Page 2 of Dream Girl

His large hand swipes the page away along with my hope as I whine in the back of my throat. I know better than to argue with him over dinner when I know I can’t win against his logical side.

He’s an old man so I’ll give him leniency about young people having better digestive systems than his. I doubt anyone can beat him in anything. I swear this man never even gets a cold for as long as I have known him, and not a sniff can be heard too, and I had to wonder if he was truly human in the first year of our relationship.

“You can’t preen when you only clicked on the first thing on the search engine,” he remarks drearily.

I crinkle my nose, “I had to do a lot of brainstorming.”

“Nonsense,” he says.

I blow on the piece of hair falling to my face and push it behind my ear, “Go shower before you help me, you stinky man.”

He remains silent, turning to me with unreadable brown eyes and fisting the back of my head to press my face into his chest. My lungs quickly fill up with the smokiness and his own smell; the itchiness in my eyes burns with the thick scent and I whine at his devious behavior.

I wiggle my face out of his chest and gasp heavily, face flushed with heat, and I greedily welcome the freshness of oxygen entering my lungs to expel that gross smoke scent.

“Stinky,” I repeat with a twitch from my nose.

He pinches my cheek before his long legs take him into the hall where the bathroom is located. I watch as his broad back gets stretched when he pulls his shirt over his head, showing me his tattoos across his back.

The ink travels up to his shoulders and down his arms, around his waist and over the curve of his neck. His whole torso is covered in ink, and it’s impossible to tell where it begins and where the story ends.

He hasn’t told me why he decided to surround the Navy SEAL tattoo on his arm, but he must have a reason to divert everyone’s attention on other tattoos to hide what used to be his pride.

I shake my head and decide that wondering would not get me anywhere, and if Milo wants to tell me what the stories on his body mean, then he will. I have no reason to push him into reliving memories that he clearly wants to keep to himself.

Rolling up the sleeves of my long sleeve shirt, I take the knife with room temperature butter on slices of thick bread after the oven had done preheating. I finish preparing by the time he comes out of the shower, and only the vinaigrette needs to be done.

His hair is wet, darkening the collar of his shirt as he takes over the kitchen counter.

“Go sit and wait until I say you can come back.” He’s demanding and rude when he ushers me away from the bread that I have perfectly lined up on the baking tray.

I pout at him, making sure he sees the dismay on my face before he stares at me with unchallenged dominance. My confidence withers away like a flower in harsh winter weather. My heart pounds when he shuts the cookbook and looks at the Snow Chicken that I had made when he was in the shower.

I wanted cheesy chicken, and sexy Navy SEAL is not going to stop me from having that cheese pull that is trending right now.

I plop down on the couch, flipping through the channels as I feel his stare at the back of my head. I strongly advise myself to not look back, and I’m proud that I’m able to listen to the voice in my head while his gaze slowly diminishes in heat.

It’s hard not to look at Milo. He’s a fine specimen, a man of assertive control when he speaks and a lover of protective instincts when we’re together.

I’m lucky to have him. I never thought that I would find someone as caring as him even if he’s a bit strict about what I do and a worrywart of my safety. I don’t blame him. I have heard of military soldiers coming home with a part of them still lingering in the warzone, and many of them have reportedly done something bad due to their post-traumatic stress disorder.

I can’t even begin to imagine men like Milo who have been subjected to more haunting operations than the average rate of danger.

And I don’t want to imagine. It would be disrespectful to Milo to think of warzone scenarios and being able to subjectively plan out a strategy and pretending that what they have gone through wasn’t that bad.

Everyone goes through tough times and some more than others, and Milo happens to be on the unfortunate end when he came back.

A whiff of garlic bread fills my nose, and I turn around on the couch to peek into the kitchen. Milo stands with a cheese grater and a block of cheese in his hand. He says that if I’m going to have cheese, then it better be the good ones.

What a foodie.

My brows furrow in confusion. Milo isn’t moving as a drop of water in his hair rolls down into his shirt, wetting the already drenched spot around his collar.

I stand at the end of the table, calling his name and getting no response. I keep my hands at the edge although I am twitching to touch him and break him out of his trance.

I never like seeing him lose himself in his thoughts. It always frightens me the way his eyes wipe away the warmth that he looks at me with, but the cold and hard gaze becomes unnervingly unsettling as I call for him again.

His eyes are cast down at the cheese grater where his thumb is pressing on the sharp teeth of the backside.

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