Chapter 19
Hannah
Are you hungry?
Sarge’s words linger in the air. For a moment, I stare at him, my heart still racing from a mix of relief and disbelief. He just told me he likes me. While it shouldn’t come as a complete surprise, it is. A man like him can find any woman, anywhere. Yet, he says he likes me.
My mind spins with everything I’ve just learned. The chaos, the fear, and now the strange comfort of knowing he was always here, keeping watch in one way or another. I want to focus on the warmth in his eyes, but instead, my thoughts tumble into a whirlwind of questions I can’t ignore.
Anger, confusion, and excitement course through me all at once.
I want to understand why Sarge would have someone watching over me after only meeting me once.
Yes, we shared an amazing kiss, but there had been nothing since then.
No contact at all. There was nothing I could think of that would make him feel the need to protect me.
He’s out of his mind if he thinks a kiss means I’m his Ol’ Lady or something now.
I’m a little upset at him for the fact that I was possibly drugged. I feel like if he had been there, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. I also know how much he already blames himself for that, so I plan to keep that thought to myself.
Still, even though he wasn’t there for me last night, he’s been here with me all morning. Now the day has faded into what must be evening, looking through the window, and still he hasn’t budged. I believe he wanted to be at the bar last night. I believe his apology for missing it is sincere.
I believe how bad he feels about it all.
Believing him scares the shit out of me.
Because I also know how I feel about him. How I’ve felt since that first night he gave me a ride home.
“I like you, too,” I admit.
There it is. Through all the chaos and fear in my head, the truth is out.
I like him—a lot.
And that makes me wonder if that’s the only reason I believe him. Maybe my judgment is clouded from lack of sex.
I still don’t understand why, but I know every minute I have with him leaves me wanting more. I can’t ignore the way his touch sets my senses on fire. I like him and want to be around him. The need to know more about him is undeniable.
We both just slept together—in the same room—for what must have been at least twelve hours. Yet our clothes stayed on, and he didn’t try to push me in any way to do anything.
I’m so fucked up that I can’t decide if I find that chivalrous or if I’m now feeling self-conscious that he didn’t try to make a move. Either he’s giving me time to feel comfortable, or he doesn’t like me as much as I like him. Maybe it’s just my morning breath.
I sit up quickly, panic spiking. The motion mixed with the dread hits me like a baseball bat to the skull.
Oh. My. God. My breath. My makeup.
I must look like an absolute wreck. That would explain the lack of move-making. How is this man still sitting here next to a Hannah who now most certainly resembles a trash panda?
“Are you okay? Do you feel like you’re going to be sick again?” Sarge looks at me with genuine concern, already poised to jump up and help.
“Um, no. No, I uh. I’m okay. I just... need to use the restroom.” I rush into the bathroom and give myself half a second to mentally prepare for the mess that’s sure to be staring back at me in the mirror.
Maybe I can brush my hair, brush my teeth, wash my face, and redeem myself from the sight I exposed poor Sarge to this... What time was it, anyway?
I look up into the mirror, and my heart leaps. My makeup is already gone. On the sink is one of my makeup remover cloths, covered in black streaks and beige colors.
Ellie. You saint.
She must have removed my makeup when she changed my clothes. Relieved, I use the toilet, looking at the tee-and-undie pairing that she dressed me in. I want to be angry with her because I feel her choices had ulterior motives...
Couldn’t she have put me in shorts? Cute jammies? However, I can’t deny that these lace cheeky undies make my ass look amazing. She paired them with a tight teal camisole that barely covers my cleavage and gently hugs my curves.
Well played, Ellie. That’s one way to try to break my dry spell.
I wash up, rinse my face, and of course, moisturize. I take an extra minute to dab on some under-eye cream. Anything to look a little more alive after hibernating for a day.
I open the bathroom door to find Sarge standing by my desk, where his things are laid out.
He lets out a low whistle. “Hey there, beautiful. Come here often?”
I roll my eyes at his lame line, but I can’t stop the small smile from tugging at my lips. “You’re already in my room.” I gesture around. “No pickup lines needed anymore.”
He smiles and rolls his eyes. “You hungry?”
Truth be told, I’m starving.
“Very,” I say, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Part of me wants to stay locked away in this room with him forever, but the thought of actual food is too tempting to ignore.
“How about you get dressed and I take you out for...” Sarge glances at his watch. “Linner?”
“What, is that, like, lunch-and-dinner combined?” I ask.
“It sure is. Now get dressed so I can feed you.” He leans in and kisses my nose.
I guess that means I’m getting dressed.
Reluctantly, I slide out of bed. I can’t ignore that I really do need to eat.
“I have food here. We don’t have to go out,” I offer.
I don’t actually have much food, unless he wants to eat some coffee. Usually, when I get back from work, I’m too tired to cook, so I snack or eat on the go.
Sarge grabs what looks like his clothes, then turns to me. “What if I want to take you out? Consider it the first of many apologies for last night.”
