Chapter 7
seven
“SISTER GOLDEN HAIR” — AMERICA
Miller
After about an hour, we stop to charge and grab snacks in a picturesque little town in the Hill Country. There’s a moment in the parking lot, with the sun shining down on her and the wind in her hair, that she simply takes my breath away.
Her hair, which varies from month to month, is a warm golden blond with vibrant streaks of blue at the tips.
She’s in a sundress that shows off her arms and hits just above the knees.
At work, she’s normally bundled up against “the brutality of the air conditioner” (her description, not mine), so seeing her bare arms feels like a gift.
Seeing her bare knees, catching a glimpse of her thighs …
Jesus, I’m so hard it’s a miracle I can walk.
She has a tattoo on her left leg. Unless I’m mistaken, it’s of a dragon.
So far, I’ve only caught glimpses of it: a scaly tail in shades of gold that curls around her knee and makes my fingers twitch to push up her skirt and reveal the rest of the tattoo.
It’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself, but I do it.
Ever since teasing me about my taste in music and making a playlist for the trip, Tavey’s been oddly introspective.
Not that I mind quiet Tavey. I see this version of her often at work—when she gets so deep in thought, hours can pass seemingly unnoticed. Honestly, I do the same thing sometimes, and it’s why we work so well together.
Despite that, I want more from her this weekend.
I know we’re compatible at work. My gut says we’re going to be compatible in bed. But I can be patient for that. For now, I just want more from her. More than she’s willing to open up at work.
So the second we’re back on the road, I ask, “So what’s with the dragons?”
She twists in her seat, swallowing the drink she just took before launching into an explanation. “Okay, the family that ruled Westeros before the show even started were—”
“No. Not on Game of Thrones. In general.”
“What do you mean, in general?” She’s eyeing me suspiciously.
“You clearly have a thing for dragons. I was just wondering why.”
“Oh.” She sits back in her seat, staring straight ahead for a minute. “Well, they’re dragons. Doesn’t everybody love them?”
“Sure, lots of people like dragons.” I reach out my hand and gently tap her thigh just above her knee where her skirt has ridden up, revealing the hind legs of the dragon. “But not everyone loves them enough to get them tattooed.”
My touch is brief—nothing like the way I want to touch her—but I hear her quick intake of breath. Even with the music playing, I hear it.
I look over at her to see her eyes wide, looking at the spot where I touched her.
When I clear my throat, her gaze jerks to my face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
She cuts me off. “No. It’s okay. I didn’t …” But she doesn’t seem to know how to finish the thought, and her words just trail off as she shifts to adjust the fabric. Then she flashes me a smile that’s a smidge overly bright, like she’s trying badly to hide her nerves. “That’s just one of many.”
Are those anxious nerves or aware nerves? Traffic is sparse, and I have the luxury of studying her in quick glances. Her cheeks are pink as she licks her lips before rolling them in as if she’s trying to bite back her smile.
Aware nerves then. Good.
“One of many tattoos?” I ask, turning my focus back to the road.
“One of many dragon tattoos.” She gives a huff of laughter. “Well, not many. One of three. But all my tattoos are of dragons.”
“Which proves my point.”
“I suppose so.” Her fingers inch up the fabric to reveal a little more of the golden dragon. “This one is Ramoth, Lessa’s dragon from Anne McCaffrey’s Pern books.”
I’m familiar with the series, but I’ve never read them. I make a mental note to download them to my Kindle tonight before asking, “And the other two?”
“Eustace Scrubb from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader and Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon.”
“Okay, even I know Toothless. But Eustace Scrubb? How is that a proper dragon name?”
She laughs, but then adds, in a stiff voice like she’s quoting something. “‘There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.’”
“I thought you said he was a dragon.”
She gives a gasp of mock outrage. “Have you never read The Chronicles of Narnia?”
I shrug, feeling weirdly self-conscious. “I didn’t read much as a kid.”
The look she slants in my direction is both serious and suspicious. “But you do read now, right?”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t read. I just said I didn’t read much as a kid. But, yes, I do read now. I picked it up when I was in the navy. I needed something to do besides exercise during all that downtime.”
“Okay, good.” She nods in obvious approval. “I don’t know if we could be friends if you weren’t a reader.”
“If that’s a dealbreaker, shouldn’t it have come up before now?”
“Dude, you’re smart! I just assumed!”
Thank God we didn’t meet in high school. Pretty sure she would have run away from the relentless little shit I was. Sure, I was smart, but definitely not smart enough to have impressed her.
Scratching my nails down the back of my hair, I shift the conversation away from my checkered past. “So tell me about this Scrubb kid who is also a dragon.”
Instead of just telling me about just this one kid, she launches into a detailed description of the entire series of books, only getting to the kid—an obnoxious little shit who gets turned into a dragon—after several minutes.
