Since when had he started noticing what women wore? And pink was pink, damn it. Not rose. Next thing he knew, he'd be watching the fashion network and whipping out a credit card for a fuchsia scarf.
He may not be the most creative Joe Sensitive on the planet, but he knew his job and his place. He nodded to whatever the hell it was the captain just said, eyes on the four Rangers flinging their bodies through the air, landing. Damn near perfect.
Except damn near wasn't good enough.
Next thing he knew, his boot jammed itself in the porch latticework while he hauled himself up. "Follow me, boys."
He might be getting old but he was not going soft.
"Break your ankle practicing and you won't be any good to anybody. Break your ankle out there in the field and you're gonna be a liability to your fellow soldier who'll risk his life to carry you out." He jerked a thumb toward young Santuci. "Keep an eye on the private here."
Santuci beamed like a star pupil. Kid wasn't much older.
Drew lined up beside Santuci. "You ready, Private?"
"Uh—" his Adam's apple bobbed "—you're gonna jump, too, sir?"
"I have done this once or twice before."
"No disrespect meant, sir."
"None taken." Sometimes a commander had to remind his troops he'd been in the same trenches. Walked the same walk. He wasn't doing this to impress some woman.
"Anytime, sir."
"Hoo-uh." Two sets of boots pounded the roof, nearing the edge, flat desert sprawling ahead through hazy heat waves.
Airborne!
Launching himself, he focused on the horizon, on her scarf. And God, but it sure was rose and pretty and called to him like a beacon as he flew through the muggy air, a sensation of freedom as damned incredible as it had been the first time he launched himself over twenty years ago.
He landed, instincts carrying him through the PLF to absorb the shock of impact—balls of the feet, roll to the thigh, the ass, up the arm to the shoulder.
He sprung to his feet. Hoo-uh!
His knees shouted back in response.
Shit, that hurt. He schooled his features and suppressed a wince as the pain shot from his time-battered knees all the way to his teeth.
And then his men gathered around him blocking Yasmine from sight. Smiles and backslaps,
hoo-uhs and grunts jam-packed the air.
Hell, yeah. This is what it was all about, how he liked his life, and he needed to remember that. The camaraderie. Unity. Not about posturing like some young stud on the make for a woman he wasn't even interested in having.
Didn't want?
Damn. All right. He wanted her. But that didn't mean he'd left behind rational thought.
Drew dug in his pocket, found the LifeSavers and thumbed one into his mouth, sucked back a curse and the throbbing in his knees echoed by a far more painful one a few inches north of his knees. He definitely wasn't twenty-five anymore.
And if he were twenty-five now? Newly divorced, with a solid set of knees and a recklessness time hadn't had a chance to beat out of him. What would he think of Yasmine if they'd met then? A damned ridiculous thought since she would have been six, for God's sake.
But what if?
The answer rushed in without hesitation. If they were closer in age, he would already have her scarf off and his hands in her hair, working his way toward persuading her to let his body be inside hers.
The applause faded along with hoo-uhs as his men resumed their training exercise. But Yasmine hadn't moved. Wasn't laughing.