Night Maneuvers by Tawny Weber

Author:Tawny Weber
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HQN Books
Published: 2016-09-24T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

IT WASN’T UNTIL Aaron stormed into the parking lot that he realized he didn’t have transport. His bike was still at Olive Oyl’s. They’d driven from the bar to the hotel in Bryanna’s rental car.

His cell phone weighed heavy in his pocket. He knew he could call any of his teammates for a ride. He debated for all of five seconds, then started walking south. He gauged it at maybe a mile to the base. Practically a stroll in the moonlight.

He could use the time to review the situation, to consider his options and to figure out how the hell to complete his mission.

His orders were to cooperate with Bryanna’s little journalism project. The unspoken mission was to curtail her tell-all venture. The team was counting on him.

Picking it up to a fast march, Aaron sucked in a disgusted breath through clenched teeth.

He’d never failed a mission before—spoken or unspoken. He’d never let his teammates down. In the ten years they’d served together, he’d never performed in a less than exemplary manner. He had the goddamn assessment reports to prove it.

But now?

With the team’s anonymity, their purpose on the line?

He’d blown it.

Totally.

Completely.

And for what?

A woman.

An amazing woman.

One with a smile that lit his heart and eyes that, when she looked at him, made him feel like a hero. A woman with a body that sent him straight into hormonal heaven and a laugh that made him grin. And that brain. When he set aside her plan to write about Poseidon, he could really dig that brain. The woman could talk about anything, seemed to know a little something about everything.

Granted, they’d only talked for a few hours, but Aaron was willing to bet that he’d feel the same way after a few months, a few years. Hell, a few decades.

Not that he had a few decades—or even a few minutes—to test the idea. He’d blown it, pure and simple. For himself and for the team.

And with that thought, the litany started all over again. By the time Aaron had walked the mile back to base, he had a serious headache brewing, a strong craving for a shot of whiskey and a few hours of quiet to figure his way out of this mess.

But as he walked through base, still alive and active at midnight, and into his barracks, he realized the whiskey and quiet were out of reach and that the headache wasn’t going anywhere.

“I see you guys made yourselves at home,” he greeted, letting the front door slam as he stepped over Lansky’s body where the man had stretched across the floor. “Don’t you all have your own racks to bunk on?”

“You had beer,” Prescott said from his usual spot on the couch, his booted feet propped on the coffee table and his sketch pad angled on his lap. “Not a vegetable to be found, though. Just potato chips. All that junk food is going to kill you someday, Bulldog.”

“Gotta die of something,” Aaron muttered as he sidestepped Torres, who as usual was exercising, this time in the form of sit-ups.

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