Swap Out (9 page)

“That stuff you said, about the palm reading…” She crosses her arms, and I lean casually against the doorframe because the mood swings are definitely still a go, but at least with her arms like that I know she’s not going to swing again. “Was that true?”

Slowly, and seriously, I nod. “Yes, you will make a lot of money in your lifetime.”

She turns to go, and I blink in shock. Really? That was it?

I don’t even think before calling after her, “You hungry?”

Zoe pauses, peeking back at me over her shoulder, her lips pulled up into a grin. “I’m sorry, I must be hearing things. Did you just ask me to have dinner with you?”

“You
are
hearing things,” I say, then cross my arms. “I asked if you were hungry. Because if you are, then you should stop by the KFC on your way home.”

I step inside and shut the door, waiting a full two seconds before I crack it open and find her staring in shock.

“Gotcha.”

“You are such a jerk!” she exclaims, but at least she’s laughing.

“Eat dinner with me,” I say more softly, then nod my head towards my kitchen. “Got something you’re gonna love.”

She arches her eyebrow, crossing her arms. “It’s not stir fry again, is it?”

I shake my head, goosebumps racing down my spine from the thought of what happened in my bedroom the last time my wok was on my stove. So not helping my current predicament. And I know there’s no way in hell I’d be lucky enough to have her undressed tonight, but Christ, do I want to have her that way.

Everything about her is soft and luscious, and she always is, but now it’s more. Everything is just
more
. I’m drunk on the sight of her hair wrapped in a bun, a pen sticking through it and a few stray strands just straggling down by her face, begging to be tucked back. And my heart is racing at the two buttons between her breasts that are being tested, open enough that I know her bra is lacy and black and overflowing with creamy skin.

At this moment I would trade every jump, every beautiful splitter hand crack, just for the chance to slip her out of buttons, hooks and zippers. And I’d do it
slow
. My calloused fingertips grazing her skin, taking my time while unhooking each fastening before folding the collar of her black silk blouse off her shoulders. Kissing my way down her chest and stomach, tasting every inch of her until I’m kneeling; using the lightest touch imaginable as I draw down her skirt and smooth my palms over her thighs and calves, cradling her delicate ankles when I disappear her high heels.

Heat pools in my spine and my pulse speeds, because something about her body is calling to me, proud and coy and sexy and deliciously feminine, begging me to claim it. Reminding me that I already have.

“
Luca
,” she says firmly, and my eyes snap up to hers from where they were devouring her body. The corner of her lips pulls up, and she shakes her head before lifting her chin. “You get dinner, but I’m
not
on the menu.”

She strides toward me and I grin and step aside, sinking in the aroma of white tea and ginger that is warm whispers, long legs and sharp fingernails. I shut the door, my gaze locked on the black zipper trailing down the back of her skirt while she stops to set her purse on my kitchen counter, and I quickly bite my knuckle to keep my moan silenced, hurriedly shoving my hands in my pockets when she turns to arch a knowing eyebrow at me.

“Who said anything about a menu?” I tease casually, and she daintily snorts and then steps out of her stilettos.

I’ll never make it through tonight.

I stride towards Zoe, and her eyes narrow playfully as she takes a step back. But without hesitating I grab her hands and begin walking backwards into my kitchen, pulling her along with me.

“If you thought I wasn’t going to put you to work, you’re wrong,” I say seriously and she giggles, letting me stop her in place by the counter.

“I’m
not
cooking.”

“We’ll see about that,” I mutter, then grab an apron from a drawer.

“Did you hit your head on a table today?” she says as I hook the strings around her neck, tying them a little tighter. And I can’t help but to smirk as I take the ones dangling by her side, drawing them around her waist as I stay in front of her.

I scoot a little closer to watch my hands from over her shoulder, and she sucks in a breath when mine tickles her neck; her chest rapidly brushing against my own as I loosely tie a bow over her lower back.

I lean back and grin at the blush in her cheeks, then take her wrist in my hands.

“No, Luca!” she says all panicked when I unbutton the cuff of her sleeve, her other hand grasping mine desperately to keep it in place.

My eyes soften as I tilt my head, then slowly, I sneak my fingertips under the open cuff and brush the three jagged lines stretching vertically down her wrist.

She looks away, and I roll up her sleeve to her elbow, my voice calm and secure.

“Scars can be beautiful, Zoe. They mean you’re strong, that you survived.”

She shakes her head, and I move to her other wrist. This time she doesn’t stop me and when I finish securing the silk, I pull her into me: guiding her arms around my waist and my palm cupping the back of her neck as she hides her face in my shoulder.

“Besides,” I whisper, “just because it was dark didn’t mean I never saw these.”

