14. Alana
ALANA
M y phone buzzes in my pocket, setting my heart racing.
I don't have to check the screen to know it's Amos.
He's called me three times already, and every damn time my stupid heart jumps in my chest and my stomach flutters like a baby bird is stuck in my ribcage.
I set the groceries down on the kitchen table too hastily, and the table wobbles on its uneven legs.
An apple rolls out of the top of the bag and drops to the floor.
I scoop it up as I answer my phone.
"What does Sam like for breakfast?"
I smile at the anxiousness in his voice. We're handing Sam over to him tomorrow so we can free the space up at the Deacon's, and he's panicking at the new timeline.
"You’ll have to ask him that yourself, but if you get a few boxes of the most popular cereal, you can't go wrong."
"Cereal," Amos repeats. "Protein is better for breakfast."
I press the phone to my ear and unpack my groceries one-handed.
"He's a kid, Amos, not a soldier."
"We're sailors in the Navy," he mutters. "Soldiers are the army."
"Whatever. He's a kid. He won't have the same tastes as you. I can ask the foster family, but you can't go wrong with cornflakes and Rice Krispies."
"I'm not getting any sugar-coated cereal. Kids don't need all that sugar to start their day."
I use my free hand to open the fridge and stuff my apples into the vegetable drawer. "I agree, but don't be too hard on yourself, Amos. The most important thing is that he's fed. Don't beat yourself up if you can't make healthy choices all the time."
He grunts. "I learned nutrition in the Navy; I know how to make healthy choices."
I press my lips together. Healthy choices for a two-hundred-pound Navy guy are going to be a world away from what a six-year-old boy needs, but I don't contradict him. It's good that he's even thinking about nutrition.
"You could figure out a dinner plan for the week. Then you know what you're doing every night. And always have something quick and easy in the freezer for the days when things don't go as expected."
"What might not go as expected?"
There's a new note of panic in his voice, and instead of reassuring him I've given him something else to worry about.
"I mean if he's sick or you're sick, or you just don't feel like cooking."
Amos goes silent. I finish putting my veggies away and close the fridge.
"Are you still there?"
"I don't do a lot of cooking; I was just going to throw steak on the grill every night."
"Okay."
"What if he doesn't like steak?"
I check the wall clock, and it's another two hours before I have to pick up Kyra. She's at a playdate with one of her friends from school, and all I've got to do is finish putting the groceries away and clean the house. But that can wait.
"Do you want me to come over and help put a meal plan together? I could help you with the first grocery shopping trip."
He lets out a long breath, and I can hear the relief in his voice. "Please, please come and help me."
It's not unusual to visit a client on a Saturday. Sometimes my work spans all hours, but it is unusual to feel the butterflies in my stomach as I take the elevator up to Amos's apartment.
He greets me at the door with an anxious expression on his face. "Can I keep beer in the fridge?"
I laugh until I realize he's not joking.
"Yes, you can have beer in the house, Amos. Just don't give any to Sam."
He huffs out a long breath of relief and pushes open the door to his apartment. As I enter his apartment, my arm brushes against his and a shock of heat spikes up my arm.
I glance up at him, wondering if he felt it too. The hunger in his eyes makes my knees wobble.
I remind myself I'm here to help him get ready for Sam and there are a hundred reasons why we're not exploring this connection, even as my body tingles all over just from one touch of his arm.
Amos strides into the kitchen and plants his hands on the counter.
"It's the food that's worrying me. I went from my mother's home to the military. There's always been someone to cook for me."
He runs a hand through his hair. "When I'm back, I either eat at Mom's, get takeout, or grill steak. I don't know how to cook for myself, let alone a kid."
His concern is genuine, and my heart squeezes for him. He wants to do his best for Sam, and I love that.
"You don't have to do it all yourself, Amos," I say gently. "Could your mom make some meals up to help you through the first few weeks? Remember, your support network is there for you."
