Page 10 of A Spark of Luck
“Thanking you.”
“For?”
“Leg is working great, Doc.” He lifted the bag. “I was at the mess, heard the news, and figured maybe you needed a boost.”
The fact he cared skittered down nerves gone haywire with his presence. She narrowed her eyes. “So you thought you’d feed me?”
“We were first in line for chow.” He gave her an easy shove. She sat rather than argue. The scent of him – outdoorsy earth mixed with masculine sweat and gun metal – wove around her. Typical smells but refined by presence. She forced herself not to sink deeper into the sensations.
The bag rattled and she looked up. “You’re about to fall asleep, Doc.”
“Escape mechanism mostly, but today I’m way past tired.”
He handed her the wrapped sandwich. “Ham and cheese.”
“Where’s yours?” She took the food in hand and unwrapped the offering.
“I ate at the mess.”
“And then went back for my sandwich?”
“Pretty much. There’s a cookie in here, too. Waited until the guys left and did a fast gathering for you.”
“So no one knows?”
“No, Doc. Gossip around here kills careers.”
“Don’t I know that one.” The sandwich smelled appetizing. Not what she expected. She hadn’t connected with meals for a while. She took a bite, tasted the mayo and mustard – her favorite with ham – and groaned. “How did you know I like ham?”
“I didn’t. Food is food in this environment. I got lucky I guess.”
She studied his face, expecting charm or smiles, but got neither. All serious, he pulled out his knife and carved the apple where he stood.
She patted the bed. “I don’t bite if you won’t.”
“I didn’t want you to think that this was anything but honest looking after. We sat in the mess long enough to see some of the hospital personnel. You weren’t among them. So, I gathered, checked the hospital, and then tracked your quarters.”
“How did you do that?”
“You don’t want to know.” He grimaced. “Info stays with me. I know how tough this place is.”
“And if I’d eaten already?”
He shrugged, easing onto the bed, and leaving a foot between them. “I would have eaten it. No need to waste food.”
“Personal philosophy or military one?”
He stayed silent so long; she couldn’t figure out the nerve she’d hit.
“Both. But mostly know from the field that fresh food beats Meals Ready to Eat hands down.”
“I agree. MRE’s aren’t my favorite either.” Cait rotated her shoulders to loosen the stiffness and ate the rest of the sandwich. The lack of conversation should have jarred, but she was too tired to care. He seemed comfortable with it. He handed her apple slices, focused on the task.
“How long have you been in the Navy?”
“Twelve years, five enlisted, degree earned, then officer school, then SEALs training.”
“I have eight. Did medical school first before joining. How many times have you been here?” She lifted a finger to indicate the camp.
