Serving Side by Side (Rocky Royal Romance Book 3), page 5
“You should do something else,” she continued, oblivious to his struggle. “You’re too smart to be a hired gun. You’re young.”
“So are you. I don’t see you looking to make a change.”
She snorted. “I’m considerably older than you.”
Her condescension stung. “Eight years isn’t that much.”
“And I have specific skills that translate well to this line of work.”
Sam was livid. She’d just called him too young for her, too unskilled for his work, and too smart for soldiering, which insulted all of his friends. And the worst part was, she didn’t seem to see it. She really thought she was being nice.
“I think you’re—”
“Shut up, Macias.”
She must’ve looked over at him finally, because her voice was louder, closer to his ear.
“What?” Her tone was incredulous.
“I said shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have to be muscle-bound or a meathead to enjoy this job or be good at it. That’s stereotyping of the worst kind. Maybe militaries wouldn’t make the kind of ethical mistakes they can be prone to if more people like me were a part of it, did you ever consider that? I defend people who are weak and powerless. And as for me being a feeler, yes, I am. And people like you question my toughness all the time because of it. But I’m damn good at my job. So if you have more opinions to offer on my career path, just keep them to yourself.”
There was a long pause.
“Simonson. Look at me.”
He wanted to turn his head. He wanted to burn his angry gaze into her soft brown one and let her absorb all that heated frustration. But he couldn’t. His body was already electrified with too many sensations: the itching behind his neck from the tag on his shirt, his hurting feet, the loud music from the ballroom, the ache in his head from the mix of perfumes. He couldn’t add her intense eye contact to the mix; it would combust. When he didn’t turn, she went on anyway.
“There’s a difference between being good at your job and being suited for it. That’s all I meant.”
They stood in silence until Abbie and Edward came to the doorway, saying their goodnights. Their sleepy, happy, lovesick act wasn’t helping his mood, and he was relieved when they went to bed right away. He stood next to Macias the rest of the night, and for once, he didn’t enjoy the silence.
TEZZA
This could go very badly, Tezza thought as she climbed the steps to Sam’s fourth-floor apartment. Edward had stared at her when she’d asked him for Sam’s address. “You’re going to breach the cave of seclusion?” he’d asked, incredulous.
Why was it so hard to understand? When you screw up and say something stupid and your friend won’t return your texts, you show up at his house. You make it right. Not complicated.
The unusual moniker for Sam’s apartment had given her pause, however. When she’d asked for landmarks, Edward shrugged.
“I’ve never been there,” he said. “He’s never invited us over.”
That was the thought boiling inside her head as she knocked on his door. She could hear the TV on, so she knew he was still awake.
“Simonson. Open up. It’s me.” It’s me. That’s what Rocco used to say when he called. I shouldn’t say that to Sam. She cleared her throat. “It’s Macias.”
The bolt clicked and he opened the door. He wore a red shirt that was at least one size too big, baggy basketball shorts, and white tube socks which appeared to be on inside out. Was he in a hurry getting dressed? Did I interrupt something—does he have a girl in there?
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to apologize . . .”
“You shouldn’t be here, people will talk.”
“I don’t care about that,” she said quietly. Is that what he was yelling about the other day, during his “I hate everyone” rant? She’d seen his friend Saint leaving shortly after.
Sam crossed his arms, not moving from the doorway. “How did you get my address?”
“I asked the king for it.”
“Great.” His scowl said it all. “Now I’m going to have to put up with more ballast from them, too.”
“Try telling them to shut up,” she said through a forced smile. “It worked on me.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
Ouch. She took a deep breath; she wasn’t leaving without getting what she came for . . . which was what, exactly? Absolution? Forgiveness? At this point, she’d settle for a return to their regularly scheduled friendship.
“May I come in?”
“Why?”
“I just want to talk to you.”
Making his irritation obvious, he shuffled aside so she could enter. The low light made it hard to see, but she made her way into the living room . . . which was also the bedroom. There didn’t appear to be anyone else there; it would’ve been impossible for them to hide. There was no couch, just a queen-size bed with a denim quilt pulled back. A video game controller and headset sat on the bed, and a large monitor was paused on some kind of fantasy role-playing game.
“Say whatever you came to say.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“For what I said about your suitability for your career.”
“And?”
She shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t usually have to talk this much. She hated it. “And that’s it. Just I’m sorry.” She swallowed hard, tipping her head to try to catch his gaze. Come on, Sam, look at me. “My assumptions were unfair. I want to get back to how things were between us. Will you forgive me?”
He opened his mouth, but the sound of sweeping orchestral music came up through the wooden floor of the apartment and he glared at the floor. Figuring she owed him something for invading his space, Tezza squatted, pressing her hands to the floor. She muttered an incantation normally used for sealing bottles of wine or jars of jam, figuring that it was more or less similar. It took a little longer, given the size of the room, but eventually, the music sounded farther and farther away, as if it were coming from a parade continuing on its route, until she couldn’t hear it any longer.