He looks at me like I've just solved world hunger. "That's a great idea. Mom would love to help."
The relief on his face makes me smile, and he smiles back which lights up his eyes, making them twinkle. I have to look away before I get lost in them.
Amos grabs his phone and fires off a text to his mom while I open his cupboards to check what he has already and what he might need.
"How is your mom?"
"She's doing okay. They're still working out which treatment she responds best to. It's been a lot, losing Jake and now finding Sam. That doesn't help."
"I'm sorry she's going through all that."
"She's cut back on volunteer work at the church so she can get some rest." He frowns. "I can't rely on her too much to provide all the food. And I want to learn to cook if that's what it takes."
There's a notepad sitting on the kitchen counter, and I grab it and turn to a fresh page.
"Let's start with a meal plan."
We spend the next ten minutes planning out what Amos and Sam will eat for the first week, and I help him get a shopping list together.
We keep it simple with chicken nuggets one night and omelets another, dinners that Amos can handle making. While I make the list, Amos checks out a cooking course online.
He enrolls right then and there, and I love how committed he is and how he gets things done. He's a man of action, and there's something appealing about that.
I go with him to the supermarket, which takes longer than I anticipated as he checks the labels on everything we buy, looking for low sugar and high fiber options.
By the time we get back to his apartment and put everything away, he's a lot more relaxed. He grabs two beers from the fridge and hands me one.
I hesitate before taking it. Helping a client is one thing, but having a drink with them is another.
"A friendly drink," he murmurs. "I won't try anything." His fingers brush mine as he hands over the beer, and heat jumps up my arm. "Unless you want me to."
He leans in and murmurs it, and the heat of his breath against my cheek sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
When he pulls back, he's grinning. He knows what effect he has on me, and I grip the side of the kitchen counter, wondering if I'll be able to resist him.
Everything about Amos is pulling me toward him like a giant magnet. His masculine scent of male body wash and traces of gunpowder, and the way my body responds every time he's near.
I take a large gulp of beer and swallow down my disappointment. I was the one who turned him down. I created this barrier. And it's for the best, I remind myself.
"Thanks for your help today," he says.
"Any time."
He raises an eyebrow. "You might regret saying that."
I take another swig of beer, gulping it down too fast but needing to take the edge off the heat inflaming my body.
"You're going to do great. It really doesn't matter what you feed him. What's more important is that Sam needs stability. He needs a home."
"I know. It's just..." He runs a hand through his hair. "I have no intel on this kid. I'm used to missions where I have a single objective and a team around me. This is scary."
"You weren't a regular sailor, were you?"
Hs shakes his head and takes a sip of beer, not giving anything away. I try to ignore the way his muscles are pulled tight under his t-shirt and how good they look when he raises his arm.
I read the file on Jake and he was a Navy SEAL. It makes sense that his brother was the same.
"Were you a SEAL?"
Amos assesses me, and a smile plays on his lips. "I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you."
My eyes go wide, and he chuckles. "I'm kidding. Yes, I was a SEAL. We just don't spread the info around."
"And miss out on the bragging rights?"
"If someone's bragging about being a SEAL, they're not a SEAL."
I sip my beer. "I'll keep that in mind next time one tries to chat me up."
His expression darkens. "Who's trying to chat you up?"
I laugh until I realize he isn't joking. "I'm kidding. I'm not one to go out to bars and meet men."
"Good." It comes out as a growl that reverberates through my core.
Amos turns toward me, and suddenly he's so close I can see the shades of blue in his eyes and the way the outsides of his irises are paler than the insides.
I should step back, but the beer I knocked back makes me bold. Or maybe it's the intensity of his eyes that I can't pull myself away from or no longer want to.
Amos leans toward me and I close my eyes and part my lips, waiting for the press of his lips on mine, no longer able to resist. But the kiss never comes.
My eyes flicker open, and Amos's face is inches from mine.