Hover by Anne A. Wilson Page A

Captain Magruder says.
    â€œNice to meet you both,” Admiral Carlson says, extending his hand. “I want you to know we’re happy to have you with us in the strike group.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” Emily says.
    That was weird. I wonder why we were singled out like that. Well, no matter. I turn to find a seat, surreptitiously glancing in Eric’s direction as I do so. Shoot. He catches me peeking because he’s looking right at me.
    But that’s not what gives me pause.
    â€œIs she the one?” Admiral Carlson whispers.
    â€œYeah, that’s her,” Captain Magruder says.
    I bring my eyes to theirs, but they don’t look away. I wonder if they know that I heard them. Scanning to the left, I see that Eric’s eyes haven’t left my position.
    Emily heads to the open seat next to Eric, while I turn, finding two free chairs at the far end of our U-shaped table arrangement. Petty Officer Sampson, our lead mess crank, hurriedly approaches with lemon water and a larger-than-normal menu. I glance up to see that Eric is giving his full attention to Emily.
    Switching my gaze to Admiral Carlson, I think about the comment I just overheard. “Is she the one?” What on earth?
    I don’t have a chance to consider the question, though, because Commander Egan shatters my concentration with his arrival. He sits next to me, adjusting his chair until it touches mine, and I recoil. When he gets close, my skin gets prickly. I swear, I’m going to break out in a rash as this cruise progresses, with him around.
    â€œSara, Sara, Sara,” he says. “Talkin’ it up with the admiral, I see.”
    Maybe he’s trying to be funny? I don’t even look at him. “Yes, sir.”
    I had planned to order something off the menu because Petty Officer Sampson has pulled out all the stops for Admiral Carlson. But I don’t want to sit here waiting for my food, drawn into a conversation I don’t want to have with Commander Egan. I can give myself space by selecting from the salad bar instead. I push my chair back, and as I walk away from him, every inch I put between us allows me to breathe easier.
    I pick up a plate from the storage well and begin piling it with lettuce. The salad on the ship isn’t great by most people’s standards, but for me, I’m eating better now than I normally do. I inherited little—actually, make that none—of my mother’s legendary culinary skills, so having a mess hall has always been one of the perks of military life for me.
    â€œYou guys are lucky,” Eric says, silently appearing at my side.
    The current is a jolt this time.
    â€œWe’re lucky?”
    â€œTo have a salad bar,” he says, picking up a plate. “This would never fit in our wardroom.”
    â€œOh, yeah. This is really a great thing.”
    I add spinach and cucumbers to my lettuce bed, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that he’s filling his plate, too. Maybe he’s extra hungry. When I watched Emily take her seat next to him earlier, he had already been served a full plate of food, which included a salad.
    The ship takes a heavy roll and the cherry tomato I’m trying to harness with the salad tongs slips and accelerates across the grooved railings in front of the vegetable bins. I quickly grab the side of the bar to keep my balance as the tomato goes airborne at the end of the rails. Eric’s hand shoots out, snatching it in midair.
    I raise my eyebrows. “Nice save.”
    He turns to me, latches onto my gaze, and holds it. Uncanny, how he does that. And his all-business demeanor from earlier evaporates.
    â€œI wanted to ask how you were doing,” he says in a low voice. “I didn’t have a chance to talk with you before you left yesterday morning.”
    â€œThe flight went fine. We did the maintenance checks and—”
    â€œI wasn’t asking about the aircraft,” he says. “I