Page 43 of Trapped with the Covert Ops Soldier

“He just gave us his recipe for hollandaise sauce, and I can’t wait to try it.”

Her mother, aunt and sisters-in-law were staring at him with identical expressions of admiration and glee. “He does make a pretty good eggs Benedict.”

They laughed like she’d said the funniest thing. On purpose. Which she did not.

“Well ladies,” Smitty said to the group. “I hate to say it, but we need to be going.”

“Of course,” her mother said, scurrying over to the fridge and pulling out a bag. “I’ve made some sandwiches for you. There’s a couple of stocked coolers and a crate of food for you to take to the cabin.”

Coolers? A crate? “Mom, we’re not going to be there that long.”

She blushed and winked. “Well, you never know.”

Abby didn’t know what he said to them, and given the reactions of her female relatives, it really didn’t matter. Smitty was a dead man.

“Right, thanks mom.” She turned and stomped outside. Low and behold, there were the coolers and a crate of food that didn’t need to be refrigerated. She loaded the crate into the back, and Smitty appeared at her shoulder with one of the coolers.

“Your mom is awesome.”

“That’s because you’re the first creature with testosterone floating around in his blood stream I’ve allowed anywhere near me since I got home.”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “Good to know.”

She glared at him. “You’ve gotten all theknowingyou’re going to get.” She got into the Jeep and slammed the passenger door.

He got in a few seconds later, the grin nowhere to be seen. “What’s up with you?”

“Drive.”

He stared at her for a few more seconds, then started the engine and drove out of the yard and down the two-wheel track that was the road to the cabin.

“What I’d like to know is what you said to my relatives.”

“Which ones?”

“The women.”

“Your mom asked me if I could cook. I mentioned eggs Benedict as my specialty, she asked what I used for sauce, and we traded recipes.”

“You traded recipes?” It could not be that simple. “That’s all?” How did he do it? How did he shed the pain and trauma and memories of so much death and destruction like water off his back, then go back to life as if itneverhappened?

“Yeah. Why are you so mad at me?”

“I’m not mad, I’m irritated. There’s a difference.”

“Not from where I’m sitting,” he muttered in an aggrieved tone.

“You’ve been here all of what two days and you’ve already made friends with half the people in town and every member of my family you’ve met.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Everything.” Her hands curled into fists. “It’s just not fair.”

“Abby, you’re not making any sense,” he said in a careful, cautious tone.

That caution broke the chains on her temper and twisted her voice into a snarl. “I come home from hell to a place where I know everyone, where I’m related to a quarter of the population, where I should feel safe, but all I feel isterror.” She turned her head to stare him into silence. “It’s not fair.”

Instead of backing off or backing down he stopped the Jeep, put it into park, then angled his body so he was facing her. His expression was the one he wore only during combat. “Terror?”

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