She gasps, and I let her lower back go to reach behind my own and find one of her hands, my fingers lacing through hers as I dip my head and let my cheek rest against Zoe’s.

“Do my scars bother you?” I ask, and she faintly shakes her head no, her temple leaning more securely against mine. “’Cause you think they’re
sexy
, don’t you?” I tease, instantly filled with relief when I hear her soft laugh.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of answering that question.”

“Freak,” I breathe, and she giggles again. But when she follows it with a yawn I gasp in mocking horror, leaning back to see her face. “You can’t go to sleep! You have to cook me dinner!”

“What?” she asks, her face lit up in a grin. “What part of this arrangement includes
me
cooking for
you
?”

“The part where you worked my ass into the ground today,” I say and turn her around towards the counter, hearing her snort as I look over her shoulder.

“Do you ever stop complaining?”

“First step,” I say, ignoring her, then remember and grab her hips, pulling back and around towards the sink.

“Luca, you cannot just drag me around your kitchen!” She laughs, and I turn on the water and then wash both our hands before drying them off, Zoe just letting me maneuver her like I’m her personal puppeteer or something. The thought sends blood rushing below my beltline with all the other fun and delicious things we could do with her in such a willing and compliant mood, and she jumps with a squeak. “Luca!”

“Hazard of the trade,” I say without apology, and she peeks at me over her shoulder.

“Washing your hands, huh? That’s what does the trick?”

“More like whose hands I’m washing,” I say and wink, then spin her around toward the other counter again. “All right,” I say and hand her the mini-mace. “This is only to be used with the utmost vigorousness, while cursing the name of every employee who has scratched a table or competitor who has dared to underbid you.”

“And what am I attacking?” she asks eagerly, and I reach around her side and lay out the skirt steak I had already wrapped in wax paper.

“This monstrous, bigoted, government and military hating—”

“I’m a Republican,” she says flatly, and I balk.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously what?” she says, looking back at me. “I’m a business owner.”

“So?”

“
So
I’m an advocate for lower taxes and disbanding unions, and there’s nothing I abhor more than the blatant lack of a federal budget and their joke of any sort of fiscal responsibility because
I’m
paying for their dipshit-ness.”

I gape at her because taxes I get, but
certain
civil liberties and Republicans don’t mix. And she must know what I’m thinking because she arches an eyebrow at me.

“Do I think the government has a right to watch me on street corners and read my emails? Absolutely not. However, do I think anyone has the right to tell me what is morally correct to do with
my
body?
No
. So call me a Libertarian Republican if you want, but the only thing that ticks me off more than public instead of private welfare is the fact that I didn’t get to vote for Ronald Reagan because I was too young.”

I burst out laughing, then jerk my chin at her. “You would’ve voted for Ron Paul in the last election, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s none of your business,” she says, then turns towards the steak. “But damn right I would’ve.”

“Imagine that’s the PATRIOT Act,” I say and gesture to the skirt steak, and she begins to repeatedly nail the shit out of it with the meat tenderizer. I laugh harder and then take the make-shift hammer away from her. “Luca, I wasn’t done! That thing needs to be destroyed,” she growls.

“Yeah, but you’re destroying our dinner.” I toss the tool into the sink behind me, then unwrap the steak and grab a knife, cutting it in half. She waits patiently, leaning back a little more against me and I can’t help but to smile.

When I’m done I carefully lob the knife into the sink, then slide over the bowls I’ll need, along with the carton of eggs, a bag of flour and a few different seasonings, then turn the heat on the burner back up so the oil will be nice and hot by the time we’re ready to drop the steaks in.

“Are we making chicken fried steak?” she asks, and I shrug.

“Yeah. Beef okay?” I ask warily, because food has been such an issue, and she nods.

“But what’s with the country-bumpkin food? You a palm reading cowboy?”

I roll my eyes, then crack two eggs and start beating them with my favorite whisk. “You wanted BBQ earlier today and that got me thinking about this place in Austin that has the best ribs in the world, and
then
I started thinking about chicken fried steak because if you live in Texas for anything longer than five minutes, you quickly realize there is no better comfort food after a long day than chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes.”

“You lived in Texas?” she asks, and I nod.

“Yeah, did ten weeks of training at Lackland in San Antonio.”

“Ten weeks? Was that like, basic training?”

“Yeah, but…
after
regular basic.” I clear my throat, then step away to the sink and rinse off the whisk and rewash my hands, then go back to stand beside Zoe and scoop out a couple cups of flour into the second bowl.

