Page 7 of Forever in the Country

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Silently cursing, I resist the urge to slam my phone face down on the counter.

“Why are you so angry?” a feminine voice asks, and my eye twitches at the sound.

“I’m not.”

“Well, you look angry,” the blonde says from beside me. I’m sure she’s pretty but I haven’t given her more than a glance. More to the point, she’s one strong inhale from rubbing her tits on my forearm, and I want to crawl out of my skin.

“I always look like this,” I deadpan but it’s the truth. She grimaces.

“Well, maybe if you smiled, more people would want to talk to you.”

“I can’t get rid of the people who want to talk to me now,” I say pointedly because I’m well past the give-a-fuck quotient of my night. With a huff and a flip of her hair, she flounces off the barstool, blessedly leaving me alone.

Everyone is so quick to put a label on you whether it’s medical, mental, or physical, and all I want is just five minutes of peace where I don’t need to convince anyone that everything is fine.

Because it is.

I’m still adjusting to being home. To being a civilian. It’s not just something that happens overnight. That part of my life is over, but it doesn’t mean I can just flip a switch and forget that I lived and breathed the military every second of the day for years.

A twinge in my calf never fails to remind me of how my time ended. The shrapnel that ripped through my flesh could have been worse. I was scarred but physically still whole. Hell, there were guys out there missing toes from mowing the lawn that had lost more than I had.

I didn’t regret my time in the Marine Corps, and I didn’t regret being home. I just wanted to do it on my own terms. My whole life has come with a contingency plan and it’s fucking exhausting. I’ve never been able to just sit back and enjoy the moment because every single one has come with an expiration date.

A warm hand lands on my forearm accompanied by the smell of frosting and sugar. My whole body relaxes even though my muscles flex under her touch.

“Hey,” she says as she places her wallet thing on the bar and settles onto the stool next to me. I nod as she flags the bartender down and orders a glass of wine and then looks at the TV.

I’ve been here for twenty minutes and I have no idea what’s on. My hand clenches around my glass of soda before Rhea’s hand comes back to rest on my forearm. Her thumb moves back and forth but she doesn’t say anything—doesn’t stop until I’ve relaxed again.

“Do you think you can help me move stuff around in the walk-in freezer tomorrow?”

I nod. “Of course.” She doesn’t need my help but she knows I don’t do well sitting idle. She probably also doesn’t want me rearranging her baking supplies without supervision.

Again.

Tanner and I have a million balls in the air, but we’re in a holding pattern for one thing or another. Knowing our luck, we’ll get approvals, material, and dogs all on the same day and then have to scramble to catch up again.

“Thanks.” She smiles and it feels like the sun is warming my face. She’s all that’s right in the world, and I’m a lucky son of a bitch for even having a moment to bask in her light. “Oh, I almost forgot!”

She pulls out a small square of fabric and places it in front of me on the bar.

“What’s this?” I ask as I unfold it.

“I saw it online. It’s a fabric book cover.” When I just stare at her she says, “You said you like the paperbacks sometimes but don’t want to take the sexy man covers out in public.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She continues like she didn’t hear me. “So I thought you could try this. Still get the books you want and be free to read wherever, then take that baby off when you get home. Like taking off your bra after a long day—there’s no better feeling.”

“I don’t wear a bra,” I deadpan, and I fight like hell to not think about her full, luscious tits that are barely peeking out of her shirt. So much Goddamn temptation that can never be mine.

She rolls her eyes like I’m not half hard thinking about her taking her bra off. “Fine, your vest then. You wore one of those, right?”

Did I ever. And she’s right—nothing better than peeling that fucker off in the middle of the desert, drenched head to toe.

“Yeah,” I say without elaborating.

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