Try Me by Diane Alberts Page B

about seeing her now. He looked like a damned bum, and he was getting sand all over her elegant business suit.
    Brilliant, Jeremy. Absolutely brilliant. Next you can puke on her shoes.
    Come to think of it, he might have done something like that last night, somewhere between the fight and the second bottle of hooch. That might account for two or three of the fresher bruises throbbing on his chest.
    Erica helped him wedge into the passenger’s-side seat, strapped him in, then slipped in on the driver’s side and passed him a large water bottle. The condensation on the sides almost froze his palms, and he had to stop himself from rubbing the damned thing all over his body. He was tempted, but her pretty brown eyes stopped him, concern written all over her face.
    “God, Jeremy, you look like shit.”
    “I know.” He groaned, twisted the cap off the bottle, and took a deep draught. The dry stinging in his throat eased, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Thanks.”
    She started the car and cranked up the air conditioning. Cold air blasted him in the face, and he closed his eyes and sank against the seat. Thank God. The last time he’d been this hot, he’d been stationed in Afghanistan, camped out in the hellish desert and dodging a hell of a lot of unfriendly fire.
    Still more comfortable than sitting here with Erica, sweating all over the plush upholstery of her car.
    “Are you on leave?” she asked.
    He watched her from the corner of his eye. How did she know he was in the Marines? He’d kept up with her life now and then, but had she cared enough to follow his?
    Her eyes dropped to the dog tags currently burning into his chest like branding irons, and his face heated. No. Of course not. He needed to get his wayward emotions under control.
    He shrugged and took another sip of water. “Yeah. Took a month. Though I could use some R&R.”
    “Relax?” She raised a brow. “This is what you call relaxing?”
    He stiffened. Of course she’d look at him like that. Like the loser he was. He wanted to tell her she had no right to judge him—that she’d given up what power she held over him long ago—but he’d be lying. One look and he still felt that same desperate, agonizing emptiness; the hollow knowledge that he loved her, and she’d never love him. Never even consider it. She was a different Erica now, grown up after seven years.
    But he was still unworthy of her, and no amount of commendations or medals would change that.
    Jeremy’s hand tightened against the bottle, until he forced himself to let go. “It was plenty relaxing, until a fist got up close and personal with my face.”
    She snorted. “Sounds like you got what you deserved.”
    Erica strapped in, shifted into gear, and pulled onto the road. Uncomfortable silence descended. Jeremy relaxed against the seat and tried to focus on the cool air and refreshing water—not the woman at his side. He might as well try to forget his own name. He was grateful when she slid on her sunglasses; they hid her dark, unreadable eyes behind an equally impenetrable barrier.
    She fidgeted at the gearshift. “What’s your MOS?”
    “Since when do you know military lingo?” he countered. “I’m a mortar man.”
    “Oh.” Her brows wrinkled. “So you get shot at. You’re not on a ship somewhere, or safe at the base.”
    “’Safe’ is relative in Afghanistan. But yeah, I get shot at.”
    Her knuckles went white against the gearshift. Her motions were tense when she changed gear. “Oh,” she said again.
    “Don’t worry. I’m too ornery for anyone to hit me.”
    Her lips quirked and she glanced at him. “Someone hit you pretty hard last night.”
    “Funny. You know what I meant.” He snapped a mock salute. “Sergeant Jeremy Addison, at your service. Too proud and determined to get shot.”
    She laughed. “You mean too stubborn and bullheaded.”
    “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”
    She chuckled and fell silent. Jeremy turned his attention out the window. Before long