Chapter Three
Wariness sobered the boy’s eyes, fixed on the solider immortalized in ink on Travis’s arm. Travis’s dark brows pulled together curiously, with perhaps a dose of skepticism, as he looked down at his tattoo, then held out his forearm to roll it in the overhead light as if trying to see what Brandon was seeing. He cleared his throat. A deep furrow pleated his brow, making him look pissed though he was thinking hard. So reserved.
Skylar had never seen this reaction from him.
“This was my battle buddy in the army. I called him Boss. He was one of the good ones.”
A fake smile lifted his mouth that made his jaw seem positively etched in stone with musculature coiling up his neck like some commando yet didn’t meet his eyes.
“Was?” the boy asked.
“Yup. He died. But what I find more interesting is this Rangers game you get to go to while I’m trapped here on call. You seen that freshman hotshot they just drafted this season?”
Travis left the question unanswered. Huh. File Boss under things Travis didn’t talk about, judging from that pivot. But Brandon’s hard-ass expression had softened a degree.
“Yeah. But he ain’t gonna do so well if he can’t control that curveball,” Brandon replied.
Wait, Brandon was talking? His words were still sullen, but even he, it seemed, couldn’t resist Travis’s charms as Trav casually clicked in a series of codes on the monitor by the bed. Travis’s eyes lit up. A genuine smile claimed his face, and my God, why did he have to be so beautiful?
“You ain’t lyin’,” Travis said, whistling a decrescendo as they fell into easy jokes about baseball.
Therewas that spark of magic, that man who could chat up anyone as easily as if he was chewing gum. He’d always had a way with people. And he was apparently good with kids. Did he have any of his own?
Travis patted the bed rail. “Let me talk to your momma for a sec, then we’ll get the party started.”
Travis came around the bed to Skylar. This time, Brandon hadn’t corrected Travis about her being his mom. That was usually the first thing Brandon did, a constant reminder that he didn’t trust her fully yet. Perhaps he never would.
She watched Travis’s approach. He was more mature around those dark brown eyes, his waist, still so trim beneath his wideset shoulders, with his scrub pants slouched around his narrow hips, that lanyard swaying against a flat stomach. And those suntanned arms in the dim lamplight overhead still sported a farmers tan on the left one where it probably hung out his window while he drove. His muscles rippled over his forearms, the definition of his tendons connecting to the pop of biceps peeking out of his sleeves, the flash of that tattoo as he moved and the tiny healed flecks of scar tissue peppered into his skin…
Fleeting concern seemed to once more shimmer across his face as he dipped his head and gave her the look again.
“You sure you don’t want to lie down?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” A lie that, when she said it, sounded like one. She’d never been able to pull off a lie to him and apparently still couldn’t.
She lifted her chin. She wasn’t that adoring teen with stars in her eyes anymore. Lying or not, she didn’t owe him an explanation.
“You were in that truck when it hit the fence post, too,” he said. Yeah, he saw her lie and raised her another question.
“I didn’t pass out because of the accident,” she snapped softly so Brandon wouldn’t overhear.
And was she staring at that tattoo again? Wondering what Brandon saw? He was probably hopped up on meds.
“His dad was killed overseas,” Skylar offered, changing the subject. “It’s probably why that soldier tat caught his eye.”
And wasn’t that ironic. All this time, she’d thought Travis had died overseas, too.
Travis furrowed his brow. There was no mistaking the sympathy that settled there. He palmed her shoulder, carefully—right where Dr. Glasser had done so, whether consciously or no. Her skin erupted in tingles where he touched her, burning beneath her lab coat. Their chemistry that had always crackled like a brush burn was still there, at least for her, and she couldn’t bear to feel it and wonder whether or not it was reciprocated.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he muttered as if giving her condolences, and she gazed up at him and frowned.
“Why are you apologizing to me?”
“I always wondered what happened to you,” he replied, even if his jaw was tight.
“Sure you did.” She forced a fake smile.
“What does that mean?” he bit out.