“What do you think, Brynnon?”
Her father’s mentioning of her name snapped her out of it. Glancing up from her plate, she realized both he and Grant were looking at her as if they were waiting for an answer.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Her father set his fork down, his silver eyebrows curved inward. “Are you okay? You don’t quite seem yourself today.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, praying the smile she was giving him seemed legit.
Her dad shook his head. “I hope you aren’t coming down with a cold. Have you been wearing your coat?” He looked at Grant. “I swear, that girl has never worn a winter coat like she should. Ever since she was a little girl, her mother and I have had to get on to her about the dangers of being stuck in the cold without proper clothing. Well, I’m sure you know, with your training and such. Hypothermia is nothing to mess around with.”
“No, sir,” Grant agreed. “It’s not.”
His deep voice rumbled from beside her, and Brynnon could swear she could feel it vibrating through her. A familiar tingling began to spread in her lower belly, making it difficult not to react.
Seriously?
Her father was treating her as if she were a child, and Grant was going right along with it andstillher body was reacting to him. It was like every time the man opened his mouth to speak Brynnon instantly thought of sex.
It didn’t matter what he was saying, either. God, that was frustrating. It was also weird, given that her dad was less than five feet away from them both.
“I wore my coat today, Dad.” She tried not to snap. “Ask Grant. He could probably even tell you its color.”
Brynnon looked over at him for the first time since he’d entered the room. She half-expected him to lie about her earlier behavior. Instead, he backed her up...and then some.
With his eyes still on her, he nodded. “She did. It’s dark green.”
“See?” Brynnon gave her father an I-told-you-so look. “I—”
“It has six buttons down the front,” Grant cut her off, his eyes remaining locked with hers while he continued giving the detailed description. “At the top”—he brushed one of his hands across his collarbone—“there’s an oversized collar that folds down with two long straps connected to its hood. It comes in at the waist and the bottom flares out, stopping about mid-calf.”
Brynnon stared back at him in silence. She wasn’t sure what her dad was thinking, but she found it fascinating. And a total turn-on.
“Excellent attention to detail, son.” Her father finally broke the silence. “They teach you that in BUD/s?”
Grant blinked, breaking their connection. “Among other things.” He looked back at her father.
“You know, I wanted to go into the military. Even signed the dotted line.”
“What happened?”
“Flat feet,” Brynnon answered for her dad. She’d heard the story enough times she knew it by heart.
Her dad chuckled. “Can you believe that?”
“Yes, sir. Actually, I can.” In typical, Grant fashion, he kept his tone flat. Even.
It sure wasn’t flat when he was yelling at you for flirting.Determined to let it go and smooth things over with him, Brynnon decided to use the odd conversation as a starting point.
“Do they still do that?” She directed the question to him. “Not let people join the military if they have flat feet?”
Grant’s large shoulder rose and fell as he brought his eyes back to hers. “Depends. Used to be an automatic red stamp.”
“But not anymore?”
“Some branches accept it more easily than others. Just depends on whether or not the candidate has any debilitating symptoms related to the issue. If they can’t stand for long periods or have back pain when they walk or run long distances, they’re usually out. But they also look at which branch and job the individual is interested in. If it’s one that involves more sitting than standing, for example, they may let it slide.”
“Interesting.”