“That should last a few months. I can come back and do it again if you want. Should make day sleeping easier.” She touched her high ponytail, smoothing it down, wishing he’d say something, anything, but he just stood there, still staring at the floor, clenching his jaw.
“I’ll see you Monday.” She turned down the narrow hallway and cracked the door open, when he reached past her and slammed it shut again. When she turned, he was looking directly into her eyes.
“I will,” he said, his voice soft. Tezza couldn’t look away. She’d never gotten a good look at his eyes before; they were light green, so pale they were almost gray, like a pool of still water in a forest.
“You will what?” she whispered.
“Forgive you.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
“Sure.” He shifted closer, his hand still holding the door shut, close enough that she could see the pulse point in his neck racing along at runaway train speeds. His eyes dropped to her lips. Tezza tensed. Is he going to kiss me? He wouldn’t. He can’t. I shouldn’t let him. But she didn’t have to make the choice after all; he stepped back quickly, his eyes on the ground, opening the door for her.
“Thanks for stopping by.”
“Sure. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
SAM
As soon as she left, Sam closed and re-locked the door, letting his forehead rest against it. This close. He’d come this close to kissing a married woman. That could not happen; he felt his guilt like a weight around his neck, dragging him into a sea of self-loathing. But when he’d seen her leaving like that, he’d had to stop her. Having her in his space had felt . . . right. The fact that she’d spelled his floor hadn’t helped . . . She saw him. He didn’t know how, but she understood his internal struggles the way no other friend ever had. Friend. That’s right, Simonson, she’s a friend. And in this difficult time, she needs you to support her, just like she supports you. So remember that. And for Woz’s sake, start thinking with your brain again.
The truth was that if she hadn’t been married, he’d have never allowed himself to become such good friends with her at all. Head still pressed against the door, he pulled out his phone.
“Saint. It’s me. I need a favor.”
1931 HOURS, THE NEXT NIGHT. Sam was fidgeting, rubbing the silk handkerchief in his pocket between his index finger and his thumb. “So, you’re a nurse, Mei?” Mei, like “I may like this woman.” I should be able to remember that.
His date nodded, her long black hair bobbing, as she sipped her brandy Alexander. At least she ordered a real drink.
“What’s that like?”
“It’s good. I enjoy it.” Sam waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t.
“How long have you been doing it?”
She blinked, and her face shifted toward amusement, but he didn’t know why. “Doing what? Being a nurse?”
“Yes. How long have you been a nurse?”
She spun her tall glass slowly by its stem. “Three years, give or take.”
“Huh. Where’d you study?”
“Klensingworth.”
“Is that a degree program? I knew a boy in school who wanted to do that. The lads teased him mercilessly, of course.”
“No, it’s not a degree, just the license.”
“Do you regret not going for the degree? It might’ve opened up different opportunities for you. For example, all the medical staff at the palace have degrees. I’m not sure about other government posts . . .”
“No, I don’t regret it. I didn’t have the money to go for a degree.”
“Very sensible, then.”
“Thank you . . .” She said it like a question.
I’ve said something wrong. I wonder what it was. “Have I offended you?”
Her face contorted, and a light blush appeared on her tan cheeks. “No, you just ask a lot of personal questions . . . Tell me more about the palace. What’s that like?”
Sam looked around the bar, wishing he’d let Saint double with him after all. “I’m not really supposed to talk about palace life. Discretion, you know.”
“But you’re friends with the king, aren’t you? The whole family?”
Sam took a long pull on his stout, buying time. “I am indeed friends with the king.”
“That must be amazing,” she gushed, her eyes twinkling.
Sam lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t know how amazing it is. It’s basically like my other friendships, only with fewer reciprocal financial expectations.”
Mei laughed. Sam blinked. Was that funny? I was just being candid . . . If I go home now, I wonder if I can take my drink and return the glass later. Why did I ask Saint to set me up with someone? Just then, as if summoned by his question, Tezza walked into the bar with three other women. He almost didn’t recognize her: her hair was still in that same high ponytail, but other than that . . . she wore a black leather skirt that hit her mid-thigh and spiked black boots with a sparkly black top that exposed her back, and he almost chuckled that once again, she couldn’t seem to find another color to wear. Mei followed his stare.
“Who’s that?”
“That’s Macias. We met at work, we work together.”
“She’s very pretty,” she noted.
“She’s very married,” he returned quickly, as he took another sip of his drink.
“Huh.” Mei put her elbows on the booth’s table. “Tell me more about palace life. What do you two do together?”
He watched Tezza and her friends cross to the bar and order. He replied without turning to Mei. “As I said, I’m really not at liberty to share details about palace life with you.” She cleared her throat and he turned to face her, only to find Mei’s face flushed again—either she’d had too much alcohol, which was unlikely, or she was angry. Sam felt his leg start to bounce.
“You needn’t take offense. Look here—Macias!”
