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This time when she leaned back in her chair, she took her beer with her and finished the last few swallows.
The waitress appeared. “Would you like another?”
“I have nowhere to put it.” Breely patted her flat belly in Moe’s black T-shirt, making him wish he was in that shirt with her hand patting him.
The band had taken a break making it possible to hold a conversation without shouting over the music.
Though Moe continued working his way through his fish, he wasn’t hungry. His lusty thoughts consumed him, worrying him. How was he supposed to get any sleep in the same room with the fiery redhead who enjoyed her food as much as he enjoyed sex?
Breely’s eyes narrowed, and she sat forward. “You know my boring life story. I know next to nothing about you other than you’re prior military and work for the Brotherhood.”
“Brotherhood Protectors,” he corrected. “What do you want to know?”
She tipped her head to one side. “Which branch of service?”
He set his fork down. “Air Force.”
Her eyebrows formed a V. “I’ve read a lot about special forces. However, I don’t recall the Air Force having them.”
Moe nodded. “We don’t, per se. I was a Pararescue specialist or PJ.”
“I’m not familiar with PJs.”
He downed the last swallow of his beer. “We’re highly trained in personnel recovery. We do whatever it takes to rescue American or Allied forces trapped behind enemy lines, surrounded, captured or injured, and bring them home. Quite often, we work alongside other special forces units to achieve our objectives.”
She pushed her bowl aside and propped her elbows on the table. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It was.” He didn’t feel the need to elaborate. Many of his missions had been top secret and often bloody and intense.
“Did you learn to fly planes in the military?” she asked.
Moe grinned. “I learned to fly planes on the farm in South Dakota. I had my pilot’s license before I got my driver’s license and joined the Air Force when I graduated from high school.”
“If you like flying so much, why didn’t you fly planes for the Air Force?”
His smile faded. “The man who taught me to fly was a member of the Air Force Reserves. He was called to active duty for the war in Iraq. His plane went down in Taliban-controlled territory. They found his plane and his parachute. It took them three days for our Intelligence guys to locate him and another day to send a team in. They were one day too late. The Taliban killed him.”
Breely reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry.”
He stared at her small hand on his, the memory of Colin Henderson’s homecoming playing in his mind. Of standing with his mother and father at the airport with Captain Henderson’s family as the casket was brought off the plane and loaded into a hearse.
Up until that point, Moe had wanted to be a pilot in the Air Force. Seeing the Henderson family standing on the airport tarmac had touched him in a way he hadn’t been able to deny. From that moment, he’d wanted to be one of the elite force that went in to rescue fellow soldiers, sailors, Marines or Air Force personnel from dangerous situations.
“I joined the Air Force to become a Pararescue specialist to bring out people like Captain Henderson. Alive.”
Her hand remained on his. “And you did.”
He nodded. “I did.”
“And now, you’re out of the military. You’re not old enough to be retired, are you?”
He shook his head. “I left the Air Force after thirteen years.”
“Why?” she asked. “Or is it too personal?”
He gave her a tight smile. “I left, hoping to save my marriage.”
Breely jerked her hand back and settled it in her lap with the other. “I didn’t even think to ask. Are you married?”