I debate not saying anything else because I’m not sure how much she really cares, and it’s not like I’m ashamed or anything, but questions about my military career segue right into why it’s
no longer
my career, and I don’t feel like talking about it. Especially not with Zoe, not tonight when we’re establishing a friendship baseline. We don’t need the added drama. Plus, I don’t want her to look at me different because sometimes, people do.

I look over at her, curiosity plain in her features and patient silence, and screw it. I can tell her a little without really getting into it.

“Lackland was just the indoc,” I tell her. “After that it was Georgia, a couple different places in Florida, Washington, Fort Bragg, and then almost a year at Kirkland in New Mexico.”

She leans her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. I risk a peek at her, then add in the salt, pepper and paprika to the flour and mix it with a fork. She’s never asked what branch of the military I was in, and it was on my application but I doubt she remembers.

Actually, I know she doesn’t because quietly, she asks, “Were you a SEAL?”

I shake my head. “Yes to Spec Ops, no to the Navy.”

“Marine?”

I scoff. “Do I look like a jar head to you?”

“Did you wear a beret?” she asks coyly, and I nod. I shouldn’t say anything else. “Was it green?”

I clear my throat again, and pride or ego or something I’m not sure of makes me say, “Maroon.”

Her brow furrows and I set down the fork, then slip off my IDs and hand them to her. There are only two units in the U.S. military that wear that color beret, one in the Army, and one in the Air Force. She’s going to find out sooner or later.

“After my social security number.”

“AF,” she says, then her eyes shoot up to mine and I take my chain back and re-drape it around my neck, letting it fall back inside my shirt. “The Air Force has Special Operations?” she asks, and I snort.

“Yep, we’re in charge of singing ‘Leaving On A Jet Plane’ and dancing around in our underwear.”

I step towards the refrigerator and grab two bottles of water, turning back around to find Zoe typing away on her cell phone in the living room. Seriously? She’s working now?

“Zoe—”

“
‘The maroon beret has been an international symbol of elite airborne forces since it was chosen for British airborne forces in World War II’
,” she rattles off and I lunge for her phone, but she jumps back out of my reach and keeps reading aloud as her eyes grow wider. “
‘Worn by Pararescuemen or PJs in the United States Air Force, Pararescuemen are among the most highly trained emergency trauma specialists in the U.S. military and the
only
ones in the Department of Defense specifically trained and equipped to conduct conventional and unconventional rescue processes, making them the ideal force to handle personnel recovery and
combat search and rescue
operations.’
”

I throw my hands up in defeat and stalk back to the kitchen, hearing her phone click and Zoe suck in a breath.

“You’re an EMT?” she asks, her voice raised in surprise, and I ignore her. “Two
years
, Luca? Two years of advanced training in swimming and skydiving and rock climbing and med training through your…” She pauses like she’s checking, then says in shock, “‘Superman School’?”

“Pipeline. Thought you were hungry,” I mutter, leaning forward on the counter with my weight braced on my hands.

“Why are you being so shy about this? This is incredible…” she trails off, and I wince when she begins to recite, “
‘It is my duty as a Pararescueman
—’”

“
‘To save lives and to aid the injured,’
” I say and turn around, crossing my arms as I face her and lean against the counter. “
‘I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts. These things I do, that others may live.’”

She stares at me, and I arch an eyebrow at her.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” she asks, then shakes her head as if she’s lost for words. But apparently she finds some when she says, “You’re a
hero
, Luca.”

I harden my gaze.

“I’m
not
, and what does it matter what I used to be? I’m not a PJ anymore, remember? I’m building tables and hauling couches. Exchanging light bulbs in chandeliers.” I smirk harshly and then turn back around, taking a drink of water. But I flinch when I suddenly feel her fingertips press against my shoulder, covering the sixth bullet wound.

She only surprises me more when she then lightly touches the other five through the fabric of my shirt, like she somehow knows their placement even though she can’t see them. But that can’t be right, it has to be a fluke.

“I should have asked, shouldn’t I?” she says so quiet I barely hear her. “But I never did.”

“That would have implied caring. And I wouldn’t have told you anyway. Trust and communication aren’t big parts of our non-relationship, Zoe, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Her fingertips leave my shoulder, and I mentally cringe.

“You were right,” she says. “I don’t know you at all.”

I reach behind me and my arm hooks around her waist, and I pull her forward, her forehead falling against my spine as her palms splay on my back.

“Regret is worthless. It only slows you down.” I swallow, then breathe out more gently, “If something is broken, then fix it.”

She faintly nods and I take a deep breath, then slide her around so she’s in front of me: her back to my chest and standing between me and the counter. I hug one arm across her chest, my head dropping to her shoulder, and when she covers my arm with one of hers it feels like an apology I’ve been waiting forever to hear.