That caught me off-guard. Marco didn’t exactly strike me as the type who inspired spontaneous gift-giving. Threats, sure. Paperwork, definitely. But presents?
“A gift for what?”
His eyes narrowed a little, almost amused. “His birthday.”
I blinked. “His what?”
“His birthday. It’s today.”
Today. It was Marco’s birthday—something he’d apparently decided was not worth mentioning. I could feel the annoyance bubbling up inside me. The fact I didn’t know irritated me more than it should. It was such a Marco move to leave me out, withholding just enough information to make sure things never got too personal.
“Figures,” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head.
Tommy watched me. “So,” he started carefully, glancing around as if he were gathering context clues from my surroundings, “you’re, uh, Marco’sgirlfriend?”
Girlfriend.
That was a dangerous word. It implied commitment, permanence, ownership—things Marco and I very deliberately avoided. I hesitated, playing it safe. I also wasn’t sure whether I was his secret or not.
“It’s not serious,” I said casually, shrugging as if it meant nothing even though it did. “Just ... casual.”
Tommy’s eyebrows rose. “Casual,” he repeated slowly, eyes sliding meaningfully from the cereal bowl on my coffee table to the oversize shirt hanging off me.
I cleared my throat, fighting the urge to defend myself. “Yeah. Casual.”
“Sure,” he said dryly. “Looks casual.”
I ignored the mild judgment and crossed my arms, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “How do you know Marco?”
He gave a slight shrug. “Military. We served together for a while.”
Military?
Would you look at that—another thing the man had kept from me.
I didn’t want to look like the idiot who knew nothing about the guy she was sleeping with, let alone married to, so I nodded and asked, “How long did you serve for? What branch?”
“Almost ten years,” Tommy explained. “Six with Marco. Special Forces, mostly.”
“Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Special Forces sounded serious—dangerous. Did that make Marco a war criminal? Probably not. Maybe.
Jesus, the only concrete thing I knew about him was that his favorite color was yellow.
Honestly, it was embarrassing. Marco probably had my dental records memorized, and I was still stuck trying to figure out if Special Forces meant he jumped out of planes or blew things up—or both.
“So,” I started again, desperate to sound like I had at least half a clue, “what do you do now? Also law, like Marco?”
Tommy shook his head, eyebrows lifting slightly as if the idea amused him. “No, still active. I’m just here to drag Marco back.”
“Drag him back?” I repeated, confused. “Like, into the military?”
“Not exactly. Back into physical therapy,” Tommy clarified, shifting in his seat and giving a dry smile. “He’s supposed to be working on his recovery. Instead he’s dodging his appointments and pretending everything’s fine, because he hates desk duty at the brig. He just wants to be important in the field, not the office.”
Of course he did. Marco would probably glue his leg back on if it ever fell off and just keep walking. The man was infuriatingly stubborn. I wasn’t exactly shocked.
“Physical therapy?” I asked, wondering if this had anything to do with his shoulder. Suddenly, my mouth felt dry, like I was hearing something I wasn’t supposed to.“What happened?”
“An accident. Marco took the hit for the team. His leg was pretty messed up. Should’ve been worse. But Marco’s a stubborn bastard.” Tommy laughed softly, shaking his head. “He’s fine though. Solid two hundred pounds of stubborn.”
