Boots on the Ground: Homefront, Book 1 (2 page)

Laurel’s face must have shown her surprise to see an officer on a night out with two enlisted soldiers, because Ethan shot her a needlessly hostile glare that dared her to comment. She refrained, pushing her mouth into a warm smile.

“Good thing he didn’t ask you to assess his personality.” Chance grinned. “I’m not sure those words would be appropriate for an official letter.”

Grady made a big show of shifting his body to block Chance from her view. “Don’t mind him, he’s just not used to having a woman look at him and not scream. You know how in all those war movies there’s always one psycho soldier who puts all his comrades in danger to satisfy his own insane bloodlust? Well, Sergeant McKinley here—”

“Outranks you, Reid,” Chance called, his lopsided smile bright and infectious. Even the sullen Captain Fletcher lifted one corner of his mouth.

The bartender finally reappeared, a stack of empty glasses cradled in his arms.

“Sorry, dishwasher got backed up. What was it you wanted again?” He clunked the glasses into a bin beneath the bar.

“I’ve got it covered,” Grady offered, then turned back to her. “I’ll ride you out to your car and we’ll fix your flat together. Every woman should know how to change a tire.”

She arched a brow at his cavalier suggestion, taking in his growing-out crew cut, five o’clock shadow and sleeves rolled up over sinewy forearms. She recalled the exquisitely defined contours of his chest, the smooth flex of muscle as she’d examined his shoulder, the fanned spread of dark hair that practically begged her fingers to follow its narrowing path down his stomach.

Grady was huge, and he was strong, and he was practically a complete stranger. And he wanted her to get in his car to drive a mile out into the empty countryside in the dark. With no cell signal. Alone.

She’d be crazy to agree—and yet her instinct urged her to do exactly that.

She must not have concealed her inner debate as well as she hoped, because he nodded toward the two men at the table. “I could ask Chance to join us, if you want. He could use a few lessons in automotive repair.”

Although Chance’s expression was hopeful, she shook her head. Her gut told her she could trust Grady—and her floozy heart wanted to get him alone, even if only for a few chaste, tire-changing minutes.

Laurel followed him out to an old, weather-beaten Ford pickup in the parking lot. She held the filmy material of her dress out of the way as he slammed her door shut before heading around the front to the driver’s side. The area at her feet was strewn with maps, photocopied papers and ballpoint pens, there was a paint-splattered army ball cap shoved into the cup holder amid a handful of gas station receipts, and a half-empty bottle of root beer had rolled down to where the windscreen met the dashboard.

There was something so old-fashioned and boyish about his choice of beverage that she couldn’t stop her smile as he climbed into the cab next to her. “Who still drinks root beer?”

“Thirsty people. Now where’s your car?”

She pointed the way out of the parking lot, and in less than five minutes he was flipping on the truck’s hazard lights and pulling in behind her disabled vehicle.

“Nice ride,” he remarked. Laurel’s ears were wide open for a note of chiding that she couldn’t take care of her expensive car, but all she got from his Texan drawl was approval. He reached across her to open the glove compartment, and as he pulled on the small door, his knuckles almost imperceptibly brushed the tips of her breasts. It was the kind of touch that nine times out of ten wouldn’t even have registered, but at that moment, with the still of the nighttime outside and the heady, masculine scents of leather and denim pervading the truck’s cab, that miniscule contact was as hot and all-consuming as a fireball.

Grady, seemingly oblivious to the alarm bells squealing in her mind, pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment and shut the door. “Ready?”

Her ears were ringing and her throat was dry. She barely managed a nod, then made an ungraceful exit from the cab even though she knew he’d be circling around to help her out. She had to get a grip on herself, had to pull it together, and if he extended one of those big, callused palms to help her down—

“It’s the front right tire.” She pointed toward the car as he approached, desperate to put some distance between them. It worked—he turned on his heel and crouched in front of the offending wheel, clicking on the flashlight.

“Definitely flat. You got a spare in the trunk?”

“I don’t think so.”

He frowned. “Let’s have a look.”

She dug in her purse for her key ring and hit the button to pop the trunk. She watched with a slack jaw as Grady peeled back the felt to reveal a whole extra wheel.

