“Meatheads can’t handle conversation. Noted,” she said, raising her arm to catch the bartender’s attention. The chick with the skinny jeans and nose rings who took our order was busy at the other end, and a big, fisherman-looking dude sidled up.
“What can I getcha, sugar?”
I narrowed my eyes at the bartender. Setting aside that overactive sense of possession for a second, was it not obvious that Shannon was here withme? If she was anyone’s sugar, she wasmysugar.
“Irish whiskey. Whatever’s top shelf. Three fingers,” she said, “on the rocks.”
“Sure you can handle that?” he asked while dropping ice into a tumbler with a wink. He fuckingwinkedat her. What kind of asshole winked?
I cleared my throat and draped my arm over the back of her chair. That was my first warning. This guy did not want to see my version of a second warning.
“Oh I’ll be fine,” she said, jerking her thumb in my direction. “Muscles over here will throw me on his shoulder and get me home. He can’t have a conversation, but he’s really good at manhandling.”
“Shannon,” I growled.
“Here’s my best top shelf Irish. It’s a Midleton, the Barry Crockett,” he said, setting the tumbler on a napkin in front of Shannon. “It’s smooth. You’ll like the way it feels in your mouth.”
Yep, I am going to have to kill this guy now.
Shannon let out a raucous laugh. “I usually do.”
“Let me know if you need anything else, sugar.”
“She’s good,” I snapped. “Thanks.”
The bartender glanced at me for the first time since arriving at this end of the bar. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, backing away. “Of course, man.”
“If you two want to whip your dicks out, I’ll find a measuring tape,” Shannon said. She lifted her glass in salute to no one in particular and took a hearty sip. “I might have an app for that. I’d need my phone, but some lawyer-fucking meathead stole it.”
“Shannon,” I said through clenched teeth. I continued glaring at the bartender as he moved to another group.
“That was entertaining,” she said. “I always knew you were a savage, but whoa.”
Her gaze skimmed up and down my body while she sipped her whiskey, and I couldn’t tell if that look was contemptuous or predatory, or a little of both.
“I do like the feel of this in my mouth,” she said. “It feels like it’s getting me drunk tonight. You’re going to tell me stories.”
I groaned internally. My whole life was classified, and for good reason. Operational security was a big deal. A big fucking deal. There wasn’t much I could tell her, and honestly, I didn’t want to burden her with the details. “What kind of stories?”
She reclined against my arm—another benefit of relaxed Shannon: free-flowing affection—and I let my fingers travel over her shoulder. “What do you love?”
The question took me by surprise, and I paused to get my thoughts in order. “The ocean,” I started. “Spending the day out on the water. My family. Being back home in San Diego.”
Kidnapping mouthy redheaded lawyers.
“Has San Diego always been home?” she asked.
“Yeah, Dad was stationed there before any of us were born. I’ve seen a lot of this world but it’s home to me. It’s the only place I want to be. Even when I leave the teams, I’ll stay in San Diego.”
“When will that be?”
“If,” I said. “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
She wrapped her tongue around her straw—yeah, I was halfway hard—and squinted at me. “And what is it that you do?”
“Most of it is highly classified,” I said. “But I can say I spend most of my time tracking high-value terrorist targets.”
“Like…Zero Dark Thirty?”
