Page 5 of Under One Roof

She hesitates for only a moment, and I try my best not to watch her small tits jiggle as she rearranges her bags, handing me her duffel, but not giving up her purse or guitar.

Smart girl.

Back in the truck, I set her bag on the rear seats then glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I run a hand over my hair and face then tug at my clothes as if I’m some young buck, vying for her attention.

Jesus Christ.

She’s got to be more than a decade younger than me and in need of help, not some guy falling all over his damn self.

I’m such an asshole. But when she looks up at me with those big brown eyes and fixes her obscenely puffy lips into a pout that’s half misery and half hope, I have to fight my instinct to take her in my lap and tell her I’ll take care of everything from now on. All she has to do is say yes.

Instead, I shift my attention down to the guitar case she sets between her golden, tanned legs. Seriously. Why is she wearing shorts right now?

With a stiff shake of my head, I study the black case. It’s well-worn. Well-loved, too, from the way she won’t let go of it. She takes a deep breath and attempts to tame her caramel-colored hair, but it’s a mess. She’s a mess.

And so fucking cute.

I slant my gaze out the windshield, refusing to give in to any more of this middle school crap. I’m forty-two years old, a fire captain and a former Navy SEAL. I don’t have crushes on girls.

Especially ones with sad eyes and stickers all over her guitar case, including but not limited to anAwkward as Flockflamingo, a trash bin on fire with the wordsThis Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna Let it Shineabove it, and another which readsDaddies Do It Better. That particular one has me pinching the bridge of my nose.

Next to me, she clears her throat. “So, I guess…” She holds out her hand to me. “My name’s Andi. Nice to meet you, Captain.”

I stare at her hand for longer than socially acceptable and only take it when she giggles nervously. Her fingers are fine-boned with chipped polish on her nails, and a small, colorful hummingbird is inked on her wrist. I draw my thumb back and forth over it before letting go.

She skims her own thumb over the tattoo and offers me a quiet explanation. “For my grandmother. She loved them.”

“That’s…nice,” I say because I’m a fucking idiot. “Are you close?”

“We were.”

I wince. “I’m sorry.”

She keeps her gaze on her guitar case, where she scratches at a rainbow sticker. “Thanks. It was…” Her throat works on a swallow as she gathers herself. I’ve never been a particularly patient person, but I am today. Or, at least, I am for her. Because I sit in silence as she licks those lips I can’t stop staring at and takes a breath that makes her chest rise, and I force my eyes away from her peaked nipples.

An entire day passes before she finally says, “She was sick, and whenever I talked to her, she kept telling me tostay, stay, stay, don’t come home, and then one day I called, and she wasn’t there.” Her chin trembles, voice cracks. “And now I can’t face going home without her there.” She shakes her head, still refusing to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry. It was a few months ago, but it feels…fresh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Before I even know what I’m doing, I catch the lone tear on her cheek with my thumb then stroke her jaw, gently prodding her to look at me. The tip of her nose is red, her eyes are wet, and it inexplicably kills me.

Feel-her-pain-in-my-own-chest kind of kills me.

And I fucking hate it.

Because I don’t do this. I don’t do feelings, and the few that I do have are secured tightly under lock and key, buried beneath the floorboards of my skeleton.

I can’t give in to emotion, not with all the shit I’ve already been through and experience every day. If I did, I wouldn’t have been able to last so long in the SEALs or put on my uniform every day to fight fires. I’ve seen more death than any person ever needs to and have been responsible for saving more lives than I can reasonably count up to, so I keep my mind tidy and the organ beating inside my chest on a leash.

Life is too short and too precious to fuck it all up with something so capricious asfeelings.

Feelings make people do stupid shit.

But here I am, doing stupid shit.

I hand Andi a tissue and brush her hair away from her face. It’s drying in waves that tempt me to weave my fingers into it, so I cross my arms, keeping myself from doing any more stupid shit.

Unfortunately, my mouth doesn’t get the message. “I didn’t come home for a long time after my mom died.”

Andi lifts her head, her eyes full of compassion, her face full of understanding. Before she can say anything, I tell her, “It was a long time ago, and I stayed away until I couldn’t any longer.”

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