Chapter 2
two
Barry
I keep my head down as a group of people enter the diner.
My hands are folded on the table in front of me.
The hood of my sweatshirt is pulled up as much as possible to hide the right side of my face.
I’m trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible, but I barely fit in this glittery red booth.
The edge of the table cuts into my hard stomach, my knees pressing against the opposite booth.
A bead of sweat rolls down my spine.
I’m here to meet a woman.
My date for the wedding.
She’s probably going to take one look at me and dive out the glass window.
Although, the girl on the phone seemed so positive everything would be all right.
Christ. Am I taking the word of a nineteen-year-old?
That must be what happens when a man has no human contact for two years, except over the phone. A nineteen-year-old starts sounding wise.
She wasn’t. She’s not.
But…I did like the sound of her voice. Once she dropped the sultry tone and spoke naturally. Come to think of it, I could use a little reassurance right now that I’m not doing something stupid. Maybe she’s working the phone tonight? Should I…call her?
No, you idiot. A thirty-two-year-old man doesn’t call a girl looking for reassurance.
I drag a hand down the left side of my face—the undamaged side—and drop my fist to the table.
Needing something to do with my hands, my fingers close around the silver handle of a teaspoon.
I hold up the utensil and catch my reflection.
Foggy though it is, there’s no way to miss the scars.
Already tonight, I made the hostess go pale.
Who else am I going to terrorize today with my appearance?
A bell tinkles over the entrance and my thighs tense, the spoon slipping out of my hands. I let it settle in favor of clenching my fists and steeling myself.
Finally, I look up.
Against my will, my pulse starts to race in my veins.
Nah, that…that can’t be her.
Why is she looking directly at me? Did my hood slip?
I can’t seem to move my hand to fix it, because I’m reluctantly arrested by the girl who comes closer and closer to my table. She’s too gorgeous for words. The breath has been ripped clean out of my lungs. I struggle to take all of her in, even as I know I shouldn’t.
She’s young.
But she has the kind of beauty that demands to be marveled over.
I try with all my might to stop staring, but she’s looking right at me.
There’s a flush on her cheeks, spreading along her fair complexion.
Sandy blonde hair hangs in loose waves around her shoulders.
My cock begins to stiffen when my gaze reaches her mouth and my whole body lurches, my knees pressing into the opposite bench, my loins straining.
Jesus, you have to calm down.
Your date is going to be here soon.
A violent shudder snakes through me when the girl stops at my table, her cinnamon scent reaching into my brain and blowing a fuse.
She’s so close that my attention is drawn to her body, and I swallow an embarrassing sound over the way her jeans sit so low around her hips, showing off an expanse of her smooth belly.
With all of my willpower, I bear down on the shocking lust between my thighs and stare resolutely at the table.
“Excuse me,” she murmurs. “Are you Barry?”
My muscles tighten reflexively. I know that voice.
It’s the girl on the phone. The nineteen-year-old.
“What are you doing here?” I say through stiff lips.
When the person coming to meet me was a nameless woman, I was nervous enough about being seen. Now that I know she’s going to see me? I’m a million times more tense. That’s when I notice she’s holding an overnight bag in her hands.
Does that mean…
That this outrageous beauty is going to be my date for the weekend?
No way. No, I need to leave. For one, she’s too young.
Two, I can’t subject her to that. To…me.
“Excuse me,” I growl, trying to slide out of the booth.
“No, wait.”
She drops her bag and shoots forward. At the same time, I reach the opening of the booth, and I’m about to turn and stand up.
She plants her hands on my shoulders before I manage it, though, her green eyes betraying her distress—and I stop.
I can’t move in the face of her worry. Her beauty. It paralyzes me.
“I know you’re mad at me,” she whispers. “I know you’re going to say I’m too young. But just hear me out, okay? Give me five minutes.” Something over my shoulder catches her eye. “Actually, give me more like twenty minutes. Those fries look good.”
She’s still touching me.
So close, I can see tiny flecks of gold in her irises.
There’s some kind of burnished copper makeup on her eyelids that accentuates the green jewel tone of her eyes.
It would look ridiculous on most people, but not on her.
Her energy is bright. Ebullient. She glows.
Now I know how people feel when they see the northern lights.
Like they’ve just witnessed something magical.
“Twenty minutes,” I push out, trying not to look at her glossy mouth.
Her martini glass shaped tits.
My God, I don’t even think she’s wearing a bra.
I’m a Green Beret, goddammit. A decorated service member. I have too much honor to lust after a college-aged girl, but here I am. Salivating over that slight swell behind the zipper of her jeans. Enough.
“Thank you,” she says, relieved, removing her hands from my shoulders. Turning away from me slightly, she bends over and picks up her overnight bag, my dick throbbing at the tight stretch of denim across her ass.
I cough hard into my fist and stuff myself back into the booth.
