“What are we doing?”
“Exactly what you came for, sugar. We’re going home.”
“This is it?”
“What were you expecting, a ten-bedroom mansion with two staircases? I’m a soldier, not a CEO.”
“I guess I had higher hopes for the destination of my tax dollars,” Tara muttered, working hard to sound disappointed. Chance’s small farmhouse with its several scrubby acres near the fort was the nicest house she’d ever been in, and nothing like the adolescently decorated bachelor pad she’d imagined. She had to fight the urge to gawk at the hardwood floors and new furnishings as he locked the front door behind them.
“Nice talk coming from someone who described her apartment as a shoebox so filthy even the rats avoided it. Or was that just your way to get me to pay for a hotel room?”
He remembered! Tara bit her lower lip to keep her thrilled smile at bay. She hadn’t expected to be so sublimely happy to see him again, or so overwhelmed by his physical presence. She’d spent the twenty-minute drive to his house clenching the steering wheel, fighting to keep the car in the lane, imagining what would happen if she was pulled over.
“I’ll pass that breathalyzer, Officer, but I have to confess to ingesting an illicit substance. It’s the scent of this man right here next to me, of muggy summer nights and cold beer in aluminum cans and laundry dried in the sun. Add that to his Gulf-Coast Mississippi accent and long legs all folded up in my little car and we’re lucky I could drive in a straight line.”
“I believe you passed me your hotel keycard long before we discussed the size of my apartment,” she replied primly. “As I recall, you’d already paid for the room.”
“Didn’t realize I’d still be paying for it ten months later,” he grumbled, dropping her overstuffed, imitation designer tote bag onto the couch.
Tara’s elation dissipated as quickly as it had erupted, but she kept her expression on the irritated side of neutral. This situation wasn’t turning out at all like she expected, and it was going to take some quick thinking to keep it under control. He hadn’t fallen at her feet in gratitude at her reappearance, he hadn’t spent those long months in Afghanistan pining for her and realizing what a horrible mistake he’d made by leaving her behind; in fact he hadn’t even apologized for disappearing from the hotel while she was sleeping off the tequila shots.
On the flipside, she hadn’t expected her confidence to be so uncharacteristically shaken by the mere sight of him. She had no idea it would only take one glimpse of that ruffled regulation haircut, those mouth-bracketing dimples, the long-fingered medic’s hands to reduce her to a pathetic, simpering schoolgirl swooning over an out-of-her-league upperclassman.
She was surer than ever that she wanted to be with him, or at least to give the two of them a try. But she wondered whether she’d made a mistake pursuing him, whether he’d ever really wanted her, and whether she was setting herself up for the biggest, most humiliating heartbreak of her life.
“Do you want me to give you the grand tour?”
“This house has, what, two bedrooms? I’m sure I can find my way around.”
Chance shoved his hands in his pockets. “Are you hungry? I can fix dinner.”
She was starving, but she wrinkled her nose. “Are you telling me there’s food in that refrigerator?”
“See for yourself.”
Tara made a show of picking her way across the room, despite its being almost immaculately tidy save for a few errant boots and camouflage helmets scattered across the floor. The adjoining, open-plan kitchen was barely five steps away, and she made a point to hold her breath as she pulled open the refrigerator door.
“Oh.” She straightened, surveying the contents. Plain yogurt, milk, avocados, two packets of ground beef, three green apples, a hunk of Monterey Jack with a label from a local creamery. A far cry from the roll of slice-and-bake cookie dough and long-expired mustard that constituted food on-hand at her place.
“Well.” She shut the door. “I can’t see what you could possibly make from that. It’s so…um…miscellaneous.”
With a frown Chance moved to join her beside the fridge, reopening the door and peering inside. The sudden rush of cold air swept his scent into her face, and for a split second she had to close her eyes, reminding herself she could not touch him.
Not yet, anyway.
“What are you talking about? We can do fajitas, beef pasta, hamburgers, all kinds of stuff. I only went to the store two days ago.”
“It’s all so…basic.” Tara shrugged.
He sighed exasperatedly. “What do you want for dinner, then?”
“Something fresh. Like sushi.” Tara only liked fish when it was breaded and preferably in stick form, so eating it raw was unthinkable, but she didn’t want to seem unsophisticated. She had to assert her position in—and above—Chance’s lifestyle no matter what it cost her.
“Sushi?” he repeated incredulously. “You know we’re in Kansas, right? And that it’s landlocked?”
She ignored the shame blazing in her cheeks. “I thought Meridian was supposed to be a cool town with good restaurants, because of all the army personnel from all over the country. Guess I was wrong.”
“Meridian has six stoplights and four of them are superfluous.” He leaned farther into the fridge. “I’ve got salmon fillets, I could grill those if you want. Do you like pesto?”
She probably would—if she knew what the hell it was. “I guess.”
“Then I’ll get started. Can you set the table? Plates and stuff are in the right-hand cabinet above the sink.”
Tara exhaled her irritation at being put to work, then started to lay out the napkins and cutlery, trying to remember what she’d been taught in her brief tenure as a server at Denny’s. Her dad’s version of setting the table was shoving a grease-stained fast-food bag in her direction, so utensil placement was not exactly her forte.
Chance used paper towels to spread cooking oil over the grill rack in the oven, then placed the salmon inside and shut the door. Unsure what to do with herself now the table was set, she backed up against the counter. He straightened and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking as uncomfortable as she felt.
After an awkward beat she offered, “Can’t remember having salmon before. I’m more of the fried catfish type.”
“I’m trying to get into shape for deploying. No unhealthy food.”
She stiffened. “Are you saying I don’t eat healthy?”
“I’m saying fried catfish isn’t healthy.”
“Didn’t realize you were such a food snob.”
“Five minutes ago you wanted sushi, now I’m a snob for pointing out nutritional value?”
