up to that one imagined kiss. How was that for stupid? Pining after a married man who never had been and never could be hers.
She tried not to look. She tried to turn back to check on her buddy Abraham for a distraction. But she turned the wrong way and spotted the White House. She’d been pining for Peter Matthews since she was six. Twenty-three years. How was that for the definition of lost causes?
And now she worked for his wife, in the same building. The scale for masochistic had just been redefined.
But even in her daydreams, Peter’s kiss had never sparked inside her. Had never ignited a flame she hadn’t known lurked inside. Hadn’t known a body could contain.
Where was Henderson now? Emily checked her watch. Twenty-four hours, almost to the minute, since he’d kissed her halfway around the world.
Ten a.m. there. Mark and her crew would be sleeping now. Sacked out for most of the day before rousting for dinner, flight briefing, and the night’s mission. While she sat here, parked on her butt, chilling it on Abe’s marbled front stoop.
Damn Henderson. She wanted his kiss; she just didn’t want him. Almost as much as she didn’t want to be here.
***
Okay, it was beyond stupid. Mark stared at a pile of breakfast he didn’t want in the officers’ mess aboard the carrier. Two hours from the base that reminded him constantly of her. Emily Beale had been gone a whole twenty-four hours, and Mark had already managed to estrange the best crew in the entire outfit other than his own.
Who knew what idiocy he’d think up next. Actually, he already knew what it was and couldn’t believe he’d fallen so far from any hint of common sense. But knowing he was about to fall past all redemption probably wasn’t going to stop him.
It was crew change for the carrier, and probably thirty guys were scattered at a dozen tables. He sat alone in the corner, staring at his tray of breakfast, contemplating his waffles and his pending stupidity.
Someone slapped him on top of the head.
He didn’t bother to turn. “Hey, Jim.”
The Mini Boss came around and dropped his own tray across the table from Mark.
“When did you get so dumb?”
“Born dumb.”
“You got that right, bro.” Jim began eating.
Mark played with his Belgian waffle, cutting it into individual squares with the side of his fork.
“You know, I had me this squirrel dog once.”
“You grew up in Chicago.”
“Shush! You don’t mess with a good story.”
Mark shrugged and began dissecting his eggs. He piled little bits of scrambled egg in each cut-off waffle square. How had she gotten so far under his skin? No one did that to him. Women were strictly catch and release. Pick ’em up, show ’em the best time he knew how so that they both enjoyed themselves, and then go their separate ways. It had always worked just fine.
What had Beale done to him? She wasn’t even his type. He liked them all soft and curvy and as easy-going as a summer day. Beale was all bright and slender and edge. She never backed off. Not once in her life. Lots of edge.
“Where was I?”
“Some damn squirrel dog.”
“Right. That dog couldn’t track a duck to save his life. I watched a rabbit scoot between his paws once, and all he did was try to jump aside like he was scared of his own shadow. But he loved them squirrels. He’d go sniffing after them round and round a tree or a bird feeder. Any place they went, he’d try to follow. More than once I saw him staring up into the branches trying to figure out how to climb up there.”
“Dumb dog. And your fake Southern accent sucks.”
Jim aimed a sausage-laden fork at him, “Never said he was smart and your fake human accent sucks too, so shut up. That dog was plumb crazy about squirrels. After a time they got to know him, you see. Got used to him sniffing around because he never did anything but follow them around. So, do you know what that squirrel dog of mine did?”
“I don’t care, but I’ll bet
She tried not to look. She tried to turn back to check on her buddy Abraham for a distraction. But she turned the wrong way and spotted the White House. She’d been pining for Peter Matthews since she was six. Twenty-three years. How was that for the definition of lost causes?
And now she worked for his wife, in the same building. The scale for masochistic had just been redefined.
But even in her daydreams, Peter’s kiss had never sparked inside her. Had never ignited a flame she hadn’t known lurked inside. Hadn’t known a body could contain.
Where was Henderson now? Emily checked her watch. Twenty-four hours, almost to the minute, since he’d kissed her halfway around the world.
Ten a.m. there. Mark and her crew would be sleeping now. Sacked out for most of the day before rousting for dinner, flight briefing, and the night’s mission. While she sat here, parked on her butt, chilling it on Abe’s marbled front stoop.
Damn Henderson. She wanted his kiss; she just didn’t want him. Almost as much as she didn’t want to be here.
***
Okay, it was beyond stupid. Mark stared at a pile of breakfast he didn’t want in the officers’ mess aboard the carrier. Two hours from the base that reminded him constantly of her. Emily Beale had been gone a whole twenty-four hours, and Mark had already managed to estrange the best crew in the entire outfit other than his own.
Who knew what idiocy he’d think up next. Actually, he already knew what it was and couldn’t believe he’d fallen so far from any hint of common sense. But knowing he was about to fall past all redemption probably wasn’t going to stop him.
It was crew change for the carrier, and probably thirty guys were scattered at a dozen tables. He sat alone in the corner, staring at his tray of breakfast, contemplating his waffles and his pending stupidity.
Someone slapped him on top of the head.
He didn’t bother to turn. “Hey, Jim.”
The Mini Boss came around and dropped his own tray across the table from Mark.
“When did you get so dumb?”
“Born dumb.”
“You got that right, bro.” Jim began eating.
Mark played with his Belgian waffle, cutting it into individual squares with the side of his fork.
“You know, I had me this squirrel dog once.”
“You grew up in Chicago.”
“Shush! You don’t mess with a good story.”
Mark shrugged and began dissecting his eggs. He piled little bits of scrambled egg in each cut-off waffle square. How had she gotten so far under his skin? No one did that to him. Women were strictly catch and release. Pick ’em up, show ’em the best time he knew how so that they both enjoyed themselves, and then go their separate ways. It had always worked just fine.
What had Beale done to him? She wasn’t even his type. He liked them all soft and curvy and as easy-going as a summer day. Beale was all bright and slender and edge. She never backed off. Not once in her life. Lots of edge.
“Where was I?”
“Some damn squirrel dog.”
“Right. That dog couldn’t track a duck to save his life. I watched a rabbit scoot between his paws once, and all he did was try to jump aside like he was scared of his own shadow. But he loved them squirrels. He’d go sniffing after them round and round a tree or a bird feeder. Any place they went, he’d try to follow. More than once I saw him staring up into the branches trying to figure out how to climb up there.”
“Dumb dog. And your fake Southern accent sucks.”
Jim aimed a sausage-laden fork at him, “Never said he was smart and your fake human accent sucks too, so shut up. That dog was plumb crazy about squirrels. After a time they got to know him, you see. Got used to him sniffing around because he never did anything but follow them around. So, do you know what that squirrel dog of mine did?”
“I don’t care, but I’ll bet
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