“What?” Was she reading my mind? Was I that obvious?

“You only took down two plates,” she said, motioning to my hands.

“Walker and Bateman are on late shift.” And we were alone.

“Doing what? You guys don’t even start your next classes for a couple weeks.”

“We still have to work. They’re rounding up SERE students running through the woods so they can get tortured.” Her eyebrows shot up, and I shrugged. “Practice. Just practice.” Survive Escape Resist Evade training had sucked. I didn’t envy the students getting rounded up.

I barely suppressed a groan as she bent over into the fridge, pulling out two hard ciders. Couldn’t she not bend over? “Then shall we?”

I shook my head, taking the cider she offered and slipping it back into the fridge.

“That’s right, you don’t drink,” she said, filling her tacos.

“I drink,” I countered, heat rushing up my arms where our skin touched at the stove. “I just have rules about it.”

She took the seat diagonal from me. “Rules. For drinking.”

I bit into a taco instead of answering her, groaning at the taste. “Wow.”

“Yeah, my mom likes Mexican food. It’s the only thing I do well, so don’t get used to it. Now about these rules?” She looked at me expectantly. Were it Walker or Bateman, I would have simply ignored the question, but there were circles under her green-rimmed hazel eyes, and something lurked in them that looked like loneliness. I was all too acquainted with what a bitch loneliness could be.

“I don’t drink outside the house. Ever. Not if there’s the slightest chance I’ll need to drive anywhere. I don’t drink if there’s no one else sober. And I don’t drink if I know I’m in a situation that requires me to be in complete control of myself.” I downed two more tacos and avoided her eyes.

“Do you have to control everything?”

“Yes.”

She leaned back in her chair, sipping on her cider. “Care to elaborate?”

“No.” I’d already told her more about myself than I’d ever told Walker or Bateman. I waited for the crushing guilt that usually pulverized what was left of my heart whenever I let someone close. After all, I was having dinner alone with a woman I was attracted to, shouldn’t that trigger the betrayal clause of my conscience? But none came. Odd.

She raised a single eyebrow and chased a drop of cider off her lip with her tongue. I shoved another taco in my mouth to keep it busy. “I’m trying to understand you…”

“Good luck.” Not today.

“I’ve got some of the pieces already figured out.”

“Oh?” This should be interesting.

“Right now I’m leaning toward narcissistic control freak, but the jury’s still out.”

I choked on my food and started sputtering. She calmly handed me my drink, and I swallowed the lodged pieces of my temper. “Narcissistic?”

“No one spends three hours a day at the gym for their health. Do you get off watching yourself in the mirror?”

“Do you get off dancing on bars for strangers?”

Her bottle slammed onto the table, and I bit my tongue so hard it almost bled. Shit, that came out all wrong. Why the hell couldn’t I control my mouth around this girl? I lifted for the same reason she drank—to silence the demons.

“Let’s adjust that first thought. Narcissistic control-freakish asshole”—she pushed back from table—“who is now doing the dishes.”

I fought every urge I had to apologize, to go after her. I had no business screwing up that girl’s life more than it already was, and there was no room for her in mine.

It was better this way.

I repeated that in my head over and over while I cleaned up dinner.

“When are you going to let me ink you, Masters?” Matt asked as he worked on one of Jagger’s hundred or so tattoos a week later. Two weeks of living with Samantha. Two weeks of being home as little as possible, and hence another trip to the tattoo parlor.

It didn’t stop my mind from wandering to her, and how sad she seemed. It was worse every day, and she wasn’t talking about it. As much as I wanted to keep the hell away from her, someone was going to have to get her to talk before she broke herself.

A girl not talking about her issues is a definite clue that it’s worse than she’s letting on. Constance’s sisterly advice ran through my head.

“Not happening,” I answered, flipping through my 5&9’s and stretching my legs out from the plastic chair. “I’m just here to babysit.”

“Chicks dig it,” Jagger answered with a cocky grin.

“Not too concerned.” I flipped another card and looked at oil pressure limitations.

“Guys dig it, too,” Matt offered.

“Definitely not concerned,” I answered.

“You owe me $50,” Jagger whispered loudly to Matt.

I looked up at them over the cards, told Jagger with my look exactly what I thought about that idea, and went back to studying. I had to blink a few times at the jumble of words, so I closed my eyes. Time to break.

“Finished for today,” Matt told Jagger as he sprayed one of Jagger’s pieces down and wrapped him in saran wrap like leftovers.

He settled his bill, and we headed back home. “So how is sharing a bathroom with Sam?” he asked with a sideways look at me.