The girl tosses her bag onto the opposite bench and attempts to slide in, but she can’t. My legs are so thick and long, they’re blocking her.
“Um…” She chews her lip a second, then climbs into the space between my thighs, patting my knees once she’s settled. “So this is cozy.”
“Sorry about that,” I mutter. “I asked for a table in the giants’ section, but they were all taken.”
Laughing, she holds out a hand across the table. “No need to apologize. I’m Petra, by the way. Petra Kowolski.”
Yeah. I had a feeling she’d have a unique name. Suits her. “Order your fries, Petra, so I can send you on your way. I’m not bringing you to this wedding.”
She signals the waitress with a smile and orders fries, plus a Diet Coke. “Do you want anything?” Without waiting for me to answer, she amends the order to a double order of fries. “We can share.”
I grunt.
When is she going to notice the scarring on my face?
She hasn’t glanced at it once.
Is she ignoring it on purpose or is she not very observant?
Leaning forward, she says, “You are going to let me come to this wedding, Barry, for three reasons. One, I am a makeup artist and I am highly skilled at making myself look older. I can pass for twenty-three. Easy.”
“That’s still too young.”
“Not this close to Vegas. I’ve seen girls with men old enough to be their grandpas.”
“Just because the bar is low doesn’t mean yours should be, too.”
She squints one of those green eyes at me. “The second reason you’re going to let me come to this wedding is…” She props her chin on her fists and bats her eyelashes. “I’m fun. You won’t be bored.”
“I like being bored.”
“No one likes being bored. And the third reason is…” She drops her voice to a whisper. “We’re not going to have sex, right? I might be too young in your eyes, but since we’re not getting busy, you get to maintain your moral high ground. No harm, no foul.”
I am stiffer than a flagpole in January as she’s saying this to me.
“Maybe that’s true and we’re not going to…” The back of my neck is hot as a stove. “Be together in that way. But people will think I’m…”
“Hitting that?”
“Jesus. Do you always talk like this?”
“I’m the receptionist at an escort agency. What do you think?” The waitress sets a Diet Coke down in front of her and she takes a long, savoring sip—no straw—before setting the glass down again. “On the flip side, you seem uncomfortable talking about sex.”
“With a nineteen-year-old, I am.”
“Stop dwelling on that, would you?” Mid eye roll, she takes another small sip. “Is that the only reason you’re uncomfortable discussing it?”
Just like when we were on the phone, there’s something about her directness that makes me reveal things without giving them any forethought.
It’s refreshing, the way she speaks so frankly.
With most people, I can’t tell where I stand.
Or if I said something wrong. If they’re stressed by my injury.
The anxiety sort of just melts away when I’m talking to Petra.
“I don’t, uh…I haven’t dated since I entered the service.”
She nods, processing that. “How long have you been home?”
“Two years.”
“Two?” She blinks. “And how long did you serve?”
“Ten years as a Green Beret.”
She counts off the years on her fingers. “Are you saying you haven’t been with a woman in twelve years? That’s why you’re uncomfortable discussing sex?”
Hearing the truth out loud makes it sound worse. “I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
Petra falls back against the booth, her outer thighs chafing the insides of mine. “Good gravy, man.” She shakes her head. “Well, I’d offer to schedule you with one of my sisters when we get back from the wedding, but after this weekend, you won’t need any help with women.”
I frown. “Why is that?”
“Because Barry…” She gives me a smug once-over. “You’re a big, sexy hunk of man. An American hero, too. And you’re honorable? Trust me, with a little confidence, you’re going to end the sex drought all on your own.”
I watch her for a handful of seconds waiting for the punch line.
It never arrives.
Is this girl for real?
“I can see you don’t believe me,” Petra says, popping a freshly arrived fry into her mouth. “We’ll work on that at the wedding.”
“You see my face, don’t you?” I ask, yanking off my hood, holding my breath while she finally, finally acknowledges the disgusting network of puckered scars on the right side of my face. “No woman wants to look at this, day in and day out.”
“I was wondering when you were going to take off the hood. It’s not polite to have one up in a restaurant, you know.
Even a diner.” She pushes the plate of fries in my direction and regards me thoughtfully.
“I think maybe you haven’t spent enough time around women.
Sure, we’re mean and a little judgmental.
Especially about men. That’s because we have to keep our guard up.
But we’re also compassionate and nurturing.
Able to see beyond the superficial. And we usually know a good guy when we see one.
” She lowers her voice to a murmur. “Maybe the scars are painful to you, so you assume they’ll be painful to everyone.
But they only make me want to know your story. ”
I’m having a difficult time swallowing. “They don’t…repel you?”
“No,” she whispers, without hesitation. Then, as if she senses I need to change the subject, she clasps her hands together on the table. “So, fake boyfriend. How did we meet?”
Dammit.
I’m going to bring this girl to the wedding, aren’t I?
And when relief swarms in my chest, I know I’m in trouble.