Page 42 of The Savior

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Left… left… left, right, left.

Liam didn’t know why his old drill instructor’s monotone bark came back to mind as thunder rumbled in the distance. Maybe because he’d teased Chelsea earlier while they walked down the same path. Or maybe he needed a simple way to keep his head clear. The night was over, and despite a few moments of unsettling clarity, it had been a good time, exactly what he needed to blow off tension.

With the marching words playing in his head, he put one foot in front of the other on the worn path as they returned to Julia’s—or rather,Chelsea’s—condominium complex.

He swallowed hard, uneasy about the raw past and the new interest that had caught him unaware. What was going on?

Hell if he knew. But those few seconds he’d had Chelsea wrapped in his arm were the only sane ones he could remember recently.

His eyes drifted down Chelsea’s back as they marched along the path. Her butt swayed, not as if she were swaggering or shaking it, but just the hypnotic cadence of her hips and the enticing curve of her ass.

His mind flashed, and he wondered what was under her pants. He pictured dark lace underwear that stretched across a backside he could hold onto. A hot sweat broke out on his chest despite the cool, windy night that promised storms later that night.

Liam tried to ignore thoughts about Chelsea’s ass. He didn’t need to picture her—not naked, not clothed, and not in lacy undergarments that gave a tease about what was beneath.

“Shit,” he muttered and focused on the comfort of boot-camp ditties.

Don’t stop. Don’t ask. Don’t think.He would keep moving no matter the questions or discomfort. If he could do that in boot camp, he could do that walking across a damn path.

Her dark hair hung below her shoulders. It swayed in the same rhythm as her ass, and he pinched his eyes shut. It wasn’t as if she were wearing anything new or different. Any time he’d seen her after work, she wore the exact same thing, a dark jacket over a blouse and pants, almost like a uniform.

“Why do you wear the same clothes every day?” he asked, wanting to focus on anything but how everything on her swayed.

She turned abruptly, and he bumped into her.

“Shit, sorry,” he said.

Chelsea balanced, bracing on his forearm, then jumped back as if she’d touched fire. “I don’t.”

He eyed her clothes, unable to see detail in the dark but recalled every time he could. “It looks the same.”

She shifted uncomfortably and shrugged. “You’re now a fashionista to boot?”

His eyebrows pinched. “To boot, what?”

“Military something or another.” She ticked off a finger. “Dart master and, now, fashionista.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. And I’m a contractor.”

“Whatever that means.”

Chelsea turned back to the path, and he fell into stride next to her. She had a point. His job was hard to define. He was more like a military freelancer for special teams, and he liked it that way.

“Is your Glock part of your uniform?” he asked.

She glanced at him and shook her head. “Not necessarily.”

“You didn’t change before you went out tonight, but no gun?”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’m a military something or another.”

Chelsea chuckled. “Interesting job talent.”

“I’m known for a variety of skills.”

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