Page 34 of Building Courage

She needed to put aside her lingering worry over Martin’s situation and enjoy being here with Tucker.

For three long years, she’d been dead to any response to the opposite sex. But she wasn’t numb to Tucker. As she exited the car and walked to the front door, she felt the hypersensitive quickening of desire sensitizing intimate areas of her body. He couldn’t know what kind of response she felt toward him, and she wasn’t brave enough to act on it…yet. But she could still enjoy the rush. She rang the doorbell, and after a brief pause, the door opened.

Tucker’s smile had her heart tripping in response.

Chapter 11

‡

She’d brought dessert, but she looked more appetizing than the food. The green leggings made her legs look incredibly long. The summer sweater mirrored the color in her cheeks and hit her mid-thigh. One sleeve slid artfully off her shoulder. There was no tell-tale bra strap, so she wasn’t wearing one. Just that and the thought of what her breast might feel like in his hand had him growing hard.

“Come into the kitchen. Dinner’s almost ready.” He balanced the desert box in one hand while he motioned her to lead the way with the other.

Unable to resist touching her, Tucker plucked her purse strap from her shoulder, and Brynn pivoted toward him, startled. Pretending not to notice, he slid the strap down her arm and hooked it over the back of one of the chairs.

He kept his tone light. “You’re the only woman I know who carries a purse the size of a greeting card. Most lug around a suitcase.” He set the bakery box on the counter, cracked it open, and hummed in appreciation. Cheesecake! His favorite.

She cleared her throat. “I have to carry around thirty pounds of equipment at every shoot. I don’t have room for another bag. As long as I have my ID, debit, credit, and insurance cards, some cash, some lip gloss, and my phone, I’m good to go.” She touched the strap briefly. “This one converts to a fanny pack so I can attach it to my body while I work.”

He shook his head in wonder as he moved to the stove and stirred the chicken one last time then turned it off to let it rest while he retrieved the vegetables he’d marinated from the refrigerator. “My grandmother has this big bag the size of a truck tire that loops over her shoulder. She could pull an eight-place setting of China out of that thing. It’s a miracle she doesn’t have one leg shorter than the other from carrying the weight of it.”

Brynn laughed, the sound just as sexy as the husky rasp of her speaking voice. He wondered if her hoarseness was natural or because of vocal cord damage. If it was from an injury, how had it happened? Maybe when she trusted him more, she’d tell him.

While instructing her in diving, he remained professional and only had momentary reasons to touch her. But this was a social situation, their second, and one where he hoped to get to know her better and guide things to something more personal. But she was so wary.

Tucker reached for plates from a cabinet.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

“Do you want wine, beer, or sweet tea?” he asked.

“Sweet tea for me.”

“You can get two glasses from that cabinet over there,” he said, pointing. “There’s an ice dispenser in the fridge door and tea inside.”

She made quick work of that while he dished up their plates with rice and spicy chicken stir fry with peanut sauce.

When he placed her plate on the table, she sighed and slipped into her seat. “This looks restaurant-worthy.” She picked up her fork, took a bite, chewed, hummed, and swallowed. “It’s really good.”

“Thanks.” He placed the bowl of pickled vegetables on the table between them.

“I cook enough to survive. I can’t do anything like this,” she said.

He smiled. “What’s your specialty?”

She frowned as though giving the question some thought. “I can heat soup.”

He laughed. “I don’t think you’re that inept. You’ve traveled the country, promoted yourself and your talents successfully, and you’ve carved out a business using your skills. If cooking isn’t your thing, that’s no big deal.”

She smiled. “It’s one of those female identity roles that people just expect women to accept. My mom’s practically a chef. Besides her Cordon Bleu recipes, she bakes all sorts of breads and fancy desserts. I’m her only girl. She’s always been disappointed that I’d rather be out on the lake in a kayak or with a camera in my hand than in the kitchen kneading dough.” She’d made that disappointment brutally obvious.

“You’re your own person, not an extension of your parents. My dad couldn’t boil water. I learned to cook basic meals so we wouldn’t starve to death. Then my grandmother moved in, and I didn’t have to cook so much. It wasn’t until I became a SEAL that I started to really cook. Eating at the mess hall while living in base housing is all right. Eating MREs during deployment leaves a lot to be desired. They give you the calories you need to get the job done, but they also make you really appreciate a home-cooked meal.”

She ate with relish for several minutes, then said, “It’s eggs. My specialty is eggs. I can fix any number of omelets, frittatas, or quiche. I had an electric skillet I carried around in the trunk of my car when I was traveling. Eating out on the road can get expensive, but as long as you have eggs, cheese, and a few vegetables, you can make a quick meal.”

She was finally opening up. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. “What inspired you to go on the road?”

She reached for her glass and took a drink. She seemed to hesitate, then finally said, “When I was twenty-one, I got involved with a man I thought was a nice guy. I was young and naïve, and I stupidly missed the red flags that were later waved in my face. After six weeks of dating, I broke it off and walked away. Afterward, I needed some distance from the whole thing, so I left and worked on my career.”

---