He carries the folded clothes to my bathroom, closing the door behind him. No show for me, I guess. Boo.
When he comes back out, he’s back in his signature tan cargo pants. I wish the sweats could have stayed, but when he saunters across the room to my desk chair and shrugs on his kutte, I forget I miss the sweats.
Why must he look so damn good without trying?
I notice something tucked under his vest. Two things, actually.
Guns.
This being Arizona and me a Second Amendment supporter, I’m not unfamiliar or uncomfortable with firearms. But why two? Does he take them everywhere? One is smaller, maybe a .22, the other could be a .40 or a 9mm.
Either way, I have a man in my room who spent the night with me, whom I’ve seen a total of two times, and he has not one but two guns. He was with me while I was unconscious, weak, vulnerable—and he was armed.
The thought should scare me, but it doesn’t. That level of controlled power ignites something deep inside of me. Despite his appearance and the company he keeps, I don’t see anything in Sarge that makes me feel like he would hurt me.
I know I’ve been wrong before, and I’m not letting my guard down anytime soon. But in this moment, I can allow myself some trust.
I pull on my cutest pair of jeans, the ones that hug me in all the right places, and hope to look half as good as he does. My camisole offers enough support to skip a bra, and I finish the look with simple tennis shoes.
“Do you think you’re going out like that?” Sarge asks, as though I must be joking.
Some joke I’m unaware of. I think I look fine.
“Um, yes? Is there a problem with what I’m wearing?” I ask, both confused and a little insecure. If only he knew how much my clothing has been judged and controlled over the years.
“The issue is, I can see the shape of your nipples through that shirt, clear as day, which means every other man will too.” His eyes roam over me from head to toe. “I don’t feel like fighting off every guy we pass on our peaceful linner date, but I will if I need to.”
I ignore the date comment and focus on the fact that he isn’t joking. But I’m not changing. Not for him or anyone else. I lived too long doing what others wanted.
If Sarge thinks he’s going to control what I wear and where I wear it, I need to set that boundary now. I’ve come a long way since my last relationship, and I’m not backtracking.
“Then I can go by myself, or eat something here, but I’m not changing. If men can’t control themselves because I have nipples, that’s their issue. Not mine.” I fold my arms in protest. If only this man knew what I wear to work....
Sarge laughs. Yes, actually fucking laughs, and says, “Alright then, let’s get some linner.” He crosses the room, stopping inches from my face. “You may be the death of me, Butterfly, but at least I’ll die knowing I didn’t put that spark out.”
He closes the gap and brushes a kiss onto my lips. I sigh and place both hands at the back of his neck, pulling him into me. His hands circle my hips; one cups my ass while the other presses at the small of my back, anchoring me to him.
Our bodies flush together, hands grounding each other, as if one might float away.
The kiss intensifies. Mouths opening, inviting one another in.
We move in perfect rhythm, like we’ve kissed a hundred times.
Our tongues touch and dance in a way that only adds to the heat, but not to the point of excess.
I was never a fan of too much tongue. Some swear there’s no such thing as “too much” when it comes to a French kiss, but I do.
Sarge does not disappoint. It’s like his kisses were made for me.
Without warning, he pulls away, ending the kiss and instantly bumming me out. I full-on pout, hating the moment and maybe hating him a little, too.
He kisses my nose gently. “Baby, we need to go get food. I need to feed you. If you keep kissing me like that, the only one who will be eating anything will be me, and we can’t have that.”
He pauses, a smirk playing on his lips. “Let’s get some food in you now. Then we can worry about me being in you later, if that’s what you want. Promise.”
He only adds that last word because of the absolute disapproval written across my face.
I can’t tell if I like this man for ending what’s now the second-best kiss of my life, or if I like him for trying to take me to do one of my favorite things.
Eat.
Such mixed emotions. I also note he managed to throw in a quick comment about “eating” and has now called me “baby” more than once.
Deciding I’ll address that later, I stomp down the stairs like a teenager mid-tantrum, and Sarge follows, trying not to laugh at my display.
I don’t think I’m as amusing as he does.
I grab my keys and wallet from the kitchen counter and a light jacket from the back of my couch before turning toward him. “Ready,” I say as I go to the front door. “Where are we going, anyway?”
Sarge beats me to it and opens the door, swatting my ass with a crisp crack as I step out. I wonder when else he does that...
“Come on, you can use my helmet again. I know a good restaurant not far from here,” he says, rudely pulling me out of my thoughts.
“You know I have a perfectly good car right there in the driveway,” I reply, pointing.
“Yes, I see that. It’s a beautiful night, and something tells me you didn’t exactly hate the last time you were on my bike.”
Knowing he’s right, I take the helmet and climb on behind him.
He reaches out to rub my outstretched leg resting on his thigh. I won’t lie, I enjoy the little gestures that show he likes my presence. It calms me and makes me think maybe he does like me as much as I like him.
He starts the engine, and I feel that familiar rumble beneath me. Maybe taking the bike isn’t such a terrible idea after all.