She stares up at me, breathing heavy through her nose and looking conflicted.

“I’m just giving it to you straight,” I add, before she can give me her argument. “You want to be friends? We’ll be friends, but I’m calling you darlin’. Name suits the girl and I like it.”

“I just don’t want this to be weird,” she says, her hands pressing together on the cart handle so one’s now on top of the other. “Or any weirder than it already is, considering . . .”

Her voice trails off.

I shrug, letting go of her cart and crossing my arms over my chest. “Won’t be weird for me,” I tell her.

I need to say this so she knows we can make this work.

Do I want to be friends with Riley? Fuck no.

Am I going to take what she gives me right now?

Yeah. I’ll fucking take it.

No way am I letting her rip this shit away from me now. Hell. I’m invested.

Riley takes a few seconds to think it over, then apparently needing assurance and maybe that final push, she asks me, “Do you call any of your other friends darlin’?”

Jesus.

No. I don’t. But I don’t tell her that.

“Luke, but only when he’s being sweet with me,” I respond through a straight face, hoping to get the opposite reaction out of hers.

And I get it.

Her eyes go round a second before she bursts into laughter, hand to her chest and her head tilting up, showing me the line of her neck as she relaxes back into the girl who was sitting at the bar taking shots of tequila.

I smile watching her.

This is how I want Riley. Giggling underneath a palm tree and asking me for secrets. Open and acting her age. I don’t want her guarded or worried I’m going to take this too far. Or worse, closing up on me all together and running away.

How the fuck is she going to see I’m the better man for her if she freezes me out?

“Okay, well, since I’m sharing the nickname with Luke, I guess it’s fine,” she says, her giggles fading out. “Just promise to keep it harmless, okay? The flirting stuff. I’d really like this to work out. I don’t want to not be friends with you.”

“Not sure I can promise something out of my control.”

She cocks her head.

I cock mine, knowing the truth but only preparing to give her what she wants to hear, and what I need her to hear in order for this to play out.

“I’m harmless,” I lie, the corner of my mouth lifting.

“How harmless?”

“Like a fucking kitten.”

Riley presses her fingertips to her mouth, shielding me from her smile.

I don’t shield mine. We’re good to go.

“Do you have more shopping to do or are you done?” I ask her after glancing around the produce section.

She slides her hand to her cheek, picks up a lock of hair and tucks it behind her ear, answering, “I think I’m done.”

I step back, grab my cart and give her room to pass, waiting until she does this before I reach into the crate she was standing next to, grab a coconut, and keep it concealed behind my back as I follow behind her to a checkout lane.

Another lane opens beside the one Riley is standing in, and since she’s already unloaded, I move to it.

After I hide the coconut under her reusable shopping bags.

I’m finished paying before her since I only have a few items. After collecting my change, I turn around to give Riley a smile and get one back paired with a wave before I head outside to my truck.

I’m expecting something. A call or a text.

And I almost make it out of the parking lot when my phone beeps. Then that smile I’m wearing in anticipation grows to a fucking grin.

Riley: VERY FUNNY.

Later that night, after grilling the steaks, eating one and saving the other for tomorrow, then cleaning up the kitchen and putting everything away, I sprawl out on the couch, nursing my second beer and zoning out on SportsCenter. My phone rings, pulling my attention off the TV.

I sit forward, dropping my feet to the floor, and grab the device off the footlocker I use as a coffee table.

The name flashing on the screen brings the biggest smile to my face.

“Jesus Christ,” I answer, settling back against the cushion and propping my feet up at the other end. “How the fuck are you? What’s going on?”

“It’s going,” Jake says. His voice is rough. He sounds tired. “Just got back late last night. Fucking time difference is screwing me. I can’t sleep.”

“How was it this time?”

“How’d you think it was? It’s Afghanistan.” He pauses. I hear a can opening and wonder if he’s missing it today. The drink. The drugs. “It’s all a bunch of shit,” he says. “Same as last time they sent my ass over there. Nothing’s changing.”

“How are you doing?” I press.

“I’m fine. Jesus. I’m not drinking. All right?” he’s quick to reply, shooting down my worry. I listen as he takes a sip. “That’s a Redbull that’s got you freaking out. Relax.”

“You’re drinking a Redbull and you’re tired?”

“Read somewhere it can have the opposite effect if you’re really lacking. I thought I’d give it a shot.”

I shake my head, smiling, then throw my arm behind me and use it as a pillow, propping myself up higher.

“Seriously though,” he starts. “I’m fine. I know you worry about me and I appreciate it. I always have.”