Patrick’s gaze held more than one question as he put another few inches between them. Thankfully, her apple crumble arrived. Patrick interceded and took the bowl from the waitress’ hands, placing it in front of Marg, but she’d lost her appetite.
“Anyone want desert?” She pushed the bowl into the center of the table. Paul and Justin didn’t need a second invitation and went to town. Patrick threw a glance or two at her, but concentrated more on his nachos.
Back in the parking lot with the group heading off into the night in twos, she stood next to her car, watching Patrick don his helmet. After straddling his bike, he flipped up the visor. “Nice meeting you, Marg.”
Nice meeting her? That was it? He’d helped her through a burning building, gave her courage to jump out a window, and his parting words were, “Nice to meet you?”
“Dinner,” she spouted.
Patrick paused instead of starting his bike.
“To say thank you for helping me tonight.” A million thoughts raced through her head, but the loudest was what if he said no. The second loudest reminded her that she couldn’t cook.
Sitting on his bike, Patrick’s broad shoulders filled out his leather jacket. Taut jeans hugged his long, muscular legs, tempting the young woman in her to do something very naughty. She wanted to hear him talk, tell her about himself. This tall, dark, handsome man had been one of the few who made it through the SEAL training. She’d looked up Navy SEALs on the World Wide Web virtual library, but found little. The library in town offered a few books, but the books didn’t carry the sexy rumble of his voice.
Patrick didn’t jump right in with a ‘yes’.
She cut her own tension off, saving herself from embarrassment. “Never mind. Thanks for helping me tonight.”
Spending hours on a photoshoot with male models, some of them straight, hadn’t upped her pulse once. Patrick Cobbs did it with one look. Soon he’d be leaving to finish his training, from the conversation she’d gleaned around the table tonight. His stoic and mysterious demeanor rarely changed, and he certainly hadn’t put any moves on her.
“I’ve got some things to do at the base tomorrow. Dinner sounds good tomorrow night.”
She left the key dangling in her lock. “I’ve got a shoot near Tijuana tomorrow, but I should be finished at three. How about six-thirty?” Was that enough time to cook a meal? She’d call Grams and ask for help. So excited, and not thinking straight, she got into her car and was about to close the door.
His mouth curled into a smile. “Going to tell me where you live?”
How embarrassing. “The Cityfront Terrace in Marina Park, Suite 316.”
“Cityfront, huh?”
“It’s new. It’s…”
“Yeah, I know where it is. See ya tomorrow.”
He waited for her to leave before he started his Harley and rode in a different direction. Marg hurried home and rushed up to her condo. Darting a look at the clock, she grabbed the phone and flopped onto the couch. Grams liked to stay up late. It was only eleven o’clock.
The phone rang five times. “Please, be home.”
“Hello, Stines-Foster residence,” Gram’s maid greeted, sounding a little groggy.
“Elise, hi. It’s Marg. Is Gram’s still up?”
“One moment, dear.”
A rustle and murmured words slid through the line before her Grams answered. “Marg, is something wrong, honey?”
“Grams, I need your help.”
“You sound flustered, what’s wrong?”
“I invited Patrick for dinner, but the only thing I learned to make in school was oatmeal raisin cookies and spaghetti.”
Grams chuckled. “First off, who’s Patrick? And second off, calm down, dear. You’ll make a splendid dinner for him.”
Marg switched the phone from one ear to the other after pulling off her earring. “He’s this guy I met tonight just before the bar burned to the ground.”
“What?” her grandmother shouted.
“It’s okay. I jumped out the second story window.”
“Oh my God!”
“I wasn’t hurt, Grams. The SEALs caught me in a tarp.”
“Start talking, young lady.”
