Chapter 8
McGregor Park, Clarksville, Tennessee
“Ever come to this before?” he asked.
Olive glanced up at him, then looked out at the water again. He appreciated that she’d listened to him about casual clothes. She had on a pair of comfortable jeans, a white top, and a thick gray sweater. A matching gray cap covered her ears, featuring a cute white pompom on the top.
“No,” she breathed. “It’s incredible.”
“I like the reflection of the lights on the water,” he said. “My dad was stationed in Florida when I was like ten. On Fourth of July, our family watched fireworks from a sandbar. The way the reflection of the lights rippled with the water was really cool.”
She glanced up at him, her eyes wide. Something in her face made his mouth dry. A smile tugged at her lips. “Why, Jerry McBride, you’re about to become poetic.”
He reached over, letting a soft, auburn curl wrap around his fingertip. The smell of strawberries danced in the air between them. “Something about you inspires poetry in me, Olive Duncan.”
“Oh?” she asked, breathless. “Are you a modern David? A poetic warrior?”
“I think I could be.” Just then, a little boy, maybe nine or ten, ran into him and looked up at him with shock. Jerry shifted and smiled reassuringly and said, “It’s okay, buddy.”
The kid ran to catch up with his family. Jerry watched him until he rejoined his mother. “Cute kid.”
Unfortunately, the moment between him and Olive had passed. He put a hand on the back of her arm and steered her around the group that had mingled and converged around them. “I didn’t expect it to be so busy on a weeknight.”
“‘Tis the season,” she said, looping her arm through his. “What a perfect night, too. Just cold enough to honor the season but not arctic.”
“Don’t guess you get a lot of snow around Mobile.”
She chuckled. “Reckon not. But they do up the French Quarter downtown pretty good with lights, and there’s carriage rides. Nicer than New Orleans if you ask me. And it becomes festive enough.”
The child who had bumped into Jerry walked back by with his family and gave Jerry a little smile and wave. Jerry smiled and waved back.
“You’re good with kids,” Olive said.
“I love kids. Maxima debetur puero reverential, you know?”
“Afraid I don’t know. I recognize it’s Latin, but please translate.”
“Oh,” Jerry stopped walking. “Roughly, ‘The greatest reverence is due to a child’.”
She grinned. It made a dimple appear on her right cheek. “You’re a little bit of a show-off, Sergeant First Class Gerald McBride.”
He cocked his head and gave her a tight-lipped grin. “Just trying to impress you, Olivia Duncan.”
“I think it’s working. Just a little bit.”
They strolled, pointing out displays that caught their eyes. Several times, they took selfie photos, and once, an older man offered to take a picture of the two of them. Olive readily handed her phone over, and Jerry pulled her close to his side, smiling broadly.
Jerry would get mission details in the morning.
He only knew he would board a plane and fly to a place that required cold-weather gear.
That could mean any number of places. As much as he didn’t enjoy getting his photo taken, he wanted her to have a photo of them together if something happened.
Silly, considering they’d spent no more than a few hours breathing the same air.
But he could feel something here—something deeper and more than a casual evening with a friend.
A riverboat trudged by. “Beautiful,” she whispered.
He stared at her profile. “Definitely.”
She glanced over at him, a delighted smile covering her face. “You are such a flirt. You hungry yet?”
“Starved. And you are more beautiful than anyone or anything I’ve ever seen.” He took her hand and they continued through the crowd. “There’s a ChristKindl Market here. Did you ever eat at one in Germany?”
“I did. Best brisket I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something. I used to eat at Dave’s in Mobile.”
They waited in line, chatting about German Christmas, a festival she went to in the Black Forest, and the uniqueness of that region.
Laughter and muffled carols swirled around them, a merry cacophony blending with the chatter of the crowd.
The savory smell of the smoky char of grilling meat contrasted with the sweet smell of cinnamon-dusted nuts from nearby stalls.
Soon, they carried beef sliders with onions on rye buns and small paper cups filled with a warm, spiced cider to a nearby picnic table.
Jerry waited for her to finish adding pepper to her fries, then held his hand out to her. She asked, “Okay if I say grace this time?”
“Of course.”
He bowed his head and listened to her voice float in the chill air to him.
“Father, You’re wonderful, and Your timing is perfect.
Thank You for tonight, for this food, for this time together, and let this food nourish our bodies as we commit our bodies to Your service.
