regulation authorizing that, ma’am?”
“No idea.” She squeezed her packages tighter, unsure how to present her half-formed plan to Colonel Loughrey. The sixteen hours it had taken her to track down a supply of vitamins with extra folate deliverable to Caddie hadn’t left much time to refine her idea of mobile prenatal visits.
“Kidding.” He caught the smaller box as it slipped across the larger one’s top. “It’s a great idea, and we’ll find you someone.” He gestured to the bigger package she held. “I’ll trade you.”
Her mother could fit an entire vacation wardrobe and dozens of cookies into a box the size of a file drawer, but it was heavy enough to make her arms ache. Asking him to carry it would be wimpy, but he’d offered. She wouldn’t lose her atta-girl credentials if she accepted his help as far as her hut.
He palmed the carton as if it were a basketball and handed her the smaller one to tuck at her hip. “So, what exciting contraband am I hauling? It’s not heavy enough to be beer.”
“Shoes.” She looked at her tan suede boots. “I need civvies for leave next week.”
“I’m carrying women’s shoes? Spiky things?” He shortened his stride to stay next to her.
“Probably.” She had no idea what her mother had sent, but smart money would be on black kitten heels. Refusing her stepfather’s dubious cash was one thing, but Theresa had long ago resigned herself to her mother’s extravagance. Buying clothes for her only child was an expression of love, as well as an attempt to make up for the losses of Theresa’s early years. Despite Carl’s jokes about his wife’s skill at money laundering whenever she went to the mall, Theresa knew everything in the box had been selected and mailed with her mother’s love.
“This is cause for despair?” He pulled his sunglasses halfway down his nose so she couldn’t miss his raised eyebrows.
“I asked for something comfortable for walking. I doubt that describes anything here.” A strong mother-daughter bond didn’t guarantee the same taste.
“Next you’re going to tell me there are clothes in this.”
Part of her knew she shouldn’t follow the conversation away from safe medical subjects and into the risks of personal details so easily, but that part had lost its voice.
He stopped moving and his eyes skimmed her body all the way to the ground. “Silk.”
His single word conjured a lush image that brought her to a standstill, an image of a man’s hand sliding a swath of fabric over her throat and chest to caress her skin. Her eyes locked on his fingers, tanned and strong, spread wide on her carton. They weren’t too thick, and his nails were clean. At his wrist, blond hairs touched his watchband. The hand would be just like Wulf’s.
“Or lace?” His voice had slipped to a depth that she rarely heard, because men didn’t describe medical symptoms in that slowly melting tone or present slides at battle update briefings with that husky vibration deep in their chest.
“I hope not.” Her voice barely squeezed out of her paralyzed throat, but she had to answer. Why was he flirting with her? She wanted to ask about helping Afghan women—she couldn’t allow anything more—but why did he want to talk to her? They both knew army rules; a relationship between them was off-limits. Special ops soldiers calibrated risk and quantified outcomes as finely as neurosurgeons, or they didn’t stay alive, yet he wrapped his voice around her like a net. She swallowed the knowledge that he wanted to take his chances.
“Dare I imagine a dress?”
A dress . She focused on her gray-and-brown pants fabric. This close, the blocks in the design were right angles, orderly and regular, like her life. To keep it that way, she had to stay far away from this man. A semisecret maternal clinic was enough professional risk. To pile on more by— no —they could be nothing to each other but people who nodded and exchanged half smiles across the
“No idea.” She squeezed her packages tighter, unsure how to present her half-formed plan to Colonel Loughrey. The sixteen hours it had taken her to track down a supply of vitamins with extra folate deliverable to Caddie hadn’t left much time to refine her idea of mobile prenatal visits.
“Kidding.” He caught the smaller box as it slipped across the larger one’s top. “It’s a great idea, and we’ll find you someone.” He gestured to the bigger package she held. “I’ll trade you.”
Her mother could fit an entire vacation wardrobe and dozens of cookies into a box the size of a file drawer, but it was heavy enough to make her arms ache. Asking him to carry it would be wimpy, but he’d offered. She wouldn’t lose her atta-girl credentials if she accepted his help as far as her hut.
He palmed the carton as if it were a basketball and handed her the smaller one to tuck at her hip. “So, what exciting contraband am I hauling? It’s not heavy enough to be beer.”
“Shoes.” She looked at her tan suede boots. “I need civvies for leave next week.”
“I’m carrying women’s shoes? Spiky things?” He shortened his stride to stay next to her.
“Probably.” She had no idea what her mother had sent, but smart money would be on black kitten heels. Refusing her stepfather’s dubious cash was one thing, but Theresa had long ago resigned herself to her mother’s extravagance. Buying clothes for her only child was an expression of love, as well as an attempt to make up for the losses of Theresa’s early years. Despite Carl’s jokes about his wife’s skill at money laundering whenever she went to the mall, Theresa knew everything in the box had been selected and mailed with her mother’s love.
“This is cause for despair?” He pulled his sunglasses halfway down his nose so she couldn’t miss his raised eyebrows.
“I asked for something comfortable for walking. I doubt that describes anything here.” A strong mother-daughter bond didn’t guarantee the same taste.
“Next you’re going to tell me there are clothes in this.”
Part of her knew she shouldn’t follow the conversation away from safe medical subjects and into the risks of personal details so easily, but that part had lost its voice.
He stopped moving and his eyes skimmed her body all the way to the ground. “Silk.”
His single word conjured a lush image that brought her to a standstill, an image of a man’s hand sliding a swath of fabric over her throat and chest to caress her skin. Her eyes locked on his fingers, tanned and strong, spread wide on her carton. They weren’t too thick, and his nails were clean. At his wrist, blond hairs touched his watchband. The hand would be just like Wulf’s.
“Or lace?” His voice had slipped to a depth that she rarely heard, because men didn’t describe medical symptoms in that slowly melting tone or present slides at battle update briefings with that husky vibration deep in their chest.
“I hope not.” Her voice barely squeezed out of her paralyzed throat, but she had to answer. Why was he flirting with her? She wanted to ask about helping Afghan women—she couldn’t allow anything more—but why did he want to talk to her? They both knew army rules; a relationship between them was off-limits. Special ops soldiers calibrated risk and quantified outcomes as finely as neurosurgeons, or they didn’t stay alive, yet he wrapped his voice around her like a net. She swallowed the knowledge that he wanted to take his chances.
“Dare I imagine a dress?”
A dress . She focused on her gray-and-brown pants fabric. This close, the blocks in the design were right angles, orderly and regular, like her life. To keep it that way, she had to stay far away from this man. A semisecret maternal clinic was enough professional risk. To pile on more by— no —they could be nothing to each other but people who nodded and exchanged half smiles across the
Similar Books
