Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,42

lift. He nods, as if to say good stuff. “So Dad joined the Navy to pay for med school,” he continues. “I wanted to join the SEALS, but they said I was part colorblind or some shit. Couldn’t see all the shades of green and red they wanted. Ended up in the Rangers, and on up, instead.”

“On up?”

He looks down at his plate, then back up at me. “I retired from ACE.”

“What’s ACE?”

“Used to be called Delta Force.”

My eyes pop out of my head. “What?”

He nods, forking another bite of pasta. “Yeah, like that show on TV called The Unit.”

“So you were in it for a long time? I don’t know your age.”

“Yeah.” He brings his napkin to his mouth.

“Not going to tell me your age?”

“I’ve almost forgotten,” he says with a grin.

“You must have done some secret stuff. A lot of secret stuff?” I laugh at myself. “God. I get excited. Sorry.”

His face goes a little pale. Or did it? Did it? Damn. “Feel free to tell me to STFU. I’ve always been a freak about secrets. I just want to know all the things.”

Okay—his face is pale. I drop my head into my hands, then lift it, smiling sadly. “I need to be like journalists over in China and North Korea. Just have a censor right beside me, smacking me when I say the wrong things.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “You’re fine.”

We eat in silence for a long moment.

“I suppose now is not the time to ask why you had a craniotomy.” I roll my eyes at myself.

He shakes his head, chewing some green beans. Swallows. “Up to you. Ask anything you want.”

“I’m asking then. Because I’m curious. If you don’t want to talk about it, tell me your favorite singer and I’ll take the conversation that way.” I wink exaggeratedly, making fun of myself.

He laughs. “Gwenna.” It’s so nice to see his smile. He rubs his eyes as it fades, then looks right at me. “It was an IED. A bomb.” His face washes out a little, and I feel like shit for asking.

“I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have asked. I don’t like to be asked all the time myself—about what happened to me. I thought it might be something like that.” I swallow hard. Heat rises in my cheeks. “I have a brain injury myself.”

THIRTEEN

BARRETT

“I don’t want to ask a lot of nosy questions, but I felt a little weird not telling you. So if you ever want to talk or anything…” She leans her head down and I watch her pull her wavy hair into a rubber band that was around her wrist. Then she turns her head to one side, pressing a hand against the back of her head. “Mine is right there. I have a plate there. I had a bad car accident. Hit and cracked that part of my skull.”

My mouth goes dry. She sounds so damn matter-of-fact. I swallow as resistance to the idea rises in me. “Do you…still struggle with it?” I ask carefully. “With the brain injury?”

She shrugs and turns to face me fully once more. “Sometimes. If I’m stressed out, I forget dumb things like where the bread is at the grocery store. I think I stay more tired than other people. I need to exercise consistently if I don’t want to feel depressed or anxious. But I usually stay on top of it.” She lifts a shoulder, like she’s mulling my question over. “I had to take anti-seizure meds for a while right after it happened. I hated those. I had to do a lot of physical therapy, but that was more from other injuries than from the traumatic brain injury. Now my only lasting issue is that white looks like pink.”

I frown.

“I know. It’s weird.” She gives a soft laugh. “The color white—it either looks like blue or pink. Usually pink.”

I consciously suppress my face’s urge to twist in surprise. “My skin?” I ask.

“Well, that’s not white.” She laughs again, a small, dry sound. “You don’t look like some pink alien or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Even eyes are white where they look white. Clouds are blue-gray. But that works for me. Red is red, blue is blue, and sometimes white is white. But like the petals of a gardenia? Snowfall? That stuff is a little pink. I actually like it. Pink happens to be my favorite color.”

She grins, and I can’t help but chuckle. “You’re quite the optimist.”

“Actually—” she folds her