Page 34 of Interpreter

Tim lifts the little girl off his shoulders and sets her on her feet. Her tiny boots are pristine against the grass. “Do you want your face painted?” he asks her, not signing. I’ve noticed he does that a lot—not signing. Especially when he’s in crowds. Surely he’s not embarrassed.

“Hola,” I say to the two, holding out the laminated sign of what we can paint—or what we try to paint. No one ever said I was good at art. I’m still shocked I was signed up to face paint. Why couldn’t I have been the kickball ref? Soccer is a huge sport in my country, and kickball seems similar. I could have easily handled volunteering for that. “We can paint anything on this sheet,” I lie, letting Tim know with a smile-cringe that I would be wary about picking something that looks complicated.

The little girl thoroughly inspects the sign while Tim holds it steady. And then, after what must be the most thoughtful selection of the night, she points to something.

Finally. My line is backing up.

“You want an owl?” Tim asks her with a grin.

She shakes her head and points to his cheek.

I gasp and try to smother a laugh when he sits up straight and says with a little surprise in his voice, “Oh no, Uncle Tim doesn’t want his face painted. Just you.”

The little girl shakes her head. I think she’s saying no to the big bad Marine who, clearly, is a sucker for her.

“I don’t want my face painted,” he attempts to negotiate with the toddler once more. Except this time, her lip pokes out and she reaches for his face.

Heaven help me. Gretchen was right. We should have brought a change of clothes. This is beyond porn. This is kill-every-other-guy’s-chances-with-me-ever.

Tim sighs a big, heavy sigh and mumbles. “I can’t believe I’m letting you paint an owl on my face.”

I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or the little girl, but either way, he seems to have succumbed to the fact that he is getting an owl on his insanely square, chiseled jaw.

“Fine. We’ll both have owls,” he agrees, and the little girl claps her hands. But before she is finished celebrating, Tim has her swooped up in his beefy arms and blows raspberries on her sweet little neck. At her bubbly laughter and high-pitched squeals, he pauses. Did he feel her voice like he did in the music room today?

I wouldn’t dare ask, but I really freaking want to. I’m so curious what he feels and how he interprets the sound. I would love to pick his brain for—“Gretchen, stop it. He’s going to see you!” Gretchen is bent over holding her lower stomach, moaning like she’s going to spontaneously have an orgasm in her chair.

“Milah, please tell me you saw that. I think I need a break before these kids witness something life changing.”

I feel my eyes go wide as I look for tiny little ears and a lip-reader that I bet caught that.

“Is she all right?”

Yep. He caught it.

Gretchen springs from her seat when he has the little girl sitting in a chair, facing me. All I can hope is he just saw Gretch bent over like she has gas pains and not interpret her behavior as moaning and about to orgasm out of her thong.

“She’s fine,” I lie, tracking Gretchen’s sprint into the gym. Dammit. Now I am going to have to paint all these faces by myself—or at least until Tim clears out and she brings her ass back here. “Bad sushi.”

“Bad sushi?” he mimics me. Does he think I’m lying? Because I totally am. But what am I supposed to say?“Don’t mind her. You kissing on the baby made her come in her good thong. You have to wash those typesof messes out immediately, so that’s why she sprinted faster than a gazelle to the gym.” Yeah, I don’t think I will introduce my crazy friends just yet. Especially not Felipe. I love them both, but Gretchen is probably the least crazy. I don’t think for one second Felipe would have behaved any better than Gretchen did in this situation. He would have been much worse. He probably would have told Tim he just came in his pants.

“Ah. Well, I hope she feels better.”

He leaves his words dangling out between us, and it’s super freaking awkward. I basically just told him Gretchen had diarrhea. Just wrap me up and call me sexy. I can get all the men with this kind of swagger.

“Who do you have here?” I say, dying to know who this little girl is to Tim. I don’t care if he has a child, but something tells me she isn’t his.

Tim takes a seat in the chair and stands the little girl on his knees. Kill me now, that’s even hotter. “This is Aspen, my niece. Well, not technically. She’s my commander’s little girl but….” He shrugs.

But he loves her like she was his; at least that is what his gaze says as he looks at her with such reverence. He loves this little girl, and I don’t know about other women in the world, but a man loving a child that isn’t his is like finding the last bag of mint M&M’s stashed on a random shelf that someone tossed away at the last minute. Those men are freaking leprechauns. You hear about them, but you never find one at the end of the rainbow.

I look at the man who I just referred to as a little green man and smother a laugh. He’s not small, and he’s definitely not green. But a rarity, he is. “Hi, Aspen,” I say, signing my words too. Tim’s cheek twitches before he clenches it still. Does he not want me to sign here? It’s getting dark, and I’m afraid if I don’t, he’ll have trouble reading my lips.

I watch him for a second, silently assessing him when the little girl signs back to me.“Hello.”

“Oh, she knows sign language!” I don’t know why I’m shocked at this little bit of information. It’s not like Tim’s commander, I think her name is Anniston, wouldn’t teach her daughter sign language living with Tim. But I don’t know, it’s just a little shocking. I’ve seen young babies sign before they could speak, so why am I even analyzing this? Because everything about him is fascinating. Each little piece of himself that he shows me, is awe-inspiring. Who is this man and where has he been?

“A little.” Tim beams, looking all proud and giving the girl a little bounce on his lap that makes her giggle. You can tell she’s adored. I bet she’s one spoiled little girl in the best way—not like the little shitty spoiled kids that need to be told no occasionally.

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