Page 12 of Freeing Lark

She’d traded the jungle she’d survived years ago for flour-dusted aprons and early mornings, and somehow the bakery suited her. There was still a quiet alertness about her, the kind born from trauma, but she smiled easier these days. Especially since Jeeves had bulldozed his way into her life.

“You could say that.”

“The usual?” she asked, indicating the machine in front of her.

“Please.”

She started grinding beans. “You look like you fought a bear.”

“I would’ve preferred the bear.”

Cammie chuckled. “Nightmare?”

He looked at her. There weren’t many who knew about his nightmares. Only the men who’d been there that night truly knew. So needless to say, he was surprised this tiny slip of a woman could read him so well.

She shrugged. “You’ve got that thousand-yard stare you veterans get. And I understand trauma.”

He couldn’t argue. She’d survived a trauma that would have crushed anyone and came out stronger for it.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t press. One thing Hoot appreciated about Cammie—she understood there were questions people answered only when they were ready.

The espresso machine hissed and steam curled upward. The rich aroma filled the room. Now that smelled like salvation.

As Cammie worked, Hoot leaned against the counter, letting his thoughts drift anywhere except Afghanistan and traumas. Unfortunately, they drifted to another woman entirely. The one stranded on the island.

He still couldn’t believe she’d managed to lose her boat. Or practically drown him in Bell Creek. He glanced down at the pants he wore today. Thankfully, they were dry. Unlike the pair he’d worn that evening.

He’d spent two miserable hours sitting in damp denim at Hooch & Harmony while Flint, Voodoo, Jeeves, and the rest of the Condor’s Overwatch crew laughed themselves stupid. It hadn’t been as uncomfortable as Hell Week where he’d been constantly wet from head to toe. The absence of sand had made it at least slightly more bearable.

“She sank you?”

“Didn’t sink the boat,” Hoot had corrected.

“No,” Voodoo had wheezed. “Just you. A SEAL.” That had been the most amusing part for them. The fact that the Navy SEAL had been dunked… by a woman.

Even Flint had smiled. “How exactly does a grown man fall into a river rescuing a stranded artist?”

“Gravity.”

“Sure.” Jeeves had nearly choked on his beer.

“Tell us about her again.”

“There isn’t much to tell.”

“Except?”

“She talked a lot.”

“Everybody talks a lot compared to you,” Voodoo had teased.

“Anything else?”

Hoot had thought about it. “She reminds me of Marilyn.” That had earned complete silence. “A younger Marilyn,” he’d clarified. “Artsy with a bit of snark.”

Yet, to Hoot she seemed like the kind of person who would apologize for existing. The insecurity was easy to read. What wasn’t was what was hidden underneath. Something stronger that even she hadn’t discovered yet. He’d spent maybe thirty minutes with the woman, so the thought took him by surprise. He was used to being able to read people at a glance, but his reading of her came out of left field.