“You’re going to think I’m an idiot, but I had no idea that was in there.”

“There’s all different kinds of smart in this world.” He shot her a smile over his shoulder as he tugged the wheel up and out, and then extricated the tire iron and jack. “There’s the kind of smart you get from medical school, that lets you operate and save people’s legs—and there’s the kind of smart you get from driving beat-up old cars that need fixing every other day.”

He motioned for her to come over, then dropped back into a crouch in front of the wheel and began to unscrew the first lug nut. “It doesn’t make you an idiot to be lucky enough never to get stranded with a flat before.” He paused midrotation and peered up at her. “This is the first time, right? Because if this is a damsel-in-distress act and I’m one in a long line of guys to change your tires, I’m going to feel used and a little violated.”

Laurel laughed aloud at his deadpan humor and lounged against the chassis, the wild heat of their momentary contact subsiding into easy, relaxing warmth. “You’re my first, I promise.”

“In that case I’ll make sure it’s special. Are you watching how I’m doing this?”

He leaned back so she could see how he loosened the lug nut, but her eyes were fixed on the smooth play of muscles in his back and shoulders as he spun the tire iron, his upper arms flexing and straining the sleeves of his shirt.

She nodded. “I’m watching.”

“Good, because you’re doing the next one.”

“And here I thought I was getting a full-service rescue.” She smiled at his rolled eyes, then crossed her arms over her chest and pressed her back against the car, staring up at the endless black sky. She inhaled in a long breath of sweet, clear air and looked down at the man kneeling beside her tire.

“How does it feel to be back from Afghanistan? Nice? Strange?”

His hand stilled, and Laurel instantly cursed herself for crossing a line she knew nothing about. What was she thinking? Sure, they’d fallen into an immediate rapport, but that didn’t mean it was okay to start—

“It’s hard.” Grady didn’t look up as he spoke. “But it’s good. It’s a relief.” He cleared his throat and sat back on his haunches, his expression softening as he waved her over. “Your turn.”

Contrition sagging her shoulders, Laurel knelt on the asphalt beside him, ignoring the way the rough surface bit her knees through her dress. “I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to—”

“Don’t be. You just asked what everyone else wonders about. Nothing wrong with that.”

He pressed the tire iron into her hand and raised the flashlight. She fitted the end onto the nut and jerked it counterclockwise as she’d seen him do. At first the nut resisted, but with a little bit of pressure she was soon turning the iron in a circle, although not with the smooth, swift motion Grady had demonstrated.

“The doc from Fort Preston who gave me your name said you do some shifts at the post hospital.”

Laurel nodded as she moved on to the next lug nut. “Physicians are always coming and going up there, so I help provide some continuity. Plus you guys get much more exciting injuries than my Meridian patients.”

“I bet.” The quirk to his mouth assured her she hadn’t screwed up too badly, and she released a tense breath. Grady grabbed the jack and straightened, his gaze sweeping the car. “I don’t suppose you know where your jack point is?”

“What do you think?”

“That’s all right. I can find it.” He slid his hand along the underside of the beam that ran between the front and rear tires, then stopped and shoved the jack into place.

Laurel sat back cross-legged on the asphalt and shucked off her shoes, figuring she’d rather have dirty feet than a backache from trying to shift the spare tire in heels. Once the car was off the ground, Grady knelt beside her and began to take off the loosened lug nuts.

“It’s weird to be back,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the tire. “But it’s weirder to think that it’s over for me. No more deploying, no more training, no more restationing. I’ve got to make all my own decisions now. Make my own way.”

“Are you ready for it?”

He unscrewed the last nut and held it in his palm, studying it like it was an oracle. Then he raised his eyes to meet hers, and the cautious hope she saw in their depths clutched at her heart with a fierce grip.

“I think so.” His smile grew until his white teeth flashed in the darkness. “Yeah, I’m ready. It’s been a long time coming.”

She pulled herself to her feet as he dislodged the flat tire, hauled it up on his hip and chucked it in the bed of his pickup. He rolled the new tire in place and nodded her into position in front of him.

