Page 22 of The Commander

“Did you know Quinn’s a great cook?” Noah asks, not taking his eyes off me.

Goddamn this man.

He’s going to wreck everything.

“Are you?” Marlene turns her head toward me. “I’ve never seen you cook.”

I rip my eyes from Noah, feeling anger simmering beneath the surface, and force a smile on my face. “Not really. When I’m home, I help Mom out in the kitchen.”

I am a great cook. Noah shouldn’t know that, but he does, and he needs to shut his damn mouth. That night almost cost both of us.

“Spaghetti bolognese. She can make it from scratch. Including the sauce.”

I’m going to kill him.

“My maternal grandmother is Italian.” I shrug. “I had to learn one recipe to appease her while growing up, so I’ve made it a thousand times, and it’s ingrained in my memory.”

“And chicken parmigiana.” Noah nods pointedly at me as if I’m a child he’s caught lying. “Speaking of, I was going to have the chicken, but I think I’ll go with the beef pot pie instead. What about you, Marlene?”

She looks confused but picks up her menu. “Ah, chicken and polenta.”

Her phone beeps again while I begin to regret stopping the server from filling my wineglass to the very top.

Memories of Noah standing in my kitchen in Harker Heights, Texas, where I’d rented an apartment after moving off base once completing my first year.

It was at least a year after kissing him. He’d been promoted so was no longer my direct CO. I still saw him regularly. If he passed us while training, he’d find a reason to speak to me, or if we passed one another somewhere, we’d say hi, discuss something random, and then walk away.

Any hope that my attraction to him would fade was futile. Every year he seemed to get hotter. Now at thirty-four and in his prime, Noah was this handsome mix of both Chris Hemsworth and Henry Cavill.

Drop-dead gorgeous.

My body never got the memo that we weren’t allowed to lust after him, and each time I’d walk away wishing Noah would drag me into an empty room, rip off my uniform and do naughty things. Dirty things. For hours.

I would let myself see the flicker of need in his eyes and pretend that he was wishing the same things. Me pressed against the wall as he slid his hand into my pants, under my panties and felt the wet desire his touch created.

That he’d palm my breast and tell me to pull out his cock. Then moan as he spun me around, bent me over and plunged into my pussy.

God.

The things I’ve imagined over the years.

But that night, the spaghetti bolognese night, took place on Saturday during Easter last year. Noah and I were both rostered on, unbeknownst to me. It was late when I packed up and stepped out into the brisk early spring evening. Rain was threatening as I strode across the parking lot to my car. I tossed my bag into the passenger seat, eager to get home, and started the engine.

Except it wouldn’t start.

The almost fifteen-year-old car needed a service, but I’d been too busy. I figured it was the battery, so I popped the hood and climbed out.

It began to bucket down.

“Typical,” I ranted, shoving the metal stick in the right place to keep it up, then stared blankly at the engine as if the very act of glaring at my car would magically fix it.

I tapped the terminal.

“Need a hand?”

I squealed, jumped and put a hand on my chest. “Jesus, Noah. I mean, Captain Jenkins, Commander. Shit.”

His grin almost undid me.