Joss
In the five minutes it’s taken me to put away my groceries and put on a damn bra, I’ve come to a few conclusions. First, I am just as wildly attracted to Wes today as I was yesterday. Those freaking dimples may be the death of me. Second, I’d like it if we could be friends, in spite of said pesky attraction and our less than conventional first interactions. Third, I will not allow the first to keep me from making the second happen.
Was I shocked this morning when he appeared out of nowhere? Yes. Was I more than a little embarrassed at how easily he was able to throw me off-balance? Yes. However, now that we’re neighbors and I’ve had the opportunity to be around him under less awkward circumstances, I can admit I actually like him.
A knock at the door makes me jump, nearly spilling my coffee. I get a little flutter in my stomach and consciously press a hand to my abdomen. These butterflies are going to have to scram if this friendship is ever going to work. Pasting on a smile, I pull the door open.
I can do this.
“Hey, neighbor.” I surprise myself when my voice comes out cool… casual… smooth. I’ve totally got this. He smiles, more boyish now than when he was intentionally ribbing me earlier. He’s still wearing that same baseball cap—now turned backward—dimples peeking through his stubble. I step back and sweep my hand out in invitation.
Don’t look at his ass when he passes. Don’t look at his ass when he passes.
My traitorous eyes absolutely check him out anyway. But I blame his jeans and the way they fit like a glove over muscular thighs. Is it possible to be an ass woman? Like, you hear men classify themselves as a “boob guy” or an “ass man”, but I’ve never thought about it for myself. For Wes, I am definitely an ass woman.
“That coffee smells amazing. I’m not sure how I’m still upright at this point.” Wes’s voice snaps me out of my unneighborly thoughts and I scrub a hand over my face. This is going well.
“I definitely wouldn’t be. Let’s get you a cup. Do you take milk?”
I move past him into the kitchen and watch as his eyes rove over my space. At least it’s still tidy, what with being gone most of the week. I look around my apartment—taking in the bookshelves, organized by color, the frames nestled amongst them with photos from my many adventures, the large floral arrangement on the teaktable I bought secondhand last year—and try to see it through his eyes.
I decorated when I moved in, even though most places in the building come with the option of furnishings—like Wes’s. I like a neutral color palette as much as the next guy, but the monochrome never meshed well with my beachy style. I’ve spent the last three years adding tans and whites paired with pops of mint green and coral to the space, and it’s finally coming together.
The steam rises off the top of the freshly brewed coffee, and I top up my mug before pouring another for Wes. I meet his gaze across the counter, and he smiles.
“No milk.” He reaches for it, and I meet him halfway. “Cheers.” His hand brushes mine and he lifts his mug in a half salute before bringing it to his perfect lips.
No, Joss, just lips.
I lift my cup at the same time, enjoying the sweet and creamy flavor on my tongue. “Even with all my travel and overnight flights, I still can’t get myself to drink black coffee.” I wrinkle my nose.Black coffee, bleh!
A smile plays around his eyes as they dip to the butterscotch coloring of the liquid in my cup.
“You know, I didn’t drink coffee at all until I went on my first deployment. When I first tried it, I’d use the creamer they had on the boat, but it was so sweet it made my teeth hurt.” He grimaces and slides his tongue over his top teeth, like he’s remembering it all too well. “Twelve-hour missions and days when I never saw the sun were impossible without the stuff though, so I switched to drinking it black and never went back.”
Hefinally looks up and our gazes lock over the rims of our cups as we each take another long sip. I let my eyes drift closed, savoring the flavor as I focus on the information that was packed into those few sentences. Where do I start?
“You’re in the military?” I ask, nodding at the hair curling out from under his ballcap, just brushing his ears. There’s also the stubble lining his jaw, sharpening his features. “That wouldn’t have been my first guess.” From everything I know about military men—which isn’t much, to be fair—they tend to be strait-laced and clean-cut all the time.
There’s a flash of something in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can pinpoint what.
“I was. I got out a couple months back.” His tone has an edge to it, the lightness that was there just moments ago now gone. His entire posture has changed, it’s more rigid. There’s a story here, one he’s probably not ready to share with a near stranger. But my curiosity is bubbling.
“Right. You said you’re here on a work visa, which wouldn’t make sense if you were still in the military. What did you do?”
“I was a pilot.” His tone is clipped now as his eyes break away from mine, looking around the apartment again. He’s clearly uncomfortable.
Time to back off, Joss.
“What are you going to be doing here?” I ask, and at the more neutral question, I catch how his shoulders settle. When he lowers his cup after another long sip, the smile is back on his face.
“My best friend from college, Breck, owns an adventure touring company here and they expanded into skydiving last year. He needed a pilot, so here I am.” He gives a “no biggie” shrug.
“That easy, huh? Just pick up and move to Australia to help out a friend?” I’m finding it hard to imagine leaving everything and everyone I know for a job halfway around the world. Though, I guess in a way, I did just that when I moved to Sydney at eighteen. But I didn’t have much choice. Maybe he didn’t either.
I don’t know where his mind goes with my question, but I must have a knack for striking a nerve because there’s that look in his eyes again. And since he doesn’t look away this time, I can better identify it.Pain. Not physical pain, but something deeper, something broken that you can’t quite manage to repair, but you feel it all the way to the center of your being. I recognize it because I’ve had those same pains. I still do. My fingers twitch around my mug, wanting to reach out to him, but I hold back.
“I wouldn’t say it was easy, no, but it was necessary,” he says, all but forcing the words out. “I couldn’t stay, and this became the perfect excuse to leave.”
