He must’ve received some kind of training in this, having served in the Marines on multiple tours.
I immediately nodded. “Absolutely. One only has to consider the difference in humor between Americans and the British. Plenty of opportunity for misunderstandings or even offense there.”
Bash grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
And then he winked at me, and my stomach made a weird somersault it had never done before. I looked away, swallowing and forcing myself to concentrate on the topic at hand. “Right. We can also show how effective humor can be as a communication tool when attempting to influence public opinion.”
“How would that work?” Tom asked.
“Oh, Twitter is a great example. In August 2014, when Russian paratroopers were captured in Crimea, a Russian official stated that the soldiers had simply gotten lost and crossed the border by accident. In response, the Joint Delegation of Canada to NATO tweeted a map below to help soldiers distinguish between Russia and ‘not Russia’. It showed how ludicrous Russia’s response was.”
“Okay, that’s definitely our angle,” Tom declared. “This is unique, it’s interesting, and apparently, Eddie has enough material to fill three presentations.”
“But how do we structure it academically?” Jessica asked, ever practical. “I mean, it’s great material, but we need theoretical framework too.”
I considered this. “We could examine it through the lens of psychological diplomacy—how shared laughter releases tension, creates in-group bonding, and establishes common ground that transcends political differences. There’s actually quite a bit of academic literature on humor as a social bonding mechanism.”
“And we could look at specific techniques,” Bash added. “Like self-deprecating humor versus observational comedy, timing, cultural sensitivity…”
“Plus case studies of when humor backfired, like you brought up, Bash,” Jessica said excitedly. “You know, times when jokes were misunderstood or culturally inappropriate and made diplomatic situations worse.”
Well, I had certainly plenty of examples of that, many involving British politicians, but I’d keep that to myself for now.
Tom was scribbling notes frantically. “This is perfect. We’ve got historical examples, theoretical framework, analysis of both successes and failures…”
“And it’s actually fun to research,” Jessica added. “I was dreading another dry presentation on trade agreements.”
We spent the next hour outlining our presentation, dividing up research responsibilities and scheduling follow-up meetings. I truly enjoyed the academic collaboration, especially watching Bash contribute in ways that showed he was much more thoughtful about International Relations than he gave himself credit for. He might lack the theoretical framework, but he definitely had plenty of practical insights.
“You know,” Jessica said as we were packing up, “you two work really well together. Very complementary skill sets.”
I glanced at Bash, who was smiling in a way that made my stomach flutter. “We make a good team,” he agreed, and something in his tone made the simple words feel weighted with deeper meaning, or was I imagining that?
No, I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t weigh his every word, consider whether he meant more than he was saying, or attach deeper meanings to his statements.
We were exploring, using this opportunity to give in to the attraction between us. That was all it was: attraction. It was already complicated enough without me throwing feelings into the mix.
And if I kept telling myself that often enough, I might even believe it.
12
BASH
The weight of Mama’s medical bills sat on my chest like a heavy weight as I tried to focus on the International Relations reading spread across our coffee table. Three days had passed since our phone call, and I couldn’t shake the exhaustion I’d heard in her voice, or the careful way she’d avoided mentioning how much the latest round of scans had cost exactly.
I’d texted Dad, and he’d sent me the latest overview. Eighty-seven thousand dollars. That was what we were looking at so far after surgery, radiation, and the first round of chemo, and she wasn’t even done. The number kept cycling through my head like grid references burned into memory during a firefight, along with the knowledge that this job—protecting Eddie—was the only thing standing between my family and financial ruin.
It had been a long day already, and I was tired, lounging on the couch as I kept stealing glances at Eddie as he worked at our small table, completely absorbed in whatever he was reading on his laptop. The late-afternoon light streaming through our windows caught the gold highlights in his hair, reminding me of how soft those strands had felt tangled between my fingers.
Christ, I was losing my mind.
Every time I tried to remind myself why getting involved with Eddie was the worst possible idea—my career, my family’s financial stability, his safety—all I could think about was the way he’d responded to my touch. The sounds he’d made, the way his body had arched under my hands, the complete trust in his eyes as I’d learned what made him fall apart.
I’d never wanted anything as much as I wanted him. Not just physically, though that was certainly part of it. But also the way he made me laugh, the genuine interest he showed when I talked about home, the way he’d looked at me with such understanding when I’d told him about Mama’s cancer. Like I mattered beyond being the person paid to keep him safe.
Which was dangerous thinking for about a dozen different reasons.
Glenn would’ve had something to say about that. He probably would’ve reminded me that Pullers didn’t let personal desires compromise their duty, that there were bigger things at stake than what I wanted. The thought made guilt twist in my stomach, but it wasn’t enough to stop me from wanting to cross the room and find out if Eddie tasted as good as I remembered.
