Aimpoint, Candace Irving [best love novels of all time TXT] 📗

with plates and cutlery." She pointed to the row of stainless-steel cupboards attached to the wall behind him. "In there?"

He nodded. "Tea cups are to the left of the sink."

Tea? Yikes.

Beggars weren't supposed to be choosy, right? She'd save that for the information she desperately needed to elicit. Though not just yet.

But she did risk a, "For two? Or will your housemate be joining us?"

"Guest." He noted her arched brow and elaborated, "Evan's a guest. He and his housemate got into it last week, so I offered him a place to crash while he works a few things out. That said—" The captain shot her a decidedly satisfied smile. "He's out for the night."

She'd feared as much.

But his previous comment intrigued her. On several levels.

Could it be that simple?

If the sergeant was Garrison's guest—and not his housemate—that affected LaCroix's legal status in the home. And his rights…and the tantalizing lack thereof. That information was well worth any disappointment over the sergeant's current absence.

Regan made a mental note to text Jelly about obtaining a copy of the lease on the house as she reached into the cupboard to withdraw a pair of cream plates and two small, handle-less Asian mugs from the door beside it. She headed for the table to arrange the plates and mugs on opposite sides, before returning to the kitchen proper to search for cutlery.

"Chopsticks are in the drawer on your left too. Unless you prefer—"

"No, that's good." She opened the drawer only to pause in mid-reach.

There was shallow woven basket near the back of the counter. Inside was a man's brown leather wallet. On top of that—a set of keys.

Garrison's, undoubtedly. But did one of those beckoning keys unlock the door to LaCroix's room, to be used in case of an emergency?

More importantly, how did she get—

"Rachel?"

Regan flinched as a hand engulfed her right shoulder. It fell away as she spun around, every cell in her brain and body instinctively on alert, whether she wanted them to be or not.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Shit. What the hell was wrong with her today? But she knew. She was on edge. Just not for the reason the captain assumed, let alone the reason she was willing to admit.

Humiliation singed her cheeks. "No, it's me. I just—"

"Don't really know me. This place. It's okay. I've been known to react instinctively to an unexpected stimulus too. Hell, a lot of soldiers do."

PTSD.

His bald honesty, not to mention the telling shadows threading into the compassion simmering in that stare, increased her humiliation.

She nodded. "Yeah. Well, with me, it's a…childhood thing." Mostly.

It wasn't as though she could admit to the rest. Not with being a freshly commissioned butterbar and all.

To her relief, he didn't push it. Instead, he carefully reached around her and retrieved two pairs of wooden chopsticks. The one's she'd forgotten all about.

"Here you go."

She accepted the slender offerings and escaped to the table, her humiliation skyrocketing as she spotted the pot of tea, bowl of rice and steaming wok he'd managed to lay out while she'd been standing there behind him, transfixed by the temptation in those keys.

She glanced at her watch. Seventy-one minutes left.

Time to get her head in the game. Now.

One good thing had come of her mortifying reaction. While the captain still pulled out the nearest chair for her, he kept his hands to himself for a change as she sat. He took the opposing chair and helped himself to some of the steamed rice, then held out the bowl. "By the way, I want to thank you for today."

"Isn't that my line?" She accepted the rice and spooned some onto her plate. "You are talking about the interview I needed?"

And she had needed it. Just not for the reason he believed.

That distracting fold cut in as he topped his rice with a generous portion of the fragrant stir-fry. "Trust me; you can still thank me." His smiled eased, his humor fading with it. "Seriously, though. The general's going through a rough time. He's taken some serious knocks. And, as you've also no doubt surmised, there's not a lot of sympathy for him on this post. For obvious reasons."

Which begged that rather critical question that still remained unanswered. Why was Ertonç even here?

She added some of the beef and vegetables to her rice. "And you? Do you have sympathy for him?"

"Yeah, I do. It's complicated. He's complicated."

So was the man sitting across from her.

And rapidly becoming more so. At least to her.

The captain was noticeably taking care to keep his hands to himself now, each time he passed something to her. As much as she wanted to resist appreciating the effort—and him—she couldn't.

"Anyway, he likes you. But I'm not supposed to tell you that."

She could only hope it would be the first of many revelations. Still, after the probing questions she'd posed that afternoon, upon which Garrison had definitely been briefed, she was surprised. "I just did my homework after my boss called me into his office. Learned a few things." Abused them.

The guilt still simmered over the latter.

Garrison's hand came up as he leaned forward. Slowly, as though she was a colt he feared might bolt—but, unfortunately, it still came. And he still wrapped those callused fingers around hers to squeeze gently. "It was more than that, and you know it. You connected with him when he needed it. From what he told me, you seemed affected too."

She had been. More than she wanted to admit—to Ertonç, the man sitting across from her, and herself.

Fortunately, the captain released her hand. She breathed easier as he focused on his food and dug in. She took a tentative bite, then a substantial one when the taste lived up to its scent. "This is really good."

He rewarded her honesty with a laugh. "Thanks." He leaned forward to pour the steaming tea for both of them. "So, you got your interview with the big guy. You don't need to grill me anymore. At least about him."

"Oh, I