbed a plate to slide her breakfast onto.

  “I’ll try to get out of there early today and come back for you. Will you be around at three?”

  “I should be.” She cut herself half a grapefruit, poured herself a glass of her own milk she’d bought yesterday—was soy milk really a milk product?—and sat down next to him. “I have some things to do this morning, but afterward I should be good.”

  He wanted to ask what her plans were that day, where she’d be going. But for some reason he didn’t feel like he had the right to ask yet. Stupid, he argued silently, that he didn’t feel like he could ask his wife what her plans were for the day. Not when she was being so quiet herself.

  He stole quick peeks at Skye from the corner of his eye. But slowly he realized that maybe her lack of conversation skills wasn’t so much about her hesitation to get involved in the marriage, but about the fact that she was practically falling asleep in her fruit bowl. Yeah, to say Skye wasn’t a morning person would be a vast understatement. He bit back a smile and let the relief soothe his nerves.

  He finished his cereal and placed his bowl in the sink. Then, after a moment’s thought, he rinsed it out and stuck it in the dishwasher. Normally he did the dishes at the end of the day, but he didn’t want Skye thinking he was a slob or thinking she had to pick up after him like a little kid.

  God, being married was hard work.

  He walked back to the table and kissed her on top of her head. She leaned to one side and looked up at him, all sleepy eyes and a soft half-smile. Then he kissed her sound on the mouth, just because he could.

  This part of marriage he could get used to.

  “I’ll be back around three. Try to be ready so we can knock out as much as we can today.”

  “Aye aye, Captain,” she said and gave a little smartass salute.

  “That’s the Navy, sweetie.” But he smiled at the effort. “Have fun today.”

  As he walked toward the front door, he thought he heard her mumble, “Not likely,” but he wasn’t sure.

  Regret that he couldn’t drag her back upstairs for a quick morning nuzzle in bed before he left strained his tentative hold on control. There had to be a better outlet for his frustration than just another cold shower. He grabbed his cover from the entry table and his gym bag, then tripped and almost landed on his face. He glanced down and saw a tangle of shoes, all small and girly and obviously Skye’s. Tennis shoes, flip-flops, and sandals were heaped together by the door, begging to be walked over. He shoved them all back into a somewhat tidy pile and headed out the door.

  An hour later, he was knocking on Dwayne’s door. After hearing the enter command, he poked his head in.

  “I’m in the mood to beat the shit out of something. Up for some MCMAP?” Marine Corps Martial Arts Practice. Guaranteed to kick anyone’s ass. Hopefully hard enough to dislodge the ever-present physical need for Skye. Maybe if he took enough punches—or gave enough out—he could concentrate on the hurt instead of the burn.

  Dwayne tossed his pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair. “That depends. Are you going to put me on medical leave if I go a few rounds with you? I deploy soon. Can’t jeopardize that so you can abuse me for your own satisfaction.”

  Tim blew out a breath. “Fine. I’ll go find Jer and see if he wants to spar. Maybe he isn’t being a pussy this morning,” he added as he started to close the door.

  “Damn, man. Below the belt hit and it’s not even nine in the morning.” Dwayne started putting papers back into a folder and Tim knew he’d scored a spar partner. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

  He leaned a shoulder against the door as his friend shut down his computer and left a note for his assistant. “Nothing. Just feeling the urge.”

  Dwayne grabbed a gym bag and slung it over his shoulder, but Tim shook his head.

  “Boots and uts. No gym clothes.”

  Dwayne sighed and dropped the bag. “Why is it I can’t even be comfortable while you kick my ass? Boots and uniforms, seriously?” Then, with a grin, he motioned to head down the hall. “The urge to beat the shit out of something usually comes from frustration of some kind.” He stopped to give Tim a comical once-over. “Probably sexual frustration.”

  “Spare me the Good ’Ole Country psychiatry.”

  Dwayne laughed, as if his suspicions were confirmed. Tim growled and kept walking.

  Dwayne easily caught up at the door. They pushed open at the same time and stepped into the humid air.

  “Damn, it’s a sauna out here.”

  The sweat started to roll after three feet. “Good. Let’s do this in the yard.”

  Dwayne looked at him like he was crazy. “You’re insane. The gym’s three blocks away. And it’s got AC.”

  “I want to work up a sweat.” Tim started toward the open grassy area to the side of the battalion building.

  “That’s what the walk to the gym is for!” Dwayne called after him.

  ***

  Skye drained her third cup of coffee and made a face. Coffee was never her first option. But the caffeine was more necessary than oxygen. She was tired, her sleep schedule still not adjusted to waking up at the ass-crack of dawn like Tim. But she needed to get used to it. If she hoped to find a job in this area, they’d keep “normal” business hours.

  She missed that about Vegas. The flexibility. Restaurants were often open twenty-four seven. If she wanted to work from eleven at night to seven in the morning, she could. And often did.

  She stood outside Fletchers, the upscale restaurant, and debated going in. The place was a little more upscale than she was used to. This was no Applebees. But it wasn’t crystal glassware either. This was the sort of place you held rehearsal dinners or celebrated graduations. A little bit nicer than average. The sidewalk bistro tables, with their wrought-iron chairs, were a nice, classy touch.

  As she walked in, she was glad she wore her old work uniform to pound the pavement. The black pants, white shirt, and vest definitely fit in here. Skye asked for the manager and waited for ten, then twenty minutes by the host stand. She was about to leave when a short man with a nearly bald head in a dark suit and steamed glasses came hustling up.

  “Can I help you?”

  Skye held out a hand and gave him her best Trust me, I’m good at this smile. “I’m hoping it’s the other way arou
nd, actually. My name is Skye McDermott and I wanted to drop off my résumé for consideration. For management,” she clarified.

  The short man breathed in and out, looking confused. “Mac Stone. Did you know Angelina?”

  “Who?”

  “Angelina. Our floor manager who just left. We haven’t even advertised the position yet. I haven’t had time, too busy covering shifts. I just assumed you… well, never mind. Do you have experience?”

  Skye’s smile widened. “Oh, a little.” She handed him her résumé as he sat down on a padded bench. “I was a floor manager for several years at Cloud Nine, a restaurant in the Celestial Palace hotel and casino in Las Vegas. Along with a bachelors in hospitality management from UNLV.”

  The man’s eyes bulged behind his frames. Or, what she could see of them through the steam on his lenses. “You almost sound overly qualified.” He tipped the frames down and peered at her over them. “You aren’t gunning for my general manager position, are you?”

  Skye laughed. “I actually like being on the floor and working with customers.”

  “When can you start?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Mac laughed, almost with relieved vigor. “Thank you, God. Follow me back to my office and we can talk further.”

  She walked behind Mac, observing the restaurant as she did. Low music, minimal, muted décor, and what appeared to be food plated with presentation in mind confirmed her suspicion that the restaurant was definitely a step up from a typical chain. The smell from the kitchen as she walked by was mouthwatering, and she wondered if she’d have time for a bowl of soup before she left.

  Mac Stone walked into a small office off the side of the kitchen. Even with the door closed, the aroma of good food followed. The room boasted two desks, both piled high with papers and folders and boxes, and a small window. She could see samples scattered on the floor, order forms tacked to a bulletin board.

  Looked like home. Here, in the cramped back office of a restaurant, Skye knew her place. She understood the lingo, the order, the sometimes lack of order. The rest of her life might have turned upside down, but this she understood.