Chapter 6
ACE
The more time I spend with Yara, the harder it is to keep our just friends boundary intact.
I already knew she has all the qualities I could ever want in a woman. Not that I have a checklist or anything, but if I were to make one, she’d check every box.
Then there are the things I never considered before.
Like how it felt when she opened up to me this morning, which I know wasn’t an easy thing for her.
How her hand felt inside mine, so small and soft, yet deceptively strong.
And how sexy Yara looked, all rumpled from sleep with her long hair loose around her shoulders and her nipples taunting me from beneath her shirt.
Ah, shit. Her nipples. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them all day—wondering what color they are and how they’d feel if I took them in my mouth.
Would her skin taste sweet, like I’ve imagined?
Would she like it gentle or with a hint of roughness?
Would she make sexy sounds in the back of her throat like she did when she smelled those cookies I brought?
Or would she be more vocal, moaning my name while I bring her pleasure?
For the tenth? Twentieth? Fiftieth? time today, I send a silent message to my dick to stand down. The poor guy has been jumping to attention whenever Yara does something remotely sexy, though I’m sure she has no idea she’s doing it.
That’s something else I like about Yara. She doesn’t try to be sexy, like a lot of the women I’ve hooked up with in the past. She just is.
Like now, as she stands at the counter, her lower lip drawn between her teeth while she concentrates on chopping vegetables. Her freshly washed hair hangs long and loose down her back, save for one tendril that keeps falling over her forehead and into her face.
For the third time now, she blows a small puff of air at the rogue hair, but it only moves an inch or so before falling into her face again. Her nose wrinkles in exasperation, and shit, it just might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Some people might stop what they’re doing to fix their hair, but not Yara.
She just keeps chopping, pushing the diced tomatoes to the side and moving on to the onions.
She pauses briefly to use her forearm to push her hair back, which has the added bonus of exposing a sliver of bare stomach when her shirt lifts.
And oh, shit. Was that a tattoo I spotted? A small one just above her hip?
Is that the only one? Or does she have more? I know she doesn’t have any visible tattoos, or at least, nothing I’ve seen when she’s wearing an evening gown or a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. But there are plenty of other spots a tattoo could be hiding. Spots I’d like to examine while Yara is naked.
And there he goes again. My dick, which has apparently reverted to his rambunctious, teenaged self.
I’m here as a friend, I remind myself for the umpteenth time. A friend. And friends definitely do not fantasize about finding hidden tattoos and seeing each other naked. They definitely don’t think about how it would feel to be inside her, her body hot and slick and ready for me.
Would she want me to be on top? Or would she prefer to be the one in control?
I wouldn’t mind having Yara sitting astride me, her bare breasts bouncing as she moves and her head thrown back in ecstasy.
My hands would come to her hips, helping lift her up and down.
I’d reach between us, finding her exposed bud and working it until she’s mindless with need. And then—
A soft sniffle jerks me back to reality.
My gaze jumps to Yara’s face—Stop looking at her breasts, I scold myself, some fucking friend you are—and I’m horrified to see her blinking back tears.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’m such an asshole, fantasizing about having sex with Yara while she’s crying.
Crying.
I slam the pepper shaker I’m holding down and rush around to Yara’s side of the island. Then I take the knife from her hand and set it aside before turning her to face me. The sight of her pink and watering eyes is a kick to the gut, and without thinking, I brush the dampness from her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” I ask urgently. “Did you hurt yourself? Was it a memory? Did something trigger—”
“What?” Her brows pinch in confusion. “Why would something be wrong?”
I stroke her satiny soft skin, torn between loving the feel of her skin against mine and hating the fact that she’s crying. “You’re crying. What’s wrong?”
Yara puffs at her hair again. A beat later, her lips twitch. “It’s just the onions, Ace. I’m not upset about anything.”
Onions. Which I know damn well make people cry when they cut them.
“Oh,” I reply for lack of anything better to say. Or rather, nothing I’d admit to, like the very idea of Yara crying makes me feel protective as all fuck and ready to slay whatever enemy dared to upset her.
A momentary image flashes through my mind—me wielding dual sabers while slashing hundreds of onions and bellowing, “This is what you get for making Yara cry!”
Ridiculous? Yes.
But damn those onions. Haven’t scientists come up with a way to make them tear-free or something by now?
