Page 47 of Deceitful Promises

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Does it have anything to do with you needing to sit with your back to the wall in the diner?” I ask.

“You read me too damn easily.”

“Hey, I’m learning from you.”

“I’m on high alert,” he says. “I always am, and this has made it worse.”

“Because of the military?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

“What if we play the food game again?” I ask.

Another smirk touches his lips, this one with a hint of pride. “That doesn’t leave me with much choice, does it?”

“See, I can be cunning, too.”

He presses his hands on his knees like he’s about to stand up, but then he leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. I gasp and lean against him. I can’t help it. He kisses me far softer than last time, with more tenderness, and then he pulls away. As he stands and leaves the room, I’m left wondering if it actually happened.

I touch my lips, feeling the wetness, a buzzing heat moving through my body. It’s new and exciting and already beginning to feel wildly addictive. He returns with a small plate of food: breadsticks, cheese, small pieces of meat, grapes, and cocktail sticks.

“One stick for one question?” he says.

My stomach warbles, but there’s so much support in his expression. He looks so ready to accept me for who I am.

“Okay, yeah, I can do that.”

He loads up a stick with cheese and a grape, then hands it to me.

Learning from the last game, I take my time thinking of the right question. “Was there one thing that made you always on alert? One event?”

He considers my question. That’s one thing I find so appealing about him. He takes everything I say seriously. He never seems tempted to wave it off as though I’m some kid bothering him.

“Yes,” he says after a pause, his voice breaking, then he nods to the stick.

I scrape the food between my teeth, reminding myself what he said, the calories, the importance of being an athlete. Chewing takes a long time, and it feels odd going down my throat, but I manage to do it.

He nods, loading up another stick.

“Tell me what happened.”

“We were in Ramadi,” he replies, handing me the stick. “It was all urban warfare. You never knew when you were going to get hit.” He speaks distantly. I think maybe he has to. “We got bad intel and walked right into an ambush. All nine of my friends were killed. I escaped without a scratch.” He shudders. “Without ascratch. How is that even possible?”

I eat the food, then put the stick on the plate and reach over, taking his hand. He holds me tightly, letting me feel all the agony burning through him.

“You were lucky,” I murmur.

“Yeah,” he growls, “and my friends weren’t. They had kids. Wives. I had nothing, but I was the one who got away. It’s fucked. The world is fucked.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be,” I whisper. He holds my hand even tighter. I tug on him. My throat tries to close with nerves when the words rise up, but I don’t let them rule me. “You look like you need a hug.”

“Ania …” His tone gets deep and breathy.

“What?”

“Do you have any idea how tempting you are to me? Do you have any idea how difficult this is?”

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