Espresso In The Morning

She didn’t meet his gaze as she handed it to him. “I knew I had one.”

“Claire—” He had so much he wanted to ask her, but the last thing he wanted was to push her again. Was she researching PTSD for herself?

“Why don’t you just keep that?” she said as she closed the back door of her car. “I don’t need it.”

“Okay, thanks.” He wanted to reach out to her, tell her he understood too well what she was suffering—if that was what she was suffering—but at the same time his stomach tightened at the memory of Toby, gaunt and emotionless.

“I’d better get to work. I have a deadline on a contract,” she said, still not making eye contact.

“Sure,” he said. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”

She nodded as she inhaled and straightened. Her gaze met his and as before, it seemed she might say more, but she merely nodded again, and headed into the coffe shop.

* * *

THE SMOOTH TONES of jazz floated through the air a short while later as Claire tried to relax into her favorite chair at The Coffee Stop. She glanced around once more to see if Lucas had returned.

What did it matter that he’d seen the articles she’d printed on PTSD? She had nothing to hide. She was just getting to know the man and if he decided not to pursue their friendship because of them, then she’d count her blessings.

But what if he mentioned the articles around Grey? Even as the question shot through her mind, she chided herself on how foolish she was being.

Lucas probably hadn’t given the papers a second thought. If he had, wouldn’t he have asked her then? She should have said something at the time, though what that would have been, she couldn’t fathom.

She should have just told him she was researching PTSD for herself. There was no shame in that. She’d already picked up a few techniques to help her nip flashbacks in the bud. Not that she’d perfected any of them, but she was trying.

She inhaled and tried to focus on her latest contract. What did it matter to her what Lucas thought? A little voice whispered that it did matter, because on some level, she was starting to like the man.

It had been too long since she’d had a real friend to confide in. If Lucas knew about her PTSD and accepted her, in spite of that, maybe he’d be someone she could talk to. Heaven knew she couldn’t talk to her mother or perfect Becca.

Her gaze wandered around the space, which was sprinkled with other patrons. Sometimes, if she were completely honest, she just felt lonely. Is that why she liked it here?

The music was usually too mellow for her tastes. The clientele seemed to be more on the quiet side. The afternoon barista was a kid who, like the guy from the BBBS, seemed to radiate a troubled vibe. Yet, people always occupied the upholstered chairs and sofas, as well as the traditional café-style tables and chairs. In its own laidback way the shop provided enough distraction to keep her from jumping out of her skin. There was something of a community feeling here, even if she only felt remotely connected to it.

Besides, somehow she managed to complete her work here, where she struggled to do so in other places.

Why can’t you work at home?

Grey’s question still haunted her. But just the thought of a quiet afternoon at home sent fear swirling through her, as though that one day had conditioned her to react to those particular circumstances.

Dust motes circled in the beam of sunshine streaming through the window by her seat. They swirled and dropped in a peaceful dance to the strains of a saxophone and horns. The tinkling of the front door drew her attention.

The older couple, who usually sat together on the overstuffed sofa at the back, entered. A younger woman, perhaps their daughter, strode arm in arm with the man.

“Lucas,” the older woman said and motioned Lucas out from behind the counter.

Claire straightened at the sight of him. He must have returned through a back door. The usual adrenaline spiked through her at the sight of his strength. But with Lucas the adrenaline didn’t signal something unpleasant, as it did with other strong men. He’d been on her mind since their conversation the other day.

Something about him, the way he blatantly addressed her most pressing issues, the way he apologized for doing so, the way his gaze seemed to see right into her, commanded her respect, even as he pushed her out of her comfort zone.

Lucas glanced her way as he strode to meet the couple and their guest. For the briefest second, his gaze touched hers and her heart raced, sending warmth bursting in her cheeks.

She lowered her eyes, forcing herself to focus on the contract on her laptop monitor. What the hell was wrong with her?

“Lucy here just enlisted. She’s headed for boot camp in a couple of weeks,” the older gentleman said. He had settled on the sofa between the two women, his arm around the younger one, as if he were afraid to let her go.

Again, Lucas’s gaze wandered to Claire. This time she didn’t look away, though her heart hammered so hard it surely showed through her blouse. The green of his eyes seemed to darken, as though a shadow passed over him.

His voice was low, but distinguishable, even across the room. “It takes the right kind of person to make it in the military.”

The older gentleman gripped the young woman’s hand. “You listen to Lucas, honey. He knows.”

The gentleman’s wife leaned over him to address the young woman, saying, “Former marine, he served in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was an EMT and medevac pilot.”

A chill passed through Claire. She rubbed her arms. She had no business listening. Again, she focused on the contract, but she read the same sentence three times and had no idea what it said.

“He got shot down once,” the old guy said and gestured toward Lucas. “Tell her.”

Claire held her breath, unable to take her attention off their conversation.

“There isn’t much to say,” Lucas said, ducking his head, as though he didn’t want to tell the story. “We got hit hard. We’d already made two trips out with wounded and had more to go.”

He shook his head. “I managed to land us in one piece, but the engine was toast. We had a kid—he couldn’t have been more than twenty. He should have been on some college campus, but there he was. He’d taken a frag to the head and several to his back. My copilot, he got out with this first lieutenant who’d lost an arm. They went for help, but the kid—we couldn’t move him.”

He paused a moment. “I couldn’t leave him. You never know what you’re capable of until you’re in that situation.” Again he paused, while the dust motes circled. “I held them off until help reached us. It took them fourteen hours.”

He stopped and all remained silent. Claire inhaled. What had happened during those fourteen hours? She closed her eyes.

Fourteen hours. It must have seemed an eternity. Time had a way of stretching during trauma. She’d felt as if she’d been through a time warp that summer day a little over a year ago.

“Like I said, the military isn’t for everyone.” Lucas’s voice kept her in the present. “It turns out I make a better coffee-shop owner than a marine.”

The young woman leaned forward on the sofa. “I’m sure you made a great marine.”

Claire’s gaze swept over the young woman. She tossed her hair and it flowed silkily around her shoulders. Something too much like jealousy swelled in Claire’s chest. What did she care if Lucas was interested in the young woman? It wasn’t like she wanted to date him.

She had enough on her plate without having to worry with fitting another person into her life. No, dating wasn’t on Claire’s to-do list and wouldn’t be for a long time to come.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“SO, WHY are you hanging around with an old lady, when you could be having fun with someone your own age?” Adana Williams, Lucas’s mother, waved at her son with her paint roller late Friday afternoon. Baby-blue paint spattered the drop cloth below her.

Lucas grinned and repositioned the ladder before climbing back up with his own paint-soaked roller. “What, and miss out on all this fun?” he asked. “What better way to spend a Friday afternoon than with my beautiful madre?”

His mother shook her head as she rolled a streak of blue along the lower portion of the wall of the bedroom section of the efficiency she rented in a friend’s basement. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I love having you around, but I worry about you.”

“No need to worry. I like spending time with you. Who else is going to do all your grunt work for you?”

She frowned at him, though merriment shone in her deep brown eyes. She had her mother’s dark coloring, her South American heritage showing more than the European blood of her father. “I do my own grunt work,” she said. “You just help. Sometimes.”