” He started to pull his hand away, but she squeezed it tighter and added, “And keep Jerry safe from harm wherever he’s headed to. ”
Jerry cleared his throat, emotion suddenly tightening it. “Thank you,” he said, then took a sip of the spicy warm cider.
She squeezed his hand one more time, then released it, picking up a fry. “Thanks for this.”
“One day, I’ll feed you a meal that doesn’t come with packets of condiments,” he said.
Her laughter floated around him, pulled him in, lit something inside him he hadn’t known was dim. “Tell you what. I’ll cook for you when you get back.”
He swallowed the flavorful beef and wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “Having eaten at your house once before, I already know that’s something worth coming back to.”
Olive sank into the passenger seat of Jerry’s truck, the heater’s hum chasing off the December chill as the Cumberland River’s lights faded behind them.
She would only admit to herself that she’d felt a little disappointment that he hadn’t shown up on his motorcycle.
She would have liked the excuse to wrap her arms around him as they rode.
Her gray cap sat in her lap. She ran her fingers over it, enjoying the fuzzy feel, and briefly toyed with the pompom.
His flannel jacket hugged his broad shoulders, his strong hands steady on the wheel.
She would think that after seven years in and around the Army, she would be immune to the strong, handsome, dominant male type.
Apparently not.
“What a fun night,” she said, voice soft, breaking the quiet. “Thanks for dragging me out.”
Jerry stopped at a light and glanced her way. “I’m happy to bribe you with pastries any time.”
As she laughed, she shifted and turned her body toward him and tucked a leg under her. “Challenge accepted.”
A beat, then softer, “Glad you liked it, though. It’s always good to do something normal. Otherwise, what are we doing?”
Her chest tightened. His mission loomed tomorrow. “Normal’s good,” she said, fingers brushing his arm.
He nodded, gaze back on the road, but his jaw flexed like he wanted to say more.
They rolled through Clarksville’s quiet streets, Christmas lights winking from porches and shrubs or glittery trees peeking through windows; lights wrapping streetlamps and telephone poles like candy canes, until he pulled into her driveway.
The truck idled until he cut the engine, silence settling thick.
“Guess this is me,” she said, unbuckling but not moving. Her heart thudded. A strange tension, an energy, filled the cab.
Jerry paused. “I don’t want to leave tomorrow.
” He turned to her, one hand resting on the wheel.
Her heart started thudding. “I’ve never not embraced a mission.
” He hesitated, opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, then he shook his head and opened the door. That strange tension dissipated.
She grabbed her cap, sliding out of the cab when he opened her door. The cold nipped her cheeks, but his hand found hers—warm, callused, steady—guiding her up the path.
At her door, she fumbled with her keys, the porch light casting his shadow long. “Jerry, I—” She looked up, words stalling as his eyes locked on hers, intense, searching.
“Olive,” he cut in, voice low, “I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”
“I’ll be here.” She stood on her toes and slipped her arms around his neck. He pulled her close for a hug, squeezing her tight. For a tiny moment, her mind went back to seeing him on a gurney, bleeding from a bullet that hit too close to an artery. “I’ll be praying for you.”
She started to pull away, but his arms didn’t release her fully. She looked up at him, searching his face, heart pounding. He lifted a hand to her cheek. His fingertips felt cool, callused, and purposefully gentle.
“Close your eyes, Olive,” he said, his voice so low she could almost feel it.
A small smile came to her lips as her lashes fluttered down. The next moment, his warm lips covered hers.
Nothing in her life had ever felt as right as the feel of Jerry’s kiss.
It was like everything she’d ever waited for, ever wanted, culminating in one single press of his lips.
She pulled him closer, standing on her tiptoes, her fingers running through his hair.
His hand gripped the back of her head, his other arm around her waist, steadying her.
His scent—clean soap laced with the fresh outdoors they’d enjoyed—filled her senses. She could taste warm cider, a touch of cinnamon on his lips.
She trailed her fingers down to his cheek, the day’s stubble rasping like a secret against her palm, warm and rough and alive under her touch.
He eased the kiss to a murmur, lips lingering a breath away before he drew back just enough to lift his chin.
There, in the glow of the porch light, his gaze locked on hers—dark, unblinking, a slow hunger uncoiling like smoke.
Her breath hitched, mirroring the pull in her chest, her free hand fisting the collar of his jacket as if to steady them both against the tide rising between.