For the next three nights, we meet at 6, at my house. Every night, I have something for Barrett. Brownies, fudge, colored rice crispy treats. In exchange for food, he helps me hone my trachea-crushing skills and learn the groin stomp. Which, mind you, he doesn’t let me practice anywhere near him.
The arrangement is working really well, giving me something fun to look forward to and something to do when he’s not here. My comfort level around him is evolving, too. After the second night, I forego my silly pre-workout shower and greet him looking like my regular self.
With some effort, I try to st
op overthinking things and focus more on making him laugh, which I increasingly think he needs. I’m no expert, but after our second night together, I become convinced his awkwardness is not so much that, but rather some kind of fatigue. The more I loosen up around him, the more often I notice him rubbing his eyes and forehead and pressing on his temples when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
Always, I want to ask about his service, but I know better. I gather details like my bears forage for their autumn binge. He’s from the L.A. area. He has a younger brother. He doesn’t talk to his dad much. He was a Ranger for a long time. I learn he’s savvy about the caffeine content of chocolate, leading me to wonder if he has sleep issues; he says he doesn’t mind food coloring because “there are worse things.” Every night, I invite him in for dinner or some wine or absinthe. Every night, he finds a way to politely accept the treats I’ve made and go straight home.
A comment he made yesterday raised my eyebrows—something about it made it sound like he’d be sitting up all night. So today, after a brief trip into the enclosure, I spend the hours before he’s coming over making a chicken pasta casserole, which I leave in the oven, covered with foil.
The second I see him coming through the woods, worry knots my stomach and I know my Pushy Gwenna Dinner Plan is needed. I watch him move through the trees and my pulse actually pounds between my ears. He’s wearing dark jeans that I’ve never seen before and a navy and denim-blue, ringer-style shirt with the same black Nikes that he always wears to spar.
I can tell something is off just by the way he moves. This guy has better balance than anyone I’ve met—and that includes my childhood Taekwondo instructor, a fourth-degree black belt —but I actually see him reach out and put his hand against a tree trunk one time as he moves—more staggers—through the trees. His hair is sticking up off his forehead on one side, as if he fell asleep face-first on a desk or something. As he pushes limbs out of his way and comes into my yard, he gives me what I think is meant to be a smile, but it’s nothing more than a slight twitch of his mouth. His eyelids sag, although as he gets closer to me, I can see him try to pull them open. Dark circles wreath his eyes.
I just want to hug him as I stand up from my porch perch and his long legs close the distance between us. I decide to test my theory. When he gets close enough for me to reach, my hand darts out and toward his cheek. His big hand catches mine before my fingers touch his scruff. His eyes pop open wide as his fingers tighten around mine.
“Gwenna, Gwenna…” He gives me a smile and a slow shake of his head, which morphs into an eyebrows-raised, lips-pursed look of challenge. “You must want the nightly snack to be your sweet ass on a plate.”
I can’t help giggling like a high-schooler.
“You look tired.” I take a swipe at his abs. His hand catches my wrist, squeezing slightly.
“You want to keep that up?” He arches his dark brows again.
I grin, and try to thump his ear. I expect reciprocal behavior, so when he knocks my feet out from under me, sending me flying back, then pulls me by the hand—which, apparently, he grabbed at some point—so when we land, I’m face-down over his lap, I turn my head to look up at him, feeling dazed and stunned.
“You think this is my first time fighting tired?” The look on his face is knowing—and, I think, a little jaded.
I sit up, and put my hands on his thick shoulders. Then I give into a rare pre-accident-Gwenna urge and snuggle up against him. “I think this is your first time coming in for dinner,” I say with my cheek against his chest.
I slide one hand down from his neck, over the hard swell of his outer arm, and down to his ribcage. Despite the lack of air in my lungs, I manage to lean back and give him my most charming snarile.
In the moment, I’m counting on my physicality to keep him from seeing this as flirting. The truth is, I really care about his wellbeing. After just a few days of his little smiles and deep chuckles, his smartass comments and his thinly veiled conscientiousness, I feel a surprising depth of affection for my sparring partner.
Which is why I push myself to let my guard down as I lean away from him and smack my hand against his shadowed cheek. “A-hah.” I arch my brows. “Gotcha.”
He leans back on his arms, looking slightly wide-eyed. I climb off his lap and crouch in front of him.
“You know you’re off your game, sensei.” I wrap my hand around his forearm. “Come inside with me and have some food. Maybe that will wake you up.”
His eyes narrow on me like he’s trying to figure out who body-snatched the woman he met last week and replaced her with this assertive lunatic. I snarile—and realize this feels good. I feel so natural tugging on his arm, tipping my head at my porch. “C’mon. Don’t pretend you have a better dinner plan or better company.”
I smirk. He laughs. He looks a little more awake.
I can see him school his features into a more serious expression as he stands up. “You think you set our agenda?”
“Yes.” I put a hand on my hip. “She who wields the spatula has the power.”
He grins, dark and Cheshire. His arm darts out so quick, I don’t even think of blocking it before his hand is gliding through my hair. He wraps a wavy lock around his hand and tugs lightly.
He smirks. His brows arch over his expressive eyes. “That right?”
I wrap my hand around the arm that’s got me by the hair. “Touché.” I want to keep the ruse going, but I can’t stop myself from laughing.
He smiles back at me, and I feel like I’ve won the lottery.
He lets me go. I fold my arms. “You gonna shun my company? Am I good enough to fight but not dinner material?” I quirk one brow up in mock challenge. I’m not even really sure what I’m saying. I just plan to tease until he comes inside with me, so I can try to figure out what’s up with him.