“You are quite the rebel.” And there’s a moment where the two of us just stare at each other as people walk by on the sidewalk and waitstaff swerve between tables. The silence between us sparks with what feels like anticipation for what might come next, while sexual tension also reverberates between us. For the life of me, I can’t remember the last time I wanted a woman so badly.

“So, Chase, what other information were you fishing for?” I narrow my eyes, pretending to be annoyed, and smile at her.

“I wanted to know your type,” she says. She wraps her lips around her straw and sucks on her shake. All I can do is stare.

“My type?” I ask, forcing myself to avert my eyes, because that sight is not boding well for me walking out of here and not having a hard-on. She nods, her lips curling up at the corners. She knows exactly what she’s doing. “Preferably she wears red Converse, has a killer competitive streak, and likes chocolate milkshakes.”

“That’s all you’ve got for me?” She angles her head to the side as I wonder how to explain.

“I don’t do this often.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “It’s rare that I find a woman I’m interested in enough to want to.”

“I’m flattered.”

And I’m smitten.

Shit. Where did that come from, Gun?

“Where are you from then?” she asks.

“A little bit of everywhere. Once you’ve been in the military—grown up in it and served in it—you’re kind of from every place you’ve been.”

“So your mom or dad was in the military?”

“My father was before he died in combat.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I nod, never wanting to dwell on that aspect too much. “Then my stepdad was in the service. And the stepdad after that.” I give a self-deprecating laugh. “We don’t have enough time in the day to delve into that chaos. What about you? Mom? Dad? Only child?”

She does a double take. “Only child? Why would you say that?”

“Because only children are typically more independent and know what they want,” I say. “That’s you.”

Chase smirks. “I am the last of four girls.”

“Your poor parents,” I groan.

“You don’t know the half of it.” She smiles as if she’s thinking of them, and I notice a softness to her expression that tells me they’re close. You spend enough time around other soldiers and behind a bar, you to learn how to read people. “But it’s just my dad. Our mom died when we were little.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

She shrugs. “As you unfortunately know, it’s more shocking to others when they hear it than it is to you since it’s been your reality for more of your life than not.”

“Very true.”