Free Running Blind by Cindy Gerard Page A

fiddling with her tablet.
    See? Two grown-ups. Team members. Acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
    Had to kiss her, didn’t you, dumbass? Had to smell that hair, feel those breasts pressed against you. Had to suddenly think about her as touchable  . . . and vulnerable . . . and maybe open to the idea of the two of you together.
    It was all well and good to fantasize about Bombshell Burns when he knew he didn’t have an ice cube’s chance on a BBQ grill of getting within ten feet of her. It was an entirely different story after he’d actually held her in his arms, tasted her lips, and felt her body yield against his. The reality was a huge game changer—one he wasn’t ready for.
    He’d stayed with Mike at the hospital for another hour after Rhonda left last night, instead of following her out the door and dealing with “the kiss” right then.
    Well, it didn’t matter now. And the farther he got away from “it,” the more he hoped they might just let “it” drift off into obscurity, and they’d never have to talk about “it.”
    But then he looked at her again. Tight, short, red skirt. White angora sweater. High navy-blue heels. He’d never look at the flag again without thinking of her.
    He was so screwed.
    â€œGuess we’re taking a break,” he said as Santos, Josh Waldrop, and Brett Carlyle helped themselves to the doughnuts.
    â€œSorry to sideline the meeting,” Rhonda said with an apologetic look, “but I thought the good news about Eva deserved a little celebration.”
    â€œYou thought right.” Santos winked and shot her a wide smile. “Any with chocolate filling?”
    Rhonda grinned at him. “This is me you’re talking to. Would I forget something that important?”
    â€œMy bad.” Santos made a sweeping, apologetic gesture with his hand, then grimaced.
    â€œYou hurting today?” Rhonda asked with concern. Beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt, his biceps were wrapped in a white dressing.
    â€œI’m fine.”
    Santos had gotten by with a butterfly bandage on his upper arm.
    â€œDon’t be poking your grubby finger into every doughnut to find your precious chocolate,” Carlyle grumbled, joining Santos at the conference table.
    â€œSomebody pour me a cup?” Taggart asked.
    Rhonda took one look at him and gasped. His left eye was red and purple and blue, heading toward black. The fingers of the hand that emerged from his sling were swollen and bruised. “You should be in bed.”
    â€œBeen there. Didn’t like it.”
    Coop totally got where Taggart was coming from. He wasn’t nearly as bad off as Taggart, yet he felt as if he’d been run over by a tank. His leg didn’t feel too bad, but his shoulder burned like fire where the stitches sank into his swollen flesh.
    â€œDoesn’t mean you shouldn’t be there. Go home,” Coop ordered.
    â€œBed rest is highly overrated,” Taggart said. “Give me some grunt work; I’ll be happy as hell. And you ain’t the boss of me.”
    Well, he’d tried.
    Coop surveyed the others. At least it was back to status quo for the rest of the team. Trash talk was a method of coping when one of their own was in danger, especially for Taggart. And Coop was getting to know what to expect from Santos, Waldrop, and Carlyle, too.
    Mike had picked the three men for the ITAP team at Nate Black’s recommendation. After working with them for the past year, Coop fully understood why. Like him, Mike, and Taggart, all three were combat veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan, and they’d all done contract work with Nate’s team. On a particularly nasty op in Sierra Leone, they’d all been injured. Carlyle had broken his ankle, and Waldrop had almost died. Santos had taken that bullet yesterday and hadn’t even slowed down.
    â€œDavis!” A unison greeting