I'd seen her fight for it—polite at first, then increasingly frustrated, then outright angry. She'd argued with officers, cited agreements, pushed back with a tenacity that would've gotten most people thrown off the base.
I'd respected that.
So I'd read up on her. Every article she'd ever written. Pieces from Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq. War zones most people only saw on TV.
She was fair. Always. But she was honest, too. She didn't sugarcoat. She didn't sensationalize. She told the truth, even when it was ugly.
That's what had gotten me in the end.
Thinking I'd found a kindred soul.
Ahotkindred soul.
I stared at the buffet, plate overflowing, trying not to think about ripping off that sexy fucking T-shirt and slipping inside her right there in front of everyone.
When I got back to the table, Amelia was already seated, coffee in hand, her own plate—fruit, yogurt, a single piece of toast—looking almost comically small next to mine.
She glanced at my plate and her mouth twitched. "Did you save room for dessert?"
I looked down.
Shit.
I looked like a caveman. Two biscuits, three kinds of meat, eggs piled high enough to qualify as a small mountain.
"Fuck it," I muttered and dug in.
She sipped her coffee, watching me over the rim of her mug.
I made it through half the plate in silence, grateful for the distraction of food. Grateful I didn't have to talk. Didn't haveto explain. Didn't have to pretend I wasn't hyperaware of every shift in her posture, every time she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Finally, she set her mug down. "What are you doing in Charleston?"
I swallowed a mouthful of eggs. "It's complicated."
"Enlighten me."
I took a sip of coffee, buying time. "Might have a job interview."
Her eyebrows went up. "A job interview."
"Yeah."
"I thought you loved the Army," she said, and there was something in her tone—not accusation, exactly. More like confusion. "I thought you were in it for life."
I laughed, sharp and humorless. "Yeah, well. The last two years or so since you've seen me, I've come to see the Army for what it is. Another bureaucratic morass of wasted talent."
She frowned. "That doesn't sound like you."
Something in my chest tightened.
Disappointment. In myself. For disappointingher.
I shrugged, trying to make light of it. "Maybe I'm just tired."
She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I feel the same."
First thing we'd agreed on.
