Serena is everywhere.
The mess hall. The parking lot. The walkway between buildings when I'm heading to morning PT. Every time I turn around, there she is with her hair pulled back, scrubs hugging her curves, and that serious expression on her face like she's carrying the weight of the world.
And every time she sees me, she looks away.
It's been a week of almost-encounters and near-misses. We’ve had a dozen moments where our eyes meet across a crowded room and I swear I can feel the air between us catch fire. It’s been pure torture.
"Reynolds. You with us?" Sergeant Cruz is staring at me from across the briefing table. One of his caterpillar eyebrows is raised in suspicion.
I blink.Shit, I’ve got to get my head back in the game.
The rest of my squad is pretending not to notice that I just zoned out in the middle of a mission debrief.
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Sorry. What was the question?"
Cruz narrows his eyes, but must decide to let it slide. "I asked about the supply drop coordinates for next week's exercise."
"Grid reference four-seven-niner." The answer comes automatically, even though my brain is still stuck on the way Serena's lips parted when I touched her wrist. "Northwest ridge, fourteen hundred hours."
"Good." Cruz makes a note on his tablet. "That's it for today. Dismissed."
I let out a breath. The last thing I need is to make any kind of waves at work right now. The room clears out, but before I can make my escape, a hand lands on my shoulder.
"Alright, brother." Jackson drops into the chair next to me. He’s smiling like he knows something I don't.
Jackass.
Jackson kicks his boots up on the table. "You've been distracted all week. Missed two shots at the range yesterday. But I've seen you hit targets blindfolded."
"Thank you for the observation.”
He’s lucky he’s been my best friend since basic training. Most guys wouldn’t get away with hitting me with a shit-eating grin like that.
“What’s wrong with you?” He studies me for a moment, then his eyes go wide. "Holy shit... It's a chick."
"Fuck off." I glance at the door, but the hallway is empty. "And keep your voice down.”
Jackson leans forward, apparently delighted by my discomfort. "Well, who is she? Someone from town? Wait, is it that redhead from the bar last month? The one who was trying to hang on you? You didn’t even look at her. It was?—"
"It's not the redhead."
"Then who?"
I shouldn't tell him or anyone else. If word gets out that I'm hung up on one of the nurses, it could blow back on Serena. The last thing I want is to make her life harder than it already is.
But Jackson is relentless. The dude has pulled me out of bar fights, talked me down from bad decisions, and once drove six hours to bail me out of a Mexican jail. If I can't trust him, I can't trust anyone.
I drop my voice to almost a whisper. "She works on base," I say carefully. "Medical staff."
Jackson's eyebrows shoot up. "A nurse?"
"Keep. Your voice. Down."
"Okay, damn dude." He holds up his hands. "A nurse. Yeah, that complicates things."
"Tell me about it."
"Does she know you're… doing all this moping around and being all, poor me?"
