Page 5 of Sworn to Protect

“Good luck figuring it out. Have a good day.” I place the lid on the Styrofoam cup and hand him the coffee.

“I’m sure I’ll be back.” His fingers graze over mine as he grabs his cup. My gaze sweeps up to meet his. I try like hell to ignore the tingles racing through my body. But I get a feeling he’s aware of the visceral reaction his touch caused when he lifts his drink and adds, “For the coffee.”

I stand transfixed as his face goes stoic. Without a word, he about-faces, and I watch his backside walk through the door, leaving me warm and flustered. And completely confused.

“Holy crap. You didn’t tell me your knight in shining armor was the mysterious new guy in town.” Jill fans herself. “That man is one hell of a fine specimen.”

She isn’t wrong, but the last thing I need to be doing is scoping out men. It’s too soon. “I suppose.”

“Girl, I know you’re in mourning, and I should be more sensitive, but did you not see that fine ass?”

“You called him an ass.”

“No, I said he was mysterious and broody.”

“There’s a difference?” I bark out an exasperated laugh.

“On him, there is. A huge one.” Her eyes widen. “Speaking of huge, I wonder if he?—”

The door opens to my eighty-two-year-old neighbor, Millie Norfolk. I chuckle. “Saved by the bell.”

But as Jill takes Millie’s order, I replay Nate’s answer to how long he’s staying in town. What does “it depends” mean, and what circumstances could he be talking about? Jill got one thing right: Nate Dixon is one hot, mysterious man. Not that it makes a difference. No matter who he is, I’ll never let a guy thwart my plans ever again.

CHAPTER THREE

NATE

“What’s their ETA?”I glanced up from the medical journal and leaned back in my desk chair, directing my question to my intern, Royce Nuri. I appeared more casual than I felt.

“Twenty minutes, sir.”

Ethan, you son of a bitch, you made it.

It wasn’t like me to stress over missions. But his “last letter” tucked in my cabinet in my barrack had gotten to me. Ethan never did shit like that. His move spooked me.

Royce’s gaze flicked to the exit before returning to me, face devoid of emotion. He was hard to read, but he would make one hell of a surgeon someday. When he assisted in surgery, I always felt proud. He came to our unit to fill in as a translator, but I advocated for him to stay. He was placed under my direction.

The hum of the fighter jet sounded in the distance, and I breathed a little easier. Once the birds land, I’d be able to relax. This eeriness clawed its way down my spine when I woke up. I blamed Ethan and his stupid letter. The dumbass. He should’ve known better.

I pushed from the chair, ready to head out and meet my brothers. Whether or not the upper brass deemed the mission a success was irrelevant. There weren’t any wounded coming in, so the team’s effort was a success in my eyes.

“Let’s go join them.” I grabbed my doctor’s kit for a “just in case moment” and pushed past Royce.

“Go ahead, Doc. I’ll be right there.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Royce hadn’t moved. He stood ramrod straight with sweat beads pooling on his forehead. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” His mouth opened and closed before looking directly at me. “Thanks for giving me this chance.”

“You’re going to make a good doctor.” His haunted expression signaled alarm bells, but I filed them away to deal with later. I needed to review his workload and see how stressful it was. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Little did I know what later had in store for us.

I wake with a start, my breaths a rapid succession of pants as a cold sweat breaks across my torso. The early morning sun filters through the Venetian blinds, casting shadows around the naturally bright bedroom. But pale blue walls and floral print aren’t what I visualize. No, all I see is sandy soil stained red. I squeeze my eyes shut to expel the images and shift my focus to my breathing. The thing the therapist reminded me to do in this type of situation is to get my breathing under control. Once I take charge of my breathing, then I can relax. So that’s what I do. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling until I regain control of my body.

Shit.

The last thing I want is to become another post-traumatic stress disorder statistic. That can’t happen to me. My role is to recognize the symptoms and direct patients to a psychologist. I’m not supposed to be on the receiving end of treatment.

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