Tezza turned at his voice, searching the room for his face, and he waved her over. She strolled to their booth on her very tall boots, making it look easy. She makes a lot of things look easy.
“Hi, Simonson.”
“Would you please confirm for her that I’m not allowed to speak about palace life?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you introduce us first? That’s the social convention.”
Eyes narrowed. What’s she upset about? Should I not have bothered her? I hate this.
“I apologize. Macias, this is Mei Nakahara. Mei, Tezza Macias. Mei and I were set up on a date by our mutual friend, Lieutenant Francis Saint.”
Mei’s face puckered to hold in a smile. “Saint’s first name is Francis?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t care for the name, so please don’t use it.”
The two women shared a look that he couldn’t translate—was everyone conspiring against him tonight?—then Tezza cleared her throat.
“Nice to meet you, Mei. I can confirm that Simonson is not allowed to discuss palace life. Sorry. Tell her about your mission in Op’Ho’Lonia instead.”
Sam felt his face getting hot. “Thank you for your help, Macias. Have a nice night.” He doubted she was trying to embarrass him, but that was the last thing Mei needed to know about. He’d never get rid of her if she knew about his medal; she was clearly some sort of celebrity watcher.
“Wait, you’re not one of the men who went after the exile, are you?”
Damn it. “His name is Prince Lincoln.”
Mei waved a hand dismissively. “Stop with the false modesty; you’re a hero! I can’t believe I’m sitting here with one of the Exile Hunters! Can I get a picture with you? Do you mind?” She turned to Macias and thrust her phone toward her. Macias, however, had her arms conveniently crossed over her belly.
“Yes, I mind.” Sam tried not to scowl. He failed miserably. “Trying to apprehend a traitor is part of my job. I don’t enjoy the publicity.”
“Are you joking?” Mei pulled her arm back.
“Not at all. Would you like it if I came and acted like this at the hospital? Tried to take your picture while you triage an emergency case?”
“I work in geriatrics . . .”
“Next to someone’s death bed, then? Would you want to give me your autograph after you helped someone expire?”
Mei’s face twisted briefly in disgust, and she sat back, digesting this. “Can’t I at least see your medal?”
Sam stood up and pulled out his wallet. “Since we arrived separately, I see no reason we can’t leave separately. Here’s a twenty for a ride home. You can keep the change. I’ll pay the bar tab as well.”
Mei’s mouth fell open. She looked at Macias. If Mei wanted female sympathy, she was going to have to look elsewhere: Tezza was giving the woman her patented steel gaze, clearly unmoved by the events in front of her. Looking dazed, Mei stood up, gathering her coat and her purse, and snatched the money out of his hand.
“Tell Saint this is the last time he sets me up—ever.”
Ditto, he thought. “Certainly. Good night, Mei.”
Chapter Seven
SAM
MEI STORMED TOWARD the exit as Sam slid back into the booth and took a long drink of his stout.
“Easy, Simonson. You don’t look like a man who can hold his liquor.”
“I’m not going to let a perfectly good drink go to waste just because the date I was supposed to share it with ended up being unsuitable. I don’t think they’ll let me take the glass home, and I want to leave.” Sam looked down at his shirt, disgusted; he’d worn a light-green striped button-down that he’d been told brought out his eyes. “All this effort, gone to waste.”
“So stay. Get another drink and dance with my friends. They’re all single.”
But you’re not. Sam’s phone buzzed. “Excuse me.”
Saint: How’s the date going?
Simonson: It’s over.
Saint: Already?
Saint: Thought you picked her up at 7:00?
Simonson: It was long enough.
Saint: Mate, it’s only 7:46.
Saint: You should’ve let me be your wingman.
Simonson: I’m not incompetent.
Saint: What was the problem?
Simonson: Why did you set me up with her?
Saint: She seemed reasonably smart.
Saint: She’s in a caretaking profession, which you respect.
Simonson: She asked to see my medal.
Saint: So? That’s a surefire way to get laid, mate.
Simonson: Conversation over.
Saint: Oh, come on. You could’ve at least snogged her.
Saint: Edward’s poisoned your mind.
Simonson: For the last time, your lifestyle holds no appeal for me.
Tezza cleared her throat. He was surprised to see her still standing there.
“My apologies—were you speaking to me?”
“Yes. I invited you to join my friends and me. I’m waiting for your answer.” It sounded like such a simple question. Given that it was quite possibly the most difficult question he’d ever considered, Sam wished he’d been thinking about it in the back of his mind as he texted with Saint. If I refuse, she may be hurt and offended. If I accept, I’m just torturing myself further.
Well, given that choice . . .
“Yes, of course.” Sam got up and followed her across the crowded room to a tall table where three other women sat. He recognized two of them from work; Jess handled the radios in Central Dispatch, and Victoria worked in the library. He introduced himself to the third woman, who was one of the housekeepers: Rosie.
He ordered another stout and another round for the ladies; given that they were kind enough to include him, a man so recently cast off by another woman, it seemed the least he could do.
