Free I Dream of Danger by Lisa Marie Rice

tackled the food like she’d been starving. Nick shifted uneasily in his seat. Had she been starving? The idea made his skin prickle with horror. Elle not having enough to eat . The very idea was awful. She said she had the money to pay for this meal, but what if that wasn’t true? He was going to prowl around until he found her bank account and find out what the situation was.
    He’d also find out her bank account number. He had thirty thousand saved up. He had no expenses in the military. He was Special Ops and they were either on a mission or on a training cycle and were fed and lodged. He’d just applied for Delta, a year or two early. If he made Delta his pay would go up. What was he going to do with the money? He didn’t want to buy a house, didn’t even want to buy a car.
    The instant he got back on base he was going to transfer everything he had into her account.
    “Oh man,” Elle moaned, twirling her fork. “Carbonara. My favorite. Carbs and cream and cheese and bacon. Bliss.”
    A huge forkful disappeared into her mouth.
    Nick frowned, a horrible thought occurring to him. “You weren’t dieting were you?” She was way too thin. Christ, if she’d reduced herself to this willingly . . .
    “No, Nick.” Elle shook her head, swallowed, twirled another strand of creamy spaghetti around her fork. “I, um, lost weight because looking after Daddy was hard and I sometimes forgot to eat. I really look forward to putting the weight back on.”
    He grunted. “Good.” And attacked the food himself, appeased. The first bite had him narrowing his eyes.
    “Fabulous stuff, eh?” She was grinning at him. “And Jenny sent enough for a platoon. I’ll bet you don’t eat like this in the military.”
    “Absolutely not.” Christ no. His last op, a three-week training cycle in the Everglades, had been wall-to-wall gummy MREs, where the chicken couldn’t be distinguished from the pork or the beef. He’d shat hard little rubbery pellets for the duration. He’d only been back two days when he’d . . . what? Heard her call? Dreamed of her? Whatever, he’d had an irresistible urge to check Lawrenceonline and had immediately found the judge’s obituary. “When they feed us hot meals, it’s pretty basic. Steak and chicken and pork and potatoes. And watery salad no one eats.”
    “Speaking of chicken . . .” Elle poked her pretty nose in another container and breathed in deeply. “Hmmm. Roast rosemary chicken.” She looked up at him. “White meat or dark?”
    Your meat . The words were right there on his lips, as a vision blossomed in his head of him eating her . Head between her legs, lapping and nibbling.
    Oh, ouch . His hard on just got harder.
    Elle stopped, fork in the air, obviously tuned into the sudden change of atmosphere. Nick could swear that the molecules had suddenly become charged.
    Dial it down, dickhead.
    Elle was probably having her first decent meal in weeks, maybe months. She was smiling and there was color in her face. He was not going to ruin that for her because he had a sudden surge of hormones that were shaking his body.
    Because, fuck, that’s what was happening.
    If any of his Ranger teammates realized that he shook when he was next to this girl—now a woman—they’d shit their pants, because a good part of Ranger shooting training was using live bullets, sometimes at very close range.
    Nick was known as one of the coolest shooters, almost mechanical in his ability to put the bullet where he wanted it to go, and the way you did that was to be in control of your body.
    Not sitting at a table, afraid to get up because you’d hobble with the blue steeler in your pants. Not putting down your fork because your hand was shaking so much it fucking clattered against the plate. Not being unable to look away from a woman’s face.
    Any of his teammates seeing him now would report him to the XO.
    “Nick, aren’t you eating?” she asked. She’d demolished the carbonara and set the