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Besides, not even my father’s ridiculousness can dampen my mood today. Huxley asked me out on a date. How can I be anything but giddy?
3
HUXLEY
I’m jittery, and my sweaty hands keep slipping on the wheel as I drive through town and head to Walnut Street Cafe. I can’t remember the last time I was this worked up, this… nervous. I thought the military beat all the anxiety out of me, but when it comes to taking the sweet, precious Jordan on a date? My training has done jack shit to prepare me for this kind of interaction.
I pull into the parking lot, spotting Jordan immediately. Instead of her usual jeans and t-shirt, she’s in a green sundress that hugs her chest and flows around her hips and legs. She looks up, peering at me through the windshield of my truck, and I’m blown away by her beauty. A breeze twirls her auburn strands of hair around her face, and the skirt of her dress dances around her body.
As soon as I park the truck, I hop out and wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans. I nearly trip over my feet on my way to Jordan. God, please don’t let me make too much of a fool of myself in front of her. Something tells me I’ll only get one chance to make the best impression.
“Huxley–”
“Jordan–”
We both speak at the same time, which makes me chuckle. Jordan blushes.
I reach out, lacing our fingers before tugging her closer. “You’re absolutely stunning,” I tell her, brushing a kiss to her temple. Like yesterday, I inhale her citrusy, sugary scent, then force myself to step back before I haul her over my shoulder and drive her up the mountain.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, those green eyes lighting up at my compliment.
I make a note to shower her with praise from now on. God knows her father certainly hasn’t.
“You’re like, the handsomest ever, as always,” Jordan says, her cheeks blooming red at her admission.
I want to beat my fist against my chest, knowing my woman finds me attractive. I’ve never given a single fuck about anyone’s opinion of my appearance before, but I want Jordan to like what she sees.
“Thank you, sweet girl,” I tell her with a grin. “Ready to go?”
She nods enthusiastically, those eyes shining with excitement and more than a few nerves.
I help Jordan into the truck, resisting the urge to buckle her seatbelt. I know Jordan’s father is overprotective, and the last thing I want to do is treat her like a child.
Fifteen minutes later, we enter the next closest town, Eagleton. They boast a booming population of nine thousand residents, which is basically a metropolitan in these parts. Following the signs to the carnival in town for the week, I find a parking spot in the dirt lot and quickly hop out of the truck, jogging over to Jordan’s side.
I hold my hand out for her, always wanting my woman to know she has a choice. If she chooses me, I will keep her safe. I’ll also show her a world she’s never experienced. I’ll give her the adventure she so clearly craves while protecting her the whole time. All I want is for Jordan to be confident and happy.
When she puts her hand in mine, I wrap my fingers around it and look into those emerald eyes. There’s more anxiousness in those deep irises than when we first got in the truck. I take a moment to help her out of her seat and fold her into my arms.
“There’s no reason to be nervous around me,” I tell her.
“I know,” Jordan whispers. “I’ve just… never been on a date before.”
I’m not surprised by this news. Not because Jordan is undesirable in any way but because of her overbearing father and how naturally shy she is.
I lean back slightly, enough to cup her cheeks. “I’ve been an Army Ranger for the last decade, and I was deployed at least half of that time, so I don’t have much experience with relationships either. We’ll learn together, okay?”
This seems to put Jordan at ease. “Okay,” she replies with a nod.
I kiss her forehead and take her hand in mine, heading to our first carnival attraction: The Striker, AKA The Strongman. Am I hoping to impress Jordan? A little bit. But hey, I need all the help I can get when it comes to this woman.
After paying for our tickets, I lead us to the vertical structure lined with bright lights and marked at certain intervals. Jordan looks up at it, then turns her attention to me, an adorable eyebrow quirked in question.
“Here, take the hammer,” I instruct, pointing to the comically large hammer.
The handle is at least two and a half feet long, with a ten-pound rubber mallet at the end. Jordan’s eyes flash with anxiety, but I see the moment she overcomes her nerves and decides to go all in. Watching her emerald eyes blaze in challenge as she squares up to the hammer is breathtaking.
Jordan wraps both hands around the handle and lifts the heavier-than-expected hammer into the air. She gets it almost above her head before dropping it on the lever sticking out of the platform. The machine lights up, and we watch the marker pass one, two, three of the ten lines leading to the top, where a big bell dings if you’re strong enough to hit it.
