The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

SEALs come in all sizes and shapes—tall, short, stout. Their one commonality is a superb physical state. Muscles . . . muscles everywhere.

I have no doubt that each one of them could break me in half without effort. Nate and the male next to the redhead are about the tallest, at a few inches over six feet. It’s easy to see why there are so many gorgeous women around, including the ladies sitting at the table.

It’s not easy to walk toward such avid interest, not knowing what’s coming next.

“Why are they all standing up?” I whisper out of the side of my mouth, dragging my feet a little.

“The guys are interested in you.”

“Why?”

“My nickname is Monk. That I’ve run off on shore leave with a woman is making them crazy.” He plants a quick kiss on my forehead and pulls me forward.

By the back slapping and fist jabbing, it’s easy to see Nate is well-liked. I hang back slightly to observe him. It’s no different than it was in high school. Men look up to him and want to be with him.

Actually, there is a difference. The way that they greet him is like how Nick greets him. This is his family.

He laces his fingers through mine and says, “This is Charlotte. And, Charlotte, these fools are my teammates.”

He introduces each one individually, and I try to memorize their names. It reminds me of the times I had to meet Nick’s teammates both in college and then when he went pro.

There’s something strikingly similar between these men and the ones that Nick plays with. Only, when these men go out to do their jobs, someone’s life is on the line. The work isn’t done for entertainment but for the protection of our country.

I have to remind myself that these men have hopes and dreams and heartaches like anybody else. It helps me to relax, but only for a moment because the interrogation begins before I even sit down.

“Tell us everything about yourself and don’t leave anything out,” orders the man named Cabby.

There are a few ways to handle being the new girl in an already established crowd dominated by certain male personalities, but my go-to one is that I’m confident, can take a ribbing, and spew my own flavor of bullshit.

“Well, my name is Helga, err Helga Charlotte, and I am an alpine skier. I met Nathan when he was vacationing with his family in Lake Tahoe. I was babysitting for a pro golfer’s family while they were on holiday. I didn’t speak any English, and Nate didn’t speak any German. Ultimately we were left to draw pictures for each other. We would exchange our stick figure messages for days until he left. This continued until one day I broke my hand and could no longer draw stick figures. At that point I realized I could not continue in a relationship where stick figures were our only form of communication, so we drifted apart. Then we discovered each other on the beach where the three of you were running. He convinced me that our stick figure romance could be revived, and so here I am.”

I lift my unoccupied hand palm up as if to say that is the end of the story. Nate coughs into his free hand and then pulls out a chair for me. Across the table, there are varying expressions of confusion and disbelief.

“Helga Charlotte?” Cabby’s one eyebrow is raised.

“I know, it’s a mouthful, right?”

“Your English has come a long way,” he replies.

“Thank you. I’ve worked hard on it.”

Nate’s humor is morphing into irritation. He doesn’t like to see me under attack, and there’s something about Cabby’s questioning—or perhaps the way that he’s looking at me—that is raising Nate’s hackles. He shifts and then leans forward, arms on the table. “You got a problem, buddy?”

Under the wooden table, I rub Nate’s knee to reassure him I’m okay, but he’s focused on his friend and teammate across the table. They stare at each other for what seems like a long time but is likely no more than a few seconds.

The freckled boy interrupts, “So does everyone call you Helga, but only Nate calls you Charlotte?”

The innocent question breaks the tension and everyone starts laughing. One of the guys cuffs the boy affectionately on the back of the head.

“What?” he asks, looking around. “I was curious.” But as the others start making fun of him, calling him Howdy Doody, he gives me a wink. By playing dumb, he’s drawn their attention away. Sneaky. I am super impressed and mouth a thank you to him.

None of this escapes Nate’s eyes. He flags down a waitress and whispers to her, “The redheaded guy in the corner? Everything’s on my tab tonight.”

With the ice broken, the conversation became easy. I admit that Nate and I were long-time friends and grew up together. His arm never leaves the back of my chair, and my hand never stops rubbing his knee.