Chapter Eight
Marg bent over to peer into the oven for the thirtieth time. Browned and bubbling, Operation “First Time Wearing an Apron” looked like a success. A little prayer to the cooking gods had been disbursed. Patrick Cobbs better not be a food aficionado because she certainly wasn’t Martha Stewart. Growing up, she never forged for her own food. She only had to ask Sylvia, their fulltime cook, if she’d whip something up. Originally from Hungary, Sylvia lived on the estate and had been there as long as Marg could remember. When her mom wasn’t looking, Sylvia would sneak them treats that weren’t strictly nutritionally balanced according to Claire Stines-Foster.
Marg cast a critical glance across the dining table as she gave her knee-length, curve clutching dress a little tug. Not overly pretentious, but she did place two gold candles on the table to match the etchings on her cutlery. Oh, goodness, maybe it’s too fancy.
The phone rang twice. Patrick had arrived. No time to change anything. She took three long strides to reach the side table beside her couch.
“Hello.”
“Evening, Margaret, it’s Patrick.”
“You’re not selling Avon?” she teased.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good, then I’ll let you in.” She heard a chuckle before pressing number six to open the front door.
Releasing a pent up breath of anxious energy, she opened her condo door before he knocked, but she didn’t expect all the air to leave her lungs when he rounded the corner. Wearing a pair of Levi’s riding low on his hips and a tight black T-shirt that hugged the man’s physique, her legs bypassed pudding and went straight to powder.
Patrick glanced up as he entered and came to a swift halt. Gazing at each other, she wished she could read his mind. With a twitch of discomfort, she realized her first mistake. She’d dressed for the occasion, just like her mother had trained her to do. She should have worn a pair of comfy jeans and a pretty top with a pair of sandals. Not high heels! Dammit.
“You’re um, wow! We’re having dinner here, aren’t we?”
“Yes, come in.” She turned her head to hide the red flush that worked its way up her neck to her cheeks.
He stopped her mid-turn and revealed his hand from behind his back, a bouquet of flowers clutched in his fist. “Thought you might like these.” He cleared his throat, his gaze flicking to hers.
“They’re gorgeous. Thank you. Dinner is almost ready.” She accepted the flowers and closed the door behind him. He followed her into the dining room. Maybe they should have a drink on the patio first? She could use one! “I’m sure I made too much.”
“Something smells good and don’t count on it. We were on the ‘O’ course all day. I could eat half an aircraft carrier.”
“What’s that?”
“Aircraft carrier or obstacle course?”
“I know what an aircraft carrier is.”
“Right. Um, the ‘O’ course is meant to beat the sh—crap out of us, but the Navy prefers the terms, strength and endurance.”
Back in the kitchen, she laughed as she pulled an extra-large glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. “I have wine or beer. You drink Budweiser, right?”
Even his nod made her skin sizzle. He hadn’t shaved, and she liked the shadow on his cheeks.
“You remember that from St. George’s?”
She grabbed a cold Bud from the fridge. “I guess. Bottle or glass?”
“Bottle is good enough for a guy like me.”
Odd statement, she thought, plucking the oven mitts from the counter and opening the oven door. No time for a cooling breeze on the patio, or the chicken parmesan she’d painstakingly made would burn. The pasta and salad were already on the table along with the garlic toast. She wasn’t going to frighten him away with foie gras o
r anything fancy. Thanks to Grams and a few pointers, she found she liked cooking. The smell sure beat eating salads.
“Does that ever look good. Thank you for the invitation, although I’m not sure why I’m here.”
The longest sentence he’d ever said. Things were looking up. “You’re here to eat.” Setting the casserole dish on the table, she checked for anything missing and was about to pull out her chair, when he reached to do it for her.
He halted before taking the seat at the opposite end of the table, changed his mind and sat adjacent to her. Giddiness replaced paralyzed nerves as he pulled the place setting in front of him. She liked that he wanted to be closer.
“The way you and Thane were talking the other night, I thought you were close.”
“No,” she said quickly, offering him the pasta bowl. Telling Patrick the truth about Thane gnawed at her, but she decided she’d go to the grave with the knowledge tucked in a vault welded shut in her memory bank. “Dig in.” A term she’d never heard in her dining room growing up.
