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He mentally winced, because he’d thought that very thing about her. But he certainly didn’t want her to feel like she was a burden. “My house is your house, Shayna. Make yourself at home any way you want.”
“Thanks,” she said, her gaze landing on the cut on his shoulder and skating away again. “You headed to the gym?”
“Later,” he said, throwing some bread into the toaster and wondering if Ryan had told her anything about how he’d sustained his injuries. Billy hoped he hadn’t, because there were only so many times someone could say Billy was lucky to survive! without it sounding like How did Billy survive when the others didn’t? And for Billy it was a really fucking short trip from that question to the guilt-drenched worry that others deserved to have survived more than him. Like Laurens, who was married, or Coffman, who had kids.
On a sigh, Billy held up the loaf. “Want some?”
“Not much of a breakfast eater,” she said, shaking her head.
Quiet fell between them as he buttered his toast and sat beside her at the bar. “Work?” He nodded at her iPad.
“Yeah. Just reviewing the emails about my orientation for the new job.”
“When do you start?”
“I have a week of orientation starting on Monday, and then I’ll get assigned to an editorial team and learn more about my actual schedule.”
The excitement was plain in her voice, and it made Billy think about how long it’d been since he’d last felt that excited for something new in his life. He was damn grateful that he’d been able to parlay his experience as a Ranger into private investigating, because he knew for a fact that a lot of post-service Rangers struggled. First, because it was fucking hard to go from life-or-death to a nine-to-five. And second, because while the spec ops guys were among the most elite soldiers in the military, they didn’t have the kinds of readily transferrable skills as someone whose occupational specialty had been in communications or IT or engineering or medicine.
Not to mention that sitting around doing nothing was not good for Billy. This he knew for sure. But being a P.I. wasn’t his passion. And he wasn’t even sure what was. Not anymore.
“What will you be doing?” he asked, forcing himself out of his head.
Her smile showed off more of that excitement. “I’ll be working for the Washington Gazette as a photographer, doing a mix of on-the-streets assignments and photo editing.”
“That sounds impressive,” Billy said. Even as the back of his brain added, And potentially dangerous…
She shrugged, but the gesture wasn’t convincing in its nonchalance. “I’ll probably be assigned to pretty fluffy stories at first.”
“Even if that’s true, people could use more feel-good stories in the news these days,” he said, taking a bite of his toast and washing it down with a sip of coffee. She’d made it perfectly.
“That’s true,” she said.
“Did you go to school for photography?” he asked, wondering what had led her down this path. His curiosity in the whys behind people’s behavior was part of what made him enjoy private investigation. Even though what he learned was sometimes painful for his clients.
“Yeah. I studied journalism and visual arts because I wasn’t sure what direction I wanted to go in with photography at first. But it didn’t take me long working in the museum field to realize I wanted to do something with greater immediate relevance. And then interning with a newspaper confirmed what my gut was telling me. I wanted to capture history in the making.” She sipped at her coffee as a soft pink filtered into her cheeks, like maybe she thought he’d find what she said to be stupid.
He didn’t. Not at all. In fact, that sentiment portrayed her as being pretty damn similar to her brother. Both of the Curtis siblings wanted to make a difference in the world.
And Billy knew first-hand how important journalists of all kinds were from having worked with them on the front lines. It could be a pain in the ass to have a journalist embedded with your platoon, but it took a lot of fucking courage to carry nothing more than a pen, voice recorder, or camera into a war zone.
His gut squeezed around the toast and coffee he’d eaten. Because the thought had him imagining Shayna as one of those war correspondents, and…no. It made no goddamn sense to imagine such a thing. Or to let it impact him so badly.
“I think that sounds great,” he managed, pushing off the stool and feeling all kinds of off-balance.
He cleaned up his mess and put everything away where it belonged. The only thing out of place in the whole room was the cup Shayna was using and the chair upon which she sat. A lot of years in the Army, with its constant and often surprise inspections, had made him into a neat freak. And then losing control of his life three years before had turned up the knob on that particular character trait. By a lot. He needed things where they belonged or it drove him fucking nuts.
He eyeballed her empty mug, and then gave into the urge. “Done with that?”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” she said.
Billy made quick work of rinsing and tucking it away in the dish washer.
Shayna pushed off her stool and grabbed her iPad. “I need to bring in the rest of my things from the car,” she said. “I know your guest room is also your office, so do you want to show me where to put stuff so it won’t be in your way?”
“I can bring it in for you. Where’s your car?”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, her gaze flickering to his shoulder again.
