Page 18 of Legacy
Aarabelle
A friendship with Luke Hart is easy, like Sunday morning. If Sunday morning was lava meant to melt your skin off if you touch it. The best way to explain it is the way he looks at me gives me a combination of butterflies and hives. I want to challenge him to an arm-wrestling match and lick his dimples at the same time. Calling what I feel for Luke confusing would be misleading. What I feel for him is disingenuous, deceitful…incendiary.
Luke’s family left about fifteen minutes ago, after dinner and dessert was over. I tried to leave at the same time, but he asked me to stay. I did. That’s why I’m torn. I put myself in this position. Gave him the power by saying yes. That’s a singular thing that wouldn’t be a big deal for most, but I am not in the category with most. I have rules now. Ones that are supposed to protect me from the men I’ll be surrounded by near constantly.
We’re sitting in this weird glass hallway that connects one side of the house to the kitchen, a bowl of pistachios between us, watching the sunset. You can hear a pin drop, or rather, every single crunch as we chew. I dispose of a shell into a second bowl and take another. I focus on the edges, rubbing my thumb across them. I need to leave now.
“Listen, Hart. Thanks for having me over today. I appreciate it. It’s probably best if I get going now. There’s no way the wankers are still waiting to take a picture now.” I uncross and cross my legs and pop the pistachio in my mouth.
“Best for who if you leave?”
He knows the rules. Probably better than I know them. Lt. Williams had signs made. Permanent ones that expressed the new code of ethics. I had my own female housing section on base during training. Ideally one day, it will be filled with women, but I was the only one in the huge space. There’s a target on my back. Everyone is looking for a reason to trip me up. How ironic would it be if they didn’t need a reason? If I couldn’t keep my emotions in check around a stupid man? I can’t be the reason future women are frowned upon. “Oh, you know?” I leave it open-ended because maybe he is just being friendly, and I’m the one twisting this into something it’s not.
“I’d invite any other Team guy over. This isn’t weird. Unless it’s weird for you,” he says, giving me a pointed look. His eyes are this icy blue color that’s hard to describe without seeing them in person. I’d call them White Walker eyes, but they crinkle when he smiles, so they’re friendlier.
Again, I remind myself of hot lava, and clear my throat. “Of course, it’s not. Just a learning curve, I guess. There are so many guidelines, I’m not sure if me being here, alone with you, breaks one.”
“We aren’t alone,” Hart growls. “I always have security on-premises. Jonas has been running security at this house for years.” He shrugs like it settles the conversation. He eats a few at once and misses the bowl when he tosses the shells. I pick them up and drop them in.
“Tell me something about the Teams that you think I wouldn’t know.” The least I can do is drive this back into familiar territory. Shed the professional light back onto a man that appears in a new, more attractive, oh-shit-what-is-wrong-with-me way.
“You asking me to tell you secrets?” Hart smiles widely, too wide. I turn my face up. The glass is above us, too. Like a long fish tank.
Hugging my knees, I pull them as close to my body as I can. He loaned me a pair of sweatpants, or rather, I found them in the room I took the bathing suit off in. The word “NAVY” is down one side in gold. My chin on my knees, I turn to look at him.
He’s staring at me. Again, in one of those ‘swallow you whole’ kind of ways. Like no one else has looked at me before. Not even Henry, I think. But then I chastise myself for thinking about my ex and for lumping Luke Hart into the same category as a former relationship.
“You got nothing for me?”
He smiles and looks up to the glass ceiling and back to me. “Did you know that SEALs aren’t real seals?”
“Har, har, har,” I retort, rolling my eyes. “Clever. You don’t think I’ve heard that a million times since birth?”
He sighs long and violently, not taking his gaze from mine. “No matter what happens. I need you to know I have your back.”
I avoid telling him,because he has to. It’s part of the SEAL creed and nod instead.
“Because the hard part is just beginning,” he adds, tone lower.
Groaning, I lay back and look up at the sky. “I’m well aware that most of the guys think I’m a charity case to satisfy the masses.” He stays seated but turns his head to look at me. “Which is why being here alone with you probably isn’t a good idea.”
He swallows hard. “Offering friendship, Little Dempsey. Friendship. No one is going to think I touched a hair on your head. Trust me.” He stands. My heart sinks.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m not your type,” I mutter, half hoping he doesn’t hear me. I hate that I spoke the self-conscious words because I’m not that kind of girl. This is what Henry Durnin has done to me. I crack my neck and adjust the oversized t-shirt he also lent me. It saysThe deeper you fish, the more they wiggle. It has King Neptune and a busty mermaid screen printed on the back.
Hart turns on his heel, leans in close, mouth so close I can feel his breaths on my cheek. He’s not smiling, and he does look like a White Walker right now. My heart pounds, and I feel my lungs restricting, not from my held breath but anticipation. “No, Little Dempsey. Because my life depends on not touching a hair on your head.”
Well, that’s theatrical. True, but spoken in a melodramatic way. One reason I’ve always felt I fit in better with men than women is because I have a no-nonsense attitude. I’m the least dramatic woman I know. I cut it straight. Clearing my throat, I try to think of how I deal with my friends who like to play dramatics as sport. “Hart,” I whisper. “You don’t have to pretend for my ego. I’m good at taking criticism. It would actually make it easier if you said I wasn’t your type.”
He backs up a step, brow wrinkled. “Good one,” he says, but confusion softens his features. “Wait, you’re being serious?”
I huff. “I mean, I know I’m not your type because everyone talks and well, look at me.”
He tilts his head to the side, like a confused dog. “I’m looking, not sure how you wouldn’t be my type.” He furrows his brow. “And what exactly do people say about me?”
“You want the long version or the short version?” I ask, ignoring his first statement and honing in on the actual question.
“Short.” Hart folds his arms, and I try not to look at his biceps.
