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Chapter Fifteen
“How’s the knee?”
A few days ago, Dante would have answered that question with a pointed “fuck you.” But he wasn’t about to curse at the Navy’s top doctor. Plus, he had a better response.
“Getting there,” he said, his cell pressed against his ear. “The pain is fading. I was able to run six eight-minute miles on the treadmill today. The range of motion seems solid. And I…I trust it. I feel my leg is ready to listen and perform.”
Dante inhaled and waited. He hoped like hell the doctor believed him. Dante knew this guy worked with SEALs all the time. He’d probably heard men with bullet holes tell him they were A-OK for active duty.
“You’re ready to return to your team?” the doctor said. “You don’t think that you’ll slow them down?”
“No, sir.”
Damn, this doc was good. He knew that a team player wouldn’t risk his fellow SEALs lives for a chance at the action. Yeah, Dante wanted to get back to the job he loved. But part of his job was looking out for the guys serving alongside him. Some of them had been at his side since Hell Week. They supported one another. The team, the mission—it all came before ego. Or shit, they’d probably all die out there.
“I won’t let my team down,” Dante added.
“Good,” the doctor said. “Let’s set up a physical. It that goes well, I’ll consider clearing you for active duty.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. A chance to go back to work, to use his training for something more than standing on the sidelines at a concert and looking scary…oh hell yeah—
Knock. Knock.
“Sir,” he said, rising from the bed. “I’m going to have to call you back.”
“Call my office tomorrow and set up the appointment,” the doctor said.
“Will do, sir.”
He ended the call and slipped his phone into his pocket. He was expecting a costumed visitor eager for another late-night “lesson,” but he’d dropped her off at her room less than fifteen minutes ago. He’d assumed she’d need more time to change into her disguise before heading down the hall to his door.
Peering through the peephole, he saw a head of blond hair. He pulled open the door and stepped aside for her to enter.
“Hi.” Chrissie walked into his room in fitted jeans and a white T-shirt. She looked like the Chrissie who showed up for sound checks or played cards with Melissa on the bus. She’d removed her public, country-princess persona, including the layers of makeup she wore onstage. And she’d changed out of her all-American clothes.
“Hey.” His brow furrowed as he continued to study her outfit. “I give up,” he said finally. “Who are you tonight?”
“Just me. No disguises tonight.”
She reached for the hem of her T-shirt, drew it up, and revealed her toned abdomen. There was a curve to her belly that suggested she worked out, dancing and singing every night, but she didn’t obsess over sit-ups. And yeah, he was noticing the exact line and shape of the skin he’d kissed and licked as if really seeing her for the first time.
No costumes. No disguises. Just Chrissie.
“And if someone saw you?” he challenged, his gaze following her hands as she drew the shirt up over her white lace bra.
“I checked the hall.” She tossed the shirt aside. “And it’s mostly backup singers and dancers on this floor any
way. They’re not going to stop me and demand an autograph.”
He nodded as her shirt hit the floor.
“I know you were expecting a hot librarian, or a French maid, but…” She released her bra and shrugged it off her shoulders. “But I didn’t want to pretend anymore.”
He nodded, and his gaze followed the movement of her full breasts. Yeah, he’d studied those before, but they still left him speechless.
“After getting up there tonight and pouring my heart out,” she continued, “after showing that crowd who I am and what I feel when I think about Joe, or love, or life, after being honest with them through my music, I couldn’t walk in here and pretend with you.”