Before I can stop myself, I tuck her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t think about the onions,” I add by way of explanation. “Which is pretty dumb, considering.”
Yara’s gaze holds mine. “You thought I was really upset?”
“Well, I looked over and you were crying. I didn’t think about why.” Gently nudging her aside, I pick up the knife to take over chopping. “Anyway. I can do this.”
“Ace.” Her eyebrows arch up. “I’m capable of cutting some onions.”
“I know.” But shit, I don’t want to see her crying again, even if the cause is harmless. “But maybe you could grab the lettuce, instead.”
Yara gives me a long look. Then she lifts her chin and says, “Fine. If you want to cut the rest of the onions, go ahead.”
As she heads to the fridge to look for the lettuce, I hold my breath while quickly dicing the rest of the onions. By the time Yara comes back to the counter, the onions are in a neat pile beside the tomatoes, and I’ve moved on to the cucumbers.
“How are your eyes not watering?” she asks.
“I held my breath. It’s something my mom always does. She says it stops the onion vapors from getting into your eyes.”
Yara tilts her head, then gives a contemplative nod. “That makes sense. I should have thought about that.”
“It doesn’t always work. Depends on the type of onion, the sharpness of the knife, how good the ventilation in the room is…”
She moves a little closer to me. Her arm brushes mine. As she starts pulling leaves from the head of lettuce, she asks, “How is your mom? Do you get to see her much, now that you’re living out here?”
“She’s good. Keeping busy with Spence and his kids. And she started volunteering at the local library last year, so she’s pretty active with that.”
“So she’s okay with you being all the way out here?”
I hesitate before answering. Like everyone else, my family included, Yara thinks I separated from the Army so I could be there for my mom after my father’s death. It’s not untrue; I did want to be around for her. But no one knows the true reason I left.
“She is,” I finally answer. “She was glad to have me around after my dad passed away. But when this opportunity with Blade and Arrow came up, it had been almost two years. She was doing better by then. Plus, with my brother and his wife needing help with their twins, and the library… I told her I’d stay if she wanted me to.
But she insisted. Said it was the perfect job for me, and she’d never forgive herself if I passed it up because of her. ”
Yara sets the lettuce to the side and turns to face me. “She sounds great, Ace.”
“She is,” I agree. “And I still make it back to Austin every month or two. Or she comes out here. So it’s worked out pretty well. I still get to see everyone more than I did when I was active duty.”
“That’s good.” Her expression goes pensive. “So you have your family in Austin, and your family at Blade and Arrow.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “B and A really does feel like a family, too.” With a final chop, I push the cucumbers to the side of the cutting board and set the knife down. “Do you have family around here? I don’t remember you mentioning anyone.”
With a small shake of her head, Yara replies, “No, no family. I have an aunt and uncle in Maryland, and some cousins in Virginia, and then Annaliese is in Boston. She’s not blood, but I still consider her family, you know?”
“Yeah. Like my teammates are.”
Yara’s hands still for a second. “I don’t see my old teammates nearly enough. I was thinking about that the other day. I text them and all, but actually visiting? I haven’t seen any of them in over a year.”
“I’m sure they understand. You’re busy. Working full-time, plus your own projects…”
“I suppose.” She sighs. “Maybe I’ll finally take Ford up on his offer to visit for Christmas… I don’t want to intrude on his time with his family, though.”
“You can spend Christmas Eve with us,” I offer quickly, liking the sound of it.
I can picture Yara sitting next to me in front of the twelve-foot tree laden with lights and ornaments, and piled high with presents underneath.
She would be a part of our Secret Santa exchange, and she could be on my team for the bowling competition, followed by our new tradition of watching Die Hard while having pizza and whatever fancy beer Webb buys for the occasion.
“Maybe,” she replies. “I guess I still have some time to think about it. Since it’s not even Thanksgiving for another few weeks.”
“We have a potluck for Thanksgiving, you know. You’re more than welcome to come.” It’s not the first time I’ve invited Yara to both events, but all I’ve gotten are vague maybes for both.
“I’ll think about it.” Yara grabs the pile of lettuce leaves and carries them over to the sink. While she’s rinsing them, she adds, “So. Did you hear about Winthrop?”
Well. I guess that’s the end of the holiday plans discussion.
“I did. Tyler’s been keeping up with it. How are you feeling about everything?”