Page 12 of Ripped & Shipped
To top this off, he’s wearing the heck out of a faded, navy blue T-shirt and he’s topping off the scrumptious sundae with a backward baseball cap, which somehow makes his steely blue eyes more pronounced and his full lips more of a focal point. Not that I’m thinking about his lips. I’m totally not.
I’m half-tempted to whip out my phone to film Chris, just to get a rise out of him, but it’s been a long day, and my next few posts need to stay strategically focused on a slow reveal of my collab with Drake.
Just the thought of that project brings another smile to my face.
Chris looks like he’s in a debate with himself. Or maybe I’m just reading into things. The man is like a blank canvas, people could project all sorts of misguided interpretations onto him. He leaves so much to the imagination.
Would it hurt him to be mildly friendly? I’m not saying we should be actual friends. We’re obviously not about to plan a day trip to the reservoir together. But would it kill him to grin?
“Steak, huh?” Chris nearly grumbles as he slowly ambles toward me.
His voice is so quiet and low I almost wonder if I imagined him echoing my dinner menu.
“Yes. I’m celebrating.”
I do a little shimmy of my hips, accompanied with jazz hands, mostly because I know my over-the-topness gets under his skin. I don’t know why I want to get under Chris’ skin. Maybe just because he’s so cantankerous and outwardly judgy. He ought to shimmy in the grocery store a little more. It would do him some good to let loose and have a little fun for a change.
Why do I care?
I don’t.
Chris tips his chin in acknowledgement of my celebration. A small smile almost cracks onto his face. I saw it whether he’d ever admit it or not. News flash: he won’t. But I saw him get a kick out of my antics and I’m counting it as a win.
“What are you celebrating?”
“Am I so interesting to you?” I ask, poking the bear even further. “You want to know what I’m celebrating?”
Don’t ask me why I like shoving a stick into the hornet’s nest where he’s concerned. It’s like he’s got one of those signs on his back that boys used to tape to girls’ shirts in elementary school saying,Kick me.
“I don’t know if interesting is the word I’d use,” he says in such a blasé tone, I almost believe he couldn’t care less.
Chris shakes his head and starts to move past me. But then he stops, directly across from me. We’re less than a foot away from one another. I can see the green ring around the iris in his eyes. Huh. I never noticed that before. But have we ever been this close? I don’t think so. Chris’ hand reaches out toward my face. Is he going to touch me? Oh. My. Gosh. What is going on?
Before I can think another thought, Chris reaches past me and grabs a box of instant oats—the kind with no flavoring or sugar—and then he plops that box into his cart.
His scent lingers behind him. He smells musky, like a hike in the woods on a fresh spring day. But then there’s this hint of oranges and coffee, like we’re eating breakfast around a campfire. I’m curled up in a warm flannel blanket without a care in the world while he adds another log to the fire and leans back in his canvas chair. His morning hairdo is mussed and unruly, and he smiles across the flames with a look that says he’s been wanting me for years.
Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.
Hold that mental stagecoach. Get off at the next station and run. No one’s going overnight camping with the emotionally constipated soldier. And the day he’d look at me like he wanted to kiss me would be the actual end of the earth, involving a scenario where we were the last two people on the planet and our entire species depended on us dating for survival. It would sort of be a zombie-apocalyptic situation, hopefully minus the zombies. Even then, Chris would probably rather die than entertain the idea of getting friendly with me.
Which, for the record, is fine by me. More than fine. The last thing I need in my life is an attraction to a man who mostly hates me.
I probably just need a date. Or steak. Definitely steak and potatoes. And oranges. No. No oranges. I’ll bring home cherry pie filling and vanilla ice cream—two things that distinctly do not smell like Christopher St. James.
“Plain oatmeal,” I tease, trying to regain my equilibrium and exit my little fantasy woods excursion once and for all. “Aren’t you quite the breakfast chef?”
“It’s a great quick breakfast. Throw in a protein shake and you’re good to go.”
“And a Pop-Tart,” I say, grabbing a box of the ones calledWildlicious—a jelly filled tart with blue and purple frosting—and tossing it into his cart.
Even I can admit they look so artificial they must be gross. Though: Can you really go wrong with Pop-Tarts?
“Man can not live on oats alone, Soldier. You need a little color in your diet. A little fun for fun’s sake.”
“Fun, huh?” His lips spread into a thin line as he smoothly removes the box of offending Pop-Tarts and places them in my cart.
“Yes,” I say. “Fun. It’s when people let loose. Laugh. Take a breather from constantly standing guard and following all the rules. You know?”
