Page 15 of Under His Command

Holy molasses in January! Get it together, girl.

“Are you feeling all right? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine. Just frustrated over getting the calibration on these simulators set before Monday.”

“Having trouble?” His gray-blue eyes shifted to the bank of monitors over her shoulder. An instant later, one smooth brow arched in question.

She glanced back, biting off a groan when she saw the message on the main screen. It read,operation successful, in big red flashing letters, proving her a liar.

“Thank goodness,” she exclaimed, faking relief. “I’ve been running that sequence and getting an error all morning.”

“Are you at a stopping point?” he asked, being gentleman enough not to call her on her fib.

“Yes, why?”

“I’m heading into town to get lunch. This is my last chance before the new group begins indoctrination next week. I won’t come up for air, in a literal sense, except on weekends for the next three. I thought you might like to join me. You’ve been putting in SEAL hours, working from dawn to dusk, since you arrived.”

Her eyes darted to the paper bag on the table against the wall that contained her less than appetizing peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Brown bagging it gets getting pretty old by day five,” Flynn prompted.

She grimaced, not admitting she had planned to skip lunch altogether rather than choke down another PB&J.

“I know a place that makes the best cheeseburgers west of the Mississippi,” he said, a little lilt in his voice. He couldn’t know she’d sell state secrets for a juicy burger with the works. “Come on, Cassie. Don’t make me eat all by my lonesome.”

Her mouth watered, not from the thought of a thick burger and a gigantic pile of fries, but from the sight of his lips, turned down in a pretend pout. Could she be in Flynn’s company for an hour and not beg him to do everything he’d done to her in her dreams?

“I don’t know,” she replied, a quiver in her voice she hoped he didn’t notice. “That’s high praise, considering there’s a lot of cattle country between here and the Great Muddy.”

“You know you want to,” he cajoled. “And you can’t say no when it’s my treat.”

She couldn’t say no because it was lunch with Commander Flynn Dalton.

“Okay. I’m in!”

“That’s my girl!” he murmured with a wink and a self-satisfied grin. It was all she could do to walk to her desk, retrieve her purse, and not fall flat on her face from a case of lust-induced rubber legs.

He led her out to his vehicle, a big black Ford truck, a newer model judging from the way it gleamed in the sunshine. It came as no surprise when he directed her to the passenger side and opened the door for her.

With uncertainty, she eyed the distance from the ground to the cab. His truck lacked running boards, a necessity for a petite woman in flats. “Good thing I wore pants today,” she commented, well used to vertical challenges.

“Do you need a hand, small fry?”

Tilting her chin, she looked up at his grinning face, higher than her own by at least a foot, and considered his offer. Having his hands on her hips, or heaven forbid, boosting her up with one across her backside would have her hot and bothered more than she was already. She declined while teasing him about his own far-from-average size.

“No thanks, Commander Colossus. I got this.”

With his soft chuckle filling her ears and warming her insides, she grabbed on with two hands and climbed up.

Once she was inside, he paused, watching her buckle up before he shut the door with a solid thud. As she situated herself with her purse in her lap, clutching it to hide the nervous trembling of her hands, he strode around the hood to the driver’s side. His long legs made his entry effortless compared to her own.

“Next time, I’ll drive.” She pointed to her roadster one space over. So small it stood in full shade from the shadow cast by his enormous truck.

He snorted with amusement. “You’ve mistaken me for a human pretzel. No way is my frame folding into that pint-sized clown car, Cassie. I’d be in traction for a month.”

He either ignored or didn’t catch her comment about next time. If it was the former, she covered her forwardness further with a joke.

“Everyone knows clown cars are spacious inside, Flynn. I believe the World Record stands at thirty-one in a Citreon, set back in 2013. Therefore, I take no offense at your insults toward my baby.”

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