Page 25 of Hard to Lose

She laughs and it’s such a great sound. “I’ve heard that before. I just didn’t put two and two together. Isn’t it used for a mission gone wrong or something?”

“A mission. A training exercise. A disastrous date. Anything.”

“I sure hope you don’t think this date has been FUBAR,” she teases, and I’m quick to shake my head.

“Furthest thing from it.”

“Whew. Good for me.”

“And me.” I smile.

“Speaking of FU-Bar, the bar feels very you.”

“And what exactly do I feel like?” I ask, curious how she sees me. Fucked up beyond all recognition?

“Warm and welcoming but with the edges steeped in your service.” She eyes me with a smile toying at the edges of her mouth.

I purse my lips, liking her assessment. “That’s fair.”

“Is it yours?”

“In a sense.” I nod and think about all the nights the four of us spent beneath a darkened desert sky. We either sat and wished for home or talked endlessly about the bar we were going to open. The pipe dream was our solace as a means to combat the nerves we had while out driving our Humvee through IED country. “We made a pact to open a bar together. Whoever made it back anyway and . . . well, I was one of the lucky ones who did so”—I shrug away the guilt—“I followed through with my promise.”

“One of the lucky ones?” she asks. “I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know much about the military—or even the veteran—culture, but I have a feeling that those who come home, don’t always feel so lucky. Is it right to assume there’s a lot of guilt there too?”

If only she knew just how accurate that statement is. I’ve never felt lucky just . . . confused.

Why me?

Why was I spared?

But I won’t delve in to that depressing topic right now. Nothing like sucking the life out of a fun date with survivor’s guilt.

“I’m lucky because I get to live in a town where people look out for each other. I work in a place I love. And I have friends who I trust my life with. So lucky, yes.” I sigh, the sound so very contrary to the words I say. But I ignore her question about guilt, hoping she’ll take the hint that this area of my life is currently off limits.

She studies me for a moment, those intelligent eyes noticing what I’m not saying perhaps.

“You’re kind of incredible.” Her smile is sincere, inviting, and the need to kiss her grows. “Can you please tell me you have some horrible habit that makes you not so perfect? It would make me feel a little less inadequate sitting across from you.”

“I drink milk from the carton sometimes. Every once in a while, I don’t rinse my dishes before I put them in the dishwasher,” I confess then take the bill from our server and set it beside me. “Does that help tarnish my image?”

“You are quite the rebel.” And there’s a moment where the two of us just stare at each other as people walk by on the sidewalk and waitstaff swerve between tables. The silence between us sparks with what feels like anticipation for what might come next, while sexual tension also reverberates between us. For the life of me, I can’t remember the last time I wanted a woman so badly.

“So, Chase, what other information were you fishing for?” I narrow my eyes, pretending to be annoyed, and smile at her.

“I wanted to know your type,” she says. She wraps her lips around her straw and sucks on her shake. All I can do is stare.

“My type?” I ask, forcing myself to avert my eyes, because that sight is not boding well for me walking out of here and not having a hard-on. She nods, her lips curling up at the corners. She knows exactly what she’s doing. “Preferably she wears red Converse, has a killer competitive streak, and likes chocolate milkshakes.”

“That’s all you’ve got for me?” She angles her head to the side as I wonder how to explain.

“I don’t do this often.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “It’s rare that I find a woman I’m interested in enough to want to.”

“I’m flattered.”