The Major's Welcome Home

While they waited for the final guest to arrive, Lieutenant General Sutton was relating a story of his time on the ground during the Gulf War, speaking in the hushed tones people reserved for tales of ghosts and battle. Beck’s mind struggled to distance itself, find a quiet place a million miles away from thoughts of where he’d just returned from, but he wanted to be respectful, so he forced himself to pay attention to every word.

“We didn’t know it at the time, but we were the lucky ones.” Sutton slapped him on the back. “Same as you. Lucky enough to be alive with the life education most men aren’t privy to. It’ll serve you well, whether you know it or not.”

Beck nodded once. “Thank you, sir. I—”

“Sorry, I’m late.” A muffled female voice, followed by familiar booted footsteps, came from the front entryway, and Beck’s body went screaming into high alert. All five senses sharpened the way they did before going into battle, his shoulders bracing for impact. He was experiencing déjà vu, not because his subconscious was rerunning this scene. No, because he’d expected it. Maybe not this exact way, but he’d expected to see her again. Would have gone to find her himself, if necessary.

Kenna was the final dinner guest? But they were waiting for Sutton’s daughter. Beck felt sucker-punched as reality dawned. Kenna—the girl who’d gotten on her knees and pleasured him—was Lieutenant General Sutton’s daughter. For the love of God.

He thought he’d readied himself for Kenna to walk into the room, but he’d been ten kinds of wrong. No, she strode into view in combat boots and a miniskirt, long hair—hair he’d pulled—piled on top of her head. And he just managed to catch himself before staggering back. It couldn’t be typical, this impact she had on him. Like ten smooth sets of hands stroking over his body at the same time. He shouldn’t be anxious to get those green eyes on him. Shouldn’t regret he hadn’t thrown her onto that damn bed yesterday, given her the kind of fucking he ached to dole out. The kind he’d watched on his laptop screen, where the female grew sweaty and moaned for the man to thrust harder, her ass shaking with the impact. No, he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about that. If anything, he should be mad as all hell that she’d omitted her identity, but he couldn’t muster it around the relief of seeing her again.

She was busy digging in a grocery bag and hadn’t looked up yet, so he used the time to straighten up, pull himself together. Glue his gaze above her neck where it belonged, especially with her father standing at his shoulder. Jesus.

“I swear, I left right on time, but I—” Kenna looked up and the smile froze on her face. So she hadn’t known either. Well, at least he wasn’t the only one being caught off guard. With an obvious effort, she turned her attention to Sutton. “I, uh…s-stopped to get that beef jerky you’re always going on about. The one—”

“Thank you. Although, Tina picked it up for me this morning.” Sutton patted his daughter on the shoulder, much like he’d done to Beck. “I’d rather you’d been on time.”

“Ah, you know me. Unfashionably late.” She dropped the grocery bag down to her side, throwing a glance at Beck. “Just ask Major Collier. If I’d been any later to pick him up yesterday, he would’ve started walking.” She widened her eyes slightly. “Right, Major?”

Beck hid his surprise that she’d acknowledged their acquaintance in a sip of whiskey. “I was grateful to have a ride at all on short notice. Thanks again, ma’am.”

“That’s right. I forgot you two already know each other,” Sutton said, just as Tina joined them in the living room to take Beck’s now-empty glass and sail back toward the kitchen. Beck noticed she’d only offered a passing nod in Kenna’s direction and that Kenna didn’t appear surprised by the less-than-welcoming gesture. “I’ll go make sure Tina has dinner in order,” Sutton continued. “Make yourself comfortable, Major. Kenna.”

The air left the room as soon as they were alone. She was both too far away and too close for his peace of mind. Questions hovered on the tip of his tongue. Questions that she anticipated, based on her expectant—slightly defiant—expression. But the bag of rejected jerky she’d brought looked so sad, dangling against her boot. And he didn’t like the welcome she’d received. Not at all. Knew it had to account for the steel she’d put in her spine, the adorable way she lifted her chin. So he didn’t ask why she’d kept her identity from him. Yes, because he didn’t want to be predictable, but more so because he wanted to distract her from the tense undercurrents he’d felt running through the room. He needed her to feel welcome, even if it wasn’t his place or his home.