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Color climbed through her face again in the most interesting barometer of her feelings and he liked having that tell. His compliment had pleased her. He wanted to do it again.
“I’ve seen all four of the Shrek movies at least ten times,” she said and he had the distinct impression she’d veered away from the subject of Marchande on purpose. “So I know the fairy godmoth
er changed Fiona back into her human form. I’m just trying to go along with your point and also make it clear that there will be no new hairdo or anything.”
“Really? Ten times?”
He’d probably seen them all twenty times. But there was a lot of downtime when you were a SEAL waiting for deployment. The other guys preferred to read or watch depressing shows like Game of Thrones, but he’d had enough violence in his day job that he didn’t like it in his entertainment. Lord of the Rings notwithstanding since the violence was mostly toward the bad guys.
She shrugged. “The Shrek movies are great. The real question is why you picked that as the theme for our…association. Whatever you want to call it.”
What, like an almost thirty-year-old man couldn’t like cartoons? He bristled. “There’s nothing wrong with Shrek. It’s a quest movie. A twist on regular fairy tales.”
Defensive much? He hadn’t even touched on how it had this element of hope that had always resonated with him. If things could work out for an ogre, the same might be true of an orphan who’d never known a solid home for more than a few months at a time. He hadn’t seen the movies as a kid. It was only as an adult that he’d found the DVD in a pile of others at the base one day and the strange title plus the odd looking green monster on the cover had intrigued him enough to see what it was about.
“Oh, I know. That’s one of the things I like about it. I just meant that you’re more like Shrek, going on a quest to find the princess on behalf of the king. You said you were going to be like Donkey. I was just thinking that if you intend to be the annoying talking sidekick, maybe I should reevaluate this whole thing.”
His shoulders relaxed as he laughed. “Point taken. I’ll be more like Shrek, the delivery boy.”
“You’ve seen those movies more than once.” Her smile widened as she punched him companionably in the arm. “Don’t try to deny it.”
He spread his hands wide, palms up. “I would never. It’s my favorite. The first is the best, followed by Shrek 3. Then 2, then 4. Sometimes I watch 2 and change my mind about the order though.”
That marked the first time he’d ever said that out loud. You didn’t talk about cartoons in a roomful of SEALs who could collectively dismantle an in-flight helicopter, then free jump fifty feet into the Persian Gulf before it crashed, taking its insurgent passengers to the depths of the sea.
There was something about Aria—and this conversation—that made him feel like he could be himself, no matter what. She didn’t know he was broken, nor did she expect him to provide any glue.
“Four is always last though,” she agreed with a definitive nod, apparently opting to skip the part where his taste had seven-year-old boy written all over it.
In a lot of ways, he hadn’t ever grown up, though, as Hardy often laughingly accused him of when Isaiah took Marchande’s stupid bets. So? What was so great about being a grown-up anyway? Adulthood sucked with all the responsibility and tension and bills. Besides, Isaiah hadn’t gotten a real childhood, not the kind other kids did. There’d been no Santa Claus on Christmas morning or Easter baskets to anticipate. One year, he’d landed with foster parents who practiced some fringe religion and that had been pretty bleak since they didn’t celebrate anything, least of all birthdays or other generally recognized festive occasions.
“I think we’ll get along just fine,” he told her as one very tall, very blond SEAL waltzed into view at the end of the cracked concrete road that lead toward town, not one hair bold enough to escape from his slick topknot. Marchande was always carefully groomed and never hurried anywhere, even when bringing back drinks for someone else who’d stayed behind working. “Looks like our target is back from his jaunt to Voodoo Grocery. Mum’s the word, right?”
Aria shook her head, eyes wide. “Oh, for sure. You can’t tell him there’s a bet. Or that I’ve got the hots for him. I would be mortified if he found out.”
“You told me, though.”
“Well, yeah, I had to in order to get your help. And, you know.” She shrugged and lowered her voice as Marchande ambled up the dirt path from the road, still taking his time but clearly intrigued by the party of two that had formed in his absence. “You’re easy to talk to. More importantly, I trust you.”
How about that? He kind of liked being her confidante, a go-to friend she could tell anything without fear of censure.
“What a great addition to the scenery,” Marchande said by way of greeting and treated Aria to one of his megawatt smiles. “I like it when you come by to dress up the place.”
She smiled at him in return, but otherwise kept her mouth shut. That wasn’t going to work. This was her chance to get started on winning the bet.
“Perfect timing, then,” Isaiah said cheerily. “I was just about to go…do something.”
He had nothing to do, but it was the only excuse he could conjure up on the fly to give them time alone together. Plus, jetting off had the added bonus of forcing Marchande to pick up his share of the renovations, which he’d shirked for the better part of an hour.
“Like what?” Marchande asked, because of course he had no clue Isaiah had been trying to finagle something on his behalf. “You can’t abandon ship, Elmer. It’s go-time on the rest of these exterior panels.”
“I have to get back to the diner anyway,” Aria said as Tristan handed over his PowerAde cargo to Isaiah.
But as she turned to go, she shot Isaiah a secret look that hit him square in the solar plexus with a long, liquid pull that shouldn’t feel so good. But it did. They shared something now. He was part of her inner circle, part of her community, and his greedy, parched soul lapped it up.
He’d had that in the Navy—the camaraderie, the sense of belonging—and it had been ripped away. If there was a small chance he could recreate some of that with Aria simply by giving her a few pointers about Marchande, but with none of the pressure, he’d take it.
In fact, he’d prefer it. Aria didn’t share the images in Isaiah’s head of the bloody, broken bodies he’d been responsible for murdering. The guys on his team did. They’d all been there. They’d all participated in the strike that had leveled most of the village of al-Sadidiq. How did you move on from that, pick up and go on like nothing had happened? How did you make a single decision outside of what shoes to put on in the morning without questioning whether you had all the right information?
