Bran made a face that did nothing to detract from his swarthy Italian-American good looks—the bastard—before adjusting the strap of his army-green duffel over his shoulder. He wiped the back of his hand over his perspiring brow. “No big surprise there considering everything that comes from that part of Jersey looks like it’s been beaten with the ugly stick.” He leveled Michael with a meaningful look. Since Bran hailed from Newark, the two of them had that whole North Jersey versus South Jersey rivalry thing down pat. “And besides, I can’t help it if I sweat like a whore in church in this damned Pakistani heat. Who doesn’t?”
Standing on the side of the wide loading platform, Michael watched as the hydraulic gears on the C-17 Globemaster transport plane groaned while lowering the huge back ramp to the ground. Hot, dry wind immediately rushed into the massive fuselage, ruffling the hair near his temples. When the ramp kissed the tarmac with a solid thud and the hydraulics kicked off, he glanced over at their lieutenant, Leo “The Lion” Anderson, before hooking a thumb in the guy’s direction. “LT for one,” he told Bran, using the military slang for Leo’s rank. “As always, he’s cool as a fucking cucumber.”
“Yeah, sure. But there’s something wrong with that guy,” Bran scoffed, taking in LT’s bone-dry shirt and crisp, efficient movements as he stood from one of the jump seats mounted to the interior wall of the plane and slid on his ever-present aviator sunglasses. With sun-streaked, sandy-blond hair and a perpetual tan, not to mention his seeming immunity to broiling weather, LT looked the part of a man who’d grown up in the Florida Keys. “I think it’s glandular.”
“I heard that,” LT grumbled, unwrapping a stick of Big Red chewing gum and folding it into his mouth. Then he bent to shoulder his own duffel as the four remaining members of Michael’s SEAL Team followed suit, unstrapping and grabbing gear. “Which speaks to the fact that on the flight over today, it occurred to me that you’re not a nitwit, Bran. You’re a shitwit.”
One corner of Michael’s mouth twitched. “Nice one, LT.”
Bran turned from their lieutenant back to him, brow furrowed. “You thought that was funny, did you, spostata?”
Michael winked, ignoring the Italian insult.
“Uh-huh.” Bran narrowed his eyes. “Well, considering you’ve been feverishly dialing and redialing—all to no avail, I might add—that cute redhead’s number ever since you two smashed naughty bits, I’d say you’re the shitwit in this group. Not me.”
Michael’s face instantly fell at the mention of Harper’s ongoing cold…er…at least cool shoulder routine. They’d made a connection, hadn’t they? And the feeling had been like being dealt an ace-high royal flush. Just flat-out unbeatable. “She’s a Southern belle. I suspect playing hard to get is just part of her courtship ritual.”
At least, that’s what he’d been telling himself with every unanswered call.
Bran snorted. “Sure, okay. And I’m gonna file that under Bitch and Please. But, hey, I get it, paisano. You managed to break off a piece of something you like, and now you—”
“Bran,” LT warned, glancing surreptitiously at Michael over the top of his sunglasses, accurately reading his not-so-poker face, which, you know, was pretty much the expressional equivalent of a line of Do Not Cross tape. As well as the hot, fighting blood that was prized among the SEALs, the ability to out-quip or out-insult a teammate was held in the highest regard. Usually, Michael was able to mix it up with the best of them. But not when Harper was the subject at hand…
Fuckin’ A. You have got to get it together, Wainwright.
Yeah. That was solid advice. And he’d been trying unsuccessfully to take it ever since that goddamned party.
“Aw, hell. Sorry, Mad Dog,” Bran quickly relented after grabbing a clue that his jibes were hitting a little too close to home. Even though Bran was the joker in the deck, there wasn’t a malicious bone in the man’s body. Now, irritating bones? The guy had those in spades. “I didn’t realize it was such a touchy subject. And if it makes you feel any better, I figure the real reason she’s pulling that whole mum’s the word shtick is because she’s afraid to go another round with that python you pack in your pants.”
And just like that, Michael’s frown turned upside down. Leave it to Bran. But before he could respond to that ridiculous bit of alliterative nonsense—python he packed in his pants? Jesus—his cell phone came to life in his hand, vibrating and jangling out the tune to “Happy” by Pharrell Williams.
“Oh, for shit’s sake,” Bran cursed, falling immediately back into his role as good-hearted tormentor. “Is it possible for you to upload a ringtone that doesn’t make me want to take a bath with a toaster?”
Michael liked snappy pop songs. So sue him. Who—if they were being completely honest—didn’t? “Don’t act like you don’t love it,” he told Bran, grinning broadly. Of course, when he lifted the phone and saw who was calling, his expression instantly sobered as his heart drummed out a rhythm to match the melody’s tempo.