“I was kind of raised on simple fare. I get the feeling you weren’t.”
For an instant she considered sidestepping her roots. “Simple fare is all you’ll get from my kitchen.”
She straightened her shoulders and forked a chicken breast onto his plate. His eyes surveyed her. Instead of voicing the thoughts roaming around his sexy head, he remained silent. Without even trying, she’d put herself back in the shackles of a Beverly Hills relationship, with every action or word critiqued by friends and enemies alike. She’d didn’t want to judge anyone, and she didn’t want to be judged.
“You’re right,” she blurted.
His fork stalled halfway to his mouth and his glance darted sideways.
“I’ve just learned to cook because I never had to growing up. The chef made our meals. Hardworking immigrants cleaned my room. Gardeners took care of the grounds.” She nodded and then pierced her chicken like she wanted to kill it for a second time.
His large, callused palm covered her hand. “I wasn’t making a judgement, Miss Stines, just voicing a thought. You said you graduated from Harvard, which means your family must be well off.”
She lifted her eyes to meet his. “I left my family behind in L.A. San Diego. Modeling. It’s all a new start, lived on my terms, but if that doesn’t work out, I’ll find a job in media relations somewhere. Anywhere except for my father’s studio.” She nodded. “When I said I considered enlisting in the Navy, I wasn’t kidding.”
Patrick had deposited a healthy piece of chicken into his mouth, and he choked on it. Pushing it down with the help of a quick swallow of beer, he cleared his passage. “Think your talents would be wasted in the Navy.”
“Why?” God help him if he assumed she only had legs but no brains.
“I liked school and I had pretty good grades, but if you made it into an Ivy League college, it means you can probably accomplish anything.” He paused, his hand laying on the table near hers. His thumb brushed the edge of her little finger for a second, and then he quickly placed his hand in his lap. “You’re beautiful. Don’t think you’ll fail at being a model.”
Patrick Cobbs had a way of putting her on edge with his gaze, but she realized he could soothe her with the empathy in his eyes like he did now. He uncorked the wine and filled her glass to the halfway point.
“Is the glass half full or half empty?”
She let out a breathy laugh. “I’ve heard this one before, but if I hadn’t, I’d say half full.”
He flicked his gaze to the table and back at her. “I joined the Navy because it had opportunities I wouldn’t get elsewhere. The SEALS put out a call for recruits. I jumped at it. Being a special operator will give me more options in the future.” He nodded. “It’s that or no option at all.”
“But it’s dangerous,” she said, her hunger fading. “And what do you mean no option? There’s always options.”
He shook his head and stared into his plate. “Not for men like me. As for danger, yes, but we’re not sent into combat without tools. They spent a lot of money training me. And more to come.”
Not men like him? That was the second time he’d made that kind of comment.
“My grandfather was a Navy SEAL,” she said quietly.
Patrick sat back in his chair to sip from his beer. “Do you know what class he was in?”
She shook her head. “He died before the US pulled out of Vietnam.”
A knock on her door interrupted their conversation.
“Excuse me.” She hurried through the kitchen to get rid of or kill whoever stood on the other side.
“Hi, Marg, sorry to interrupt.” Percy hung onto his cleaning cart with a dimpled grin on his cheeks in the hallway.
She’d met Percy the day she moved in. He’d helped her with her few bags. Gave her the rundown on the facilities, which she appreciated. But then he’d pop up whenever she left her condo, and somehow managed to be hanging around the parkade when she arrived home.
“Percy, what’s up?”
“Just wondered if you needed anything? I was about to head home for the day.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Dinner smells great.”
What the heck? Did he want an invitation? She didn’t think everyone in the building got this kind of attention. His frazzled hair hung around his face. Percy had spent a few thousand hours in the sunshine, his skin weathered and his sandpaper voice sounded as if he’d just spent three hours screaming at a rock concert smokin’ too many joints. “It’s Chicken Parmesan.”