“You’re going to put this sucker on.” He stood aside and Laurel gripped the spare tire, turning it slightly so it lined up with the wheel bolts. As she hoisted it, she was surprised by how heavy it was, and she hurried to shove it onto the hub, her fingers slipping on the scored rubber. She felt it slide onto two of the bolts, but she’d pushed it on at a funny angle and couldn’t get the others to line up. She jerked backward to tug the tire off, grimaced as her heel hit something sharp on the pavement, and then Grady’s arms were on either side of her, taking the weight of the tire as he slid it into place.

“Easy,” he murmured, his deep voice rumbling through the chest that was pressed against her back, sending delicious tingles up her spine. He smelled like freshly sawed wood and shaving cream, and his body radiated heat that cut the evening’s burgeoning chill. She wondered what would happen if she turned in the confines of his arms, put her hands on either side of that trim waist, pressed her forehead to the place where his open collar exposed the tanned skin at the base of his throat—

Laurel pivoted to face him, her eyes big and shining in the moonlight.

He looked down at the soft, gumdrop-pink lips that were slightly parted. How would she taste if he had the guts to put his mouth on hers right this minute? Smooth and luxurious, he reckoned. Like rich, dark chocolate. Or ripe strawberries. Or champagne.

Was it too soon to kiss her?

Grady dropped his hands and stepped back. Laurel shivered as cool air swept into the space between them.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

For a moment they stood in absolute silence, their gazes locked, her expression clouded with what he hoped were the same carnal impulses currently roaring through his bloodstream. The long prairie grass rustled in the breeze, the buzz of insects swelled and receded, and his heart thudded so loudly he was sure it could be heard all the way out in Oklahoma.

He lowered his eyes first, slipping past her and dropping to his knees in front of the tire. “It’s getting late, and you probably want to be on your way home. I’ll take care of these.”

“Sorry for dragging you away from your friends for so long.” She swept up her shoes, dangling them by the straps. He kept his eyes on the wheel, torn between conflicting urges to keep her with him as long as possible and to get this car fixed so he could drive as fast and far as he could from the most unsettling tidal wave of emotions he’d had in a very long time.

“I bet they’ve barely noticed I’m gone. Too busy exaggerating their kill rates.”

He regretted his flippant remark in the awkward beat that followed. Laurel was a classy girl from a good family—she didn’t want to hear about enemy body counts.

He cringed inwardly. So many damn years in Uncle Sam’s employ that he couldn’t talk to women who were candidates for anything more than a one-night fling to scratch a mutual itch. This civilian life was not off to a good start.

“At least you get to travel in the army. That’s pretty cool,” she offered.

“Yeah, Iraq and Afghanistan. Nice beach weather, shame about the IEDs.”

“Still.” She shrugged. “That’s a life you can hang your hat on.”

He lowered the jack, tightened the lug nuts and stood up, glancing at her car and then squinting at the horizon, desperate for a change of subject. “Where were you going, anyway? Looks like you were headed out of town.”

“Driving off a bad date.”

He gave in to his smile as he stowed the tools and shut the trunk. “He forget to pull out your chair? Suggest you go dutch?”

“Worse. He bored me.”

His eyes leveled on hers as he yanked open her driver’s-side door. Her chin was high in coy defiance, and he imagined some high-flying lawyer or local politician nursing his disappointment with very expensive brandy. “Poor bastard.”

She walked around to meet him, shoes in hand, but didn’t get in. “I’m free next Saturday night, in case you were wondering.”

He jammed his hands into his pockets, wrenching himself back into flirt mode as unfamiliar optimism surged through him. He still had a chance—he hadn’t totally screwed the pooch, not yet.

“Why would I be wondering?”

“In case you need someone to buy you a drink as a thank-you for fixing a tire. I’m just saying, I’m available.”

“Are you asking me out? Because as a rule, I only go on dates when I’ve done the asking. It’s a guy thing.”

“Did you hear any question marks in what I said?” She widened her eyes in feigned innocence. “Those were statements, Mr. Reid. I simply informed you of an upcoming gap in my social calendar.”

He let a beat of silence pass between them as he studied her teasing expression, the playful sparkle in her eye tempered by an undercurrent of optimistic anticipation. Medical degree and family name aside, he liked this girl. He liked her a lot.