And somewhere in the middle of it, I stop hearing the individual words.
Not because I’m not paying attention. Hell, it’s the opposite.
I’m paying too much attention.
To her.
To the way her voice shifts when she gets excited—faster, brighter, like it can’t quite keep up with her thoughts.
To the way her hands move as she talks, sketching invisible shapes in the air, like she’s building the story in front of us.
To the way her whole face lights up when she’s explaining something she loves.
I’ve seen it a hundred times at work.
But this… this is different.
There’s no screen between us. No deadlines. No other people interrupting. Just the two of us and an open road stretching out ahead.
I glance over at her, just for a second, and it hits me like a punch to the chest.
I could do this forever.
Just drive. Listen to her talk. Watch her get animated about books and dragons and whatever the hell else crosses her mind.
I could spend the rest of my life like this and not get bored.
The realization settles heavy in my gut.
Dangerous.
“—and that’s when he realizes that sleeping on the dragon’s treasure didn’t turn him into a dragon, it revealed his own nature. He couldn’t be human again until he sheds all of his nastiness,” she finishes, clearly pleased with herself.
“Sounds rough,” I say, my voice a little rougher than intended.
She huffs a laugh. “It’s actually very emotional. There’s like… this whole redemption arc.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
There’s a beat of quiet. Not awkward. Just… a pause.
Then she turns in her seat to look at me, eyes narrowing slightly like she’s been waiting for her turn.
“So,” she says. “What about your tattoos?”
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
Shit.
For a split second, I consider playing dumb.
What tattoos?
Could probably get away with it. The one on my arm is mostly hidden under my sleeve. She’s never seen the rest of them.
It would be easy to deflect. Make a joke. Change the subject.
Because once she knows… once she knows what they mean, where they come from… that opens a door I’ve kept shut for a long time. Once people know you were in special forces … well, it changes the way some people see you.
But then another thought cuts through that hesitation.
If things go the way I want them to this weekend … she’s going to see them, anyway.
Up close.
Very up close.
Yeah. I’m not actually trying to hide them. If knowing my past changes the way she feels about me, I’d rather know now.
If anything, I’m—
“I know you have a tattoo,” she says suddenly, cutting straight through my thoughts.
I glance at her.
She’s watching me with a smug little smile. “I’ve been staring at the bottom quarter inch of it where it peeks out from your sleeve for years.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “You’ve been staring at my arms for years?”
Her entire face goes red.
Like, instantly.
It starts at her cheeks and spreads all the way down her neck, and she turns halfway toward the window like she might be able to escape it.
“I—no—I mean—” She makes a helpless little gesture with her hands. “It’s just… observational awareness!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
She groans softly, dropping her head back against the seat.
And then—before I can brace for it—she reaches over.
Her fingers brush my arm as she tugs up the sleeve of my T-shirt, pushing the fabric up just enough to expose the ink on my right biceps.
The contact is light.
Casual.
But it hits me like a live wire.
Her breath catches, just a little, as she takes it in.
The frog.
Black and green, climbing up the curve of my arm.
She leans closer, studying it, and then—slowly—trails her finger along the edge of the design.
Jesus Christ.
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
“And here you were teasing me about my dragons,” she murmurs, her fingertip still moving lightly over my skin, “when you have a frog fetish.”
“It’s not a frog fetish.” My voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat. “Jesus.”
She hums, clearly unconvinced. “Then what would you call it? A passionate love of frogs?” Her lips twitch. “Or maybe it’s all amphibians.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “It’s a Navy SEAL thing.”
The words hang there for a second.
Her finger stills.
“Wait. What?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “The first iteration of the Navy SEALs were the frogmen in World War II. So a lot of guys in the teams have frog tattoos.”
There’s a long pause.
Then—
“You were a Navy SEAL?”
“Yep.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
I brace myself for her reaction.
“How did I not know this about you?” There’s no judgment, only surprise.
I shrug one shoulder. “You never asked.” I flick a glance in her direction. “What did you think I did before coming to work here?”
“I don’t know.” She’s still staring at me like I’ve just told her I used to be an alien. “I guess I never gave it much thought. Maybe I imagined you selling candles at Bath & Body Works.”
I snort.
“Or that you sprang from Zeus’s forehead fully formed with coding knowledge like Athena.”
“I don’t think Athena was known for her programming skills.”
She tips her head, giving the matter serious consideration.
“I’m pretty sure she was,” she says finally. “The goddess of wisdom, war, and cryptography.”
I glance at her.
She nods, completely solemn. “It’s a little known fact. But definitely true.”
“Right.”
“I wouldn’t try to verify it, though, if I were you.”
“Of course not.”
She settles back into her seat, clearly pleased with herself.
And I just… shake my head, a smile tugging at my mouth.
Yeah.
I could definitely get used to this.