Page 7 of Curves and Courage

He glances up from his plate, his expression guarded. “Why do you say that?”

I shrug, keeping my tone light. “Just a hunch. You’ve got that ‘I’d rather be anywhere but here’ look about you.”

Irritation crosses his face, and I wonder if I’ve crossed a line. I really don’t want to upset this gorgeous man. I don’t want to see those sexy lips turn into a frown or see those beautiful eyes staring back at me with hatred.

“You’re not wrong,” he admits, cutting into his steak with precision as those big, round shoulders shrug a stunted response. “This wasn’t my idea.”

I lean forward slightly, my curiosity piqued. “Then whose idea was it?”

He hesitates, his jaw tightening as if he’s debating how much to tell me. Finally, he sighs, setting down his fork. “Let’s just say I’m here under orders. My bosses think I need some… downtime.”

“Downtime?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “What are you? A workaholic or something?”

He gives a humorless chuckle. “Something like that.”

I can tell there’s more to the story, but I decide not to push—at least not yet. Instead, I shift the conversation to safer ground.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m sort of a workaholic too. This vacation was my friend’s idea. She practically dragged me onto this ship.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Dragged you? Why’s that?”

“Because I’m not exactly the spontaneous type,” I admit with a grin. “I like my routine. I work to my schedule and don’t venture out of my comfort zone. But she insisted that I needed a break. And turns out… she was right.” I glance around the restaurant, taking in the elegant décor, the soft lighting, and the gentle hum of conversation. “I’m enjoying myself. This place is amazing. I’m glad I came.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, just watches me with those piercing eyes of his. It’s like he’s trying to figure me out, piece bypiece. For some reason, that sends a thrill of excitement through me.

I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. It allows me the chance to really study his features. There’s a scar that runs across his face, and by the appearance of the wound, it’s been a deep lashing that has nearly taken out his eye.

I can’t help but wonderwhothis man is. He’s filled with stories and adventure; I can just see it. The mystery is gripping, and I just want to spend all night with him, learning his story and listening to everything about him.

Leaning back in my chair, I take my wineglass and try to do exactly that.

“What about you?” I ask, breaking the silence. “What do you do when you’re not being forced to relax on luxury cruises?”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, I think he’s not going to answer. I start to think that this is where he draws the line. Maybe he’s a spy? Or a hitman?

I start to think of all these crazy jobs, but then, he picks up his glass of wine, swirling the dark liquid around before taking a sip.

“I’m in the military,” he says finally. “Or… I was.”

I blink, taken aback.

That explains a lot—the way he carries himself, the intensity in his eyes, the way he seems constantly on edge.

“Was?” I ask softly.

His expression darkens, and he sets the glass down with a bit more force than necessary. “I’m on leave,” he says, his voice tight. “For now.”

I nod slowly, sensing that this is a sore subject. “I see.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and the conversation lulls into silence again. I can feel the weight of everything he’s not saying hanging in the air between us. I’m not sure if I should press him or let it go, but something tells me that whatever he’s holding back is eating at him.

I reach for my wine glass, trying to think of a way to lighten the mood.

“You know,” I say, a teasing lilt in my voice as I lean over the table, trying to tempt this man closer. “If you’re trying to scare me off, you’re going to have to do better than that. I’m pretty tough to shake.”

His lips twitch, almost forming a smile. “Is that so?”

“Yep,” I say confidently, taking another sip of wine. “I’ve been through worse than a grumpy dinner companion.”

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