Page 6 of All Along The Watchtower

“I hate you both.” Lindsay peeked through her fingers. “Besides, that was forever ago. I’m sure he doesn’t even remember.”

“Uh-huh.” Astrid’s knowing look said everything. “And you volunteering to handle all his onboarding paperwork has nothing to do with those memories.”

Lindsay’s blush deepened. “I’m being professional.”

“Professionally thirsty maybe,” Astrid muttered.

“Speaking of thirsty,” Lindsay dabbed her napkin at the corner of her mouth, “did you see all the Wayward Sons are home?”

My hand tightened on the edge of the table. I forced my fingers to relax.

“God, yes.” Astrid fanned herself. “Whatever the Navy’s doing, it’s working. Did you see Rios’s arms?”

“Please, Ford is where it’s at.” Lindsay sighed. “Those tattoos.”

My chest squeezed in a familiar vise grip. I pushed back from the table, pasting on what I hoped passed for a neutral expression. “I should check on the Gray Beards before they start arm wrestling again.”

“Oh, come on, stay.” Lindsay caught my wrist. “When was the last time we just sat and dished?”

I extracted myself as gently as possible. Years of practice had taught me how to dodge these conversations with surgical precision. “Some of us have to work. Rain check?”

The truth was, I couldn’t bear to hear his name, let alone discuss how good he looked. No one had ever cut me as deep as Ford Donoghue. Not my father, who’d dropped my mom and me, and disappeared. Not the mom who’d chosen drugs and addiction over me.

That was why I kept my relationships light, casual, and firmly time-limited these days. Three months max, no exceptions. No one got close enough to see past my walls. No one got the chance to break what I’d spent years carefully piecing back together. And, so far as I was concerned, no one ever would again.

CHAPTER 3

FORD

The aroma of Mimi’s famous French toast filled our kitchen, mixed with the sharp scent of coffee and the salt breeze drifting through the open windows. Didn’t matter how cold it was, we were gonna get fresh ocean air to start the day. I slouched at the counter, watching my moms move around each other in their usual morning dance.

“You’re sure you can’t stay another day?” Mimi flipped the bread on the griddle, her halo of natural curls bouncing as she turned to face me. “I barely got to show you my new pottery pieces.”

“Those training exercises wait for no man.” Mom grabbed her travel mug, briefcase already by the door for court. “Though I wish they would.”

“I know, I know.” I snagged a piece of bacon from the plate—a blue and gray swirled glaze that was also one of Mimi’s creations. “Trust me, if I could stretch these days out longer, I would.”

Mom leaned in to kiss Mimi, and I felt a glow in my chest. Their open affection had never been a source of discomfort for me. The fact that my moms loved and adored each other had always been a gift in my book. They were an odd couple,the statuesque Viking of a woman with the curvy, pint-sized hippie artist she’d met in the French Quarter years ago. But they worked. They’d not only given me a rock-solid foundation growing up, but they’d frequently served as the same for my friends who weren’t so fortunate in their parentage. I didn’t mind sharing. In this house, it was always the more the merrier.

Mom pressed a kiss to my temple on her way past. “Just try to swing back through before you ship out again?”

“I’ll do my best.” The words caught in my throat, thick with everything I couldn’t quite express. We all knew ‘best’ might not be enough, but they never made me feel guilty about the duty that so often took me far from home. That unconditional support was just one more way they showed their love.

Mimi slid a plate in front of me, the French toast artfully arranged with fresh berries and dusted with powdered sugar, just like she’d done since I was a kid. “Eat up, baby. You’ve got a long drive ahead.” Her warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she watched me, probably remembering all the other breakfasts we’d shared in this kitchen over the years.

“Thanks, Mimi.” I dug in, savoring each bite. No one made it quite like her, with that hint of vanilla and nutmeg she’d never reveal the ratio of. Even after all my years in the Navy, tasting food from ports around the world, nothing compared to her French toast. It was home on a plate.

“Your mama and I worry, you know.” She settled across from me with her own coffee, wrapping her hands around the pot-bellied mug that was one of her most popular styles.

“I know you do.” I reached across to squeeze her arm. “But I’m good at what I do. And I’ve got the best team watching my back. Plus, nobody’s coming after the supply guy.” My role as a supply corps officer was a little more complicated than that, but nothing for them to be concerned about.

Mom checked her watch and grabbed the worn leather briefcase she’d been carrying to court for as long as I could remember. “I’ve got to run. Court waits for no woman either.”

I shoved back from the table and rose to pull her in for a squeeze.

She hugged me tight. Though I was a full head taller these days, sometimes I still felt like the gangly teenager who’d shot up six inches in one summer. “Drive safe. Call when you get there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I held on an extra moment, breathing in her signature scent of lavender and sandalwood and imprinting it on my memory to last until I came home again. “Love you, Mom.”

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