Hover by Anne A. Wilson Page B

was asking about you.”
    â€œOh.” The effort required to pull my eyes away is a monumental one. I focus on the construction of my salad, stalling, adding items that under normal circumstances would never find their way onto my plate. Olives, anchovies …
    â€œI’m doing all right,” I say, looking resolutely at the salad bins. “Thanks for asking.”
    Emily’s half-baked Harlequins flash through my mind, expounding on the heated magnetic pull between two people. Nonsensical nonsense, I call it. And that is not what’s happening here. Not onboard a navy ship. Not in a wardroom. And most definitely not in uniform.
    I continue mindlessly adding ingredients, my head spinning.
    I will not succumb to this. I won’t. Besides, there’s nothing to succumb to. It’s the rolling of the ship. That’s it. My stomach hasn’t been feeling right today anyway.
    â€œYou know, I wouldn’t have taken you for the jalape ñ o type,” he says.
    â€œJalape ñ o … what?”
    He points to my plate and I cringe. The jalape ñ o slices awkwardly outnumber the tomatoes and cucumbers combined, creating a dull green boundary layer of way-too-hot-for-me peppers that nearly covers the entire salad.
    Holy hell, Sara. Where is your dignity?
    I straighten and look at him directly, preparing to say my good-byes, but notice for the first time a scar that traces across his upper lip. It only makes him more handsome—in a rugged, no-nonsense sort of way.
    Okay, that’s it. I’m done. This is getting out of control.
    I need to get away from here. Now.
    I move to turn back to my seat, but a hand on my arm stops me; that and a shot of something that just rocketed through my body the moment he touched me.
    â€œCan I ask you something?” His eyes shift to look behind me for a moment before he speaks again. The tone is not at all playful as it just was. “Commander Egan … Is everything all right there?”
    I hesitate, deciding he doesn’t need to know. “Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”
    â€œYou flinched when he sat next to you,” he says, removing his hand from my arm.
    How did he notice that? I was sitting at the far end of the table.
    â€œIt’s fine,” I say.
    â€œIt’s not fine.” His eyes hold mine, daring me to say otherwise.
    This is altogether new to me—someone needling into my feelings like this. And he’s right on the mark, too, which is even more disconcerting.
    â€œI need to go,” I say, and turn back to my seat.
    â€œSoooo, do you know Lieutenant Marxen or something?” Commander Egan says. “You took forever getting your salad.”
    â€œNo … no, not really,” I say.
    I pretend to scoot my chair in closer to the table while actually moving it farther away from him. The supply officer who sits next to me has got to be wondering why my chair is now rammed up next to his.
    Eric watches all of this, his jaw set. He then crosses the room to Admiral Carlson and leans into his ear before returning to his seat.
    â€œCommander Egan!” Admiral Carlson calls from across the table.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI need to speak with you.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Commander Egan pushes back his chair and walks to the admiral’s side.
    It’s difficult to make out what they’re discussing. Something related to Operation Low Level, I think.
    â€œYou know, sir,” Eric says, addressing Commander Egan loudly. “You can just have my seat. It would probably be easier than having to stand there.”
    â€œThat’s a great idea,” Admiral Carlson says.
    Eric pushes his dinner plate aside and rises. He has a quick word with Petty Officer Sampson, who comes to my side, collects Commander Egan’s plate, and takes it to his new seat.
    Commander Egan doesn’t look happy with the new seating arrangement, and neither does Em, for that