A warm arm slid around her waist, and her body relaxed with Patrick’s muscled chest nudged up behind her. “Dinner’s getting cold, Marg.” He paused. “Problems?”
Percy’s gaze darted to the ground. “Percy, building maintenance. Just doing my job.”
“That’s good, thanks for dropping by.” Patrick drawled out the words like a gunslinger who walks into a saloon and orders a drink, daring anyone to make trouble. His tone seemed friendly enough, but a shimmer of warning skirted the words.
Percy bobbed his head and gave his cart a jerky push. “You don’t live here, do you?”
Patrick gave him a solid stare, but no answer.
Percy jerked around and put his feet in motion. “You need anything, Marg, just give me a call.”
“Thank you.” She ignored the fact she didn’t have his number.
Marg closed the door and turned, but Patrick kept his arm wrapped around her waist which brought them chest to chest. “Has that guy been bothering you?”
“No, not really.”
One brow lifted on his rugged features. “Not really, so…sometimes he has.”
She laughed nervously. “No, he’s just—”
“…Enamored by you.”
She watched the words form on his full lips. Without him knowing, she’d taken off her heels under the dining room table. If she stood on her tippy toes, she could kiss him. Being tall, she didn’t feel delicate very often, except now, next to Patrick’s strength.
Sliding his hand down her arm, he twined his fingers with hers and led her back to the table. “Let’s try this again.” He pulled out her chair. Once seated, she craned her head back. Half-lidded eyes gazed down at her. “Think he’s a little out of his league.” Patrick’s finger slid across her shoulder with the softest caress before he settled himself.
“When do you…ship out?”
He finished a mouthful of pasta with a brief close of his eyes as if he really loved it. “You mean deploy?”
“I suppose. I don’t know the terminology.”
“Thane and I just finished our BUD/S training. We’ve got thirty days off, and then we’re both headed back for further training called SQT’s, SEAL Qualification Training. If we pass, we’ll be assigned to a team. Six months of probation and then we receive our Tridents, if we live and don’t get the boot.”
Marg’s fork dipped to her plate. “You mean here in San Diego, right?”
“Where’s that?”
“Virginia Beach. There’s two locations in the states SEALs deploy from.”
“How long are these SQT’s? What do you do? Or is that secret?”
The cusp of his lip straightened with a grin. “No, not a secret. It’s advanced training, like resistance and escape and Jump School. That type of thing. Prepares us for our missions.”
“Those are secret.” She nibbled on a tidbit of chicken.
He nodded. “Yes, those are secret.” He salted his pasta and added a little sauce. “Once we’ve completed our advanced training and are evaluated by our peers and officers, we’ll receive our Budweisers.”
She cocked a brow at him.
“Our Trident pins. They call them Budweisers.”
“I see. And then you’ll be deployed?”
“We’ll be on active duty, but deployments are different. I’ll be deployed for six months and home for eighteen months, but that can change depending on what’s happening in the world. It could be a six month turnaround. We won’t know until we’re assigned to our team. But even when we’re home we’re training, and it doesn’t always happen where we’re stationed.”
“Do you want to be here in Coronado?”
“Sure, I’d like to stay close for my mom.” He paused and gave her a lengthy look. “She was diagnosed with cancer a year ago.”
Marg choked down her mouthful. “Patrick, I’m so sorry.”
“The pills she takes help to slow it down.”
“Will she—”
He nodded. “Eventually, but we don’t know when.”
“Does she need help? I could visit her when you’re away. If she needs a ride to an appointment or for some shopping.”
“Thanks, she’s self-sufficient now. She just gets tired easily.”
“Do you have other family?”
Patrick’s eyes darted away from hers. “My sister Chalise and my dad.”
“Good, she’s not alone.”
“Yeah.” He continued to eat, but his expression told Marg his family life wasn’t all about boisterous Saturday morning breakfasts and kittens at Christmas. “What about you?”
Code Name: Forever & Ever (A Warrior's Challenge series Book 5) Page 9
