Shiloh held out her hand as Roan stopped in front of her and gave her the plastic cup. “Thanks,” she murmured.
Roan sat down next to her, about a foot between them. “I would never have guessed a writer could lay a porch,” he told her wryly, turning, meeting her eyes. Shiloh’s hair was mussed, her ponytail coming somewhat loosened over the afternoon’s hard work. Tendrils stuck damply to her temples and cheeks. He could see she was happy, her green eyes radiant, her mouth curving into that soft smile of hers. His body wanted her, no question. Roan had worked to ignore her feminine side, the woman in her. When Shiloh had shed her chambray shirt, stripping down to a sleeveless tee that outlined her breasts beneath it, Roan had groaned inwardly. The sweat had gleamed off her shoulders and arms as she used fasteners to screw the Trex into place. She was a woman who wasn’t afraid to get her hands or herself dirty. Another plus in his book.
“And who would have guessed an Army Special Forces guy would build his own home?” she teased in return. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he tilted his head back, slugging down the water, thirsty. His flesh glistened and his masculine scent filled her nostrils. Her heart squeezed with a combination of need and happiness. Working with Roan today made her feel so different. So . . . fulfilled. And yes, working as a team member on something important made her happy.
Shiloh had always known she was a team person. And Roan had been a patient instructor when necessary, quietly directing her or showing her how to use the air-powered nail gun. She remembered how impatient and angry Anton Leath had become with her as a child; Roan was the complete opposite. This allowed Shiloh to not only enjoy working beside him, but also the pleasure of simply being in his company. He was a hard worker, just like herself.
Roan grinned as he lifted the cup away from his lips. He slanted her an amused glance. “So, what is a Special Forces soldier in your opinion, I wonder?” He didn’t want to admit it, but he was interested in how Shiloh saw him. Roan knew being identified as a black ops person led others to prejudge him. And with Shiloh, he wanted her to see him, not the label or the operator. Why? His heart tugged in his chest as he watched her expression become serious and contemplative. She didn’t take anything he said lightly. Instead, he could see her thinking over the question fully. Shiloh cared. But did she care about him, specifically? Or did she care in general about any human being whom she was interacting with? Roan wanted her to care about him. He didn’t look too closely at why.
Settling her elbows on her knees and cupping her hand beneath her chin, Shiloh tilted her head, holding Roan’s gray gaze. “My dad, even though he was an Air Force combat pilot, knew plenty about the world of black ops. Did I tell you that he worked as a CCT over in the Middle East? That he was on the ground, as a pilot, calling in jets or other aircraft to protect black ops groups?”
Roan’s brow rose a little. “No, you didn’t. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” He saw her give him a wolfish grin. A CCT was a communications specialist on the ground directing air, weapons, and bombs onto hot targets. These men were sometimes enlisted and sometimes actual Air Force jet pilots, who remained deep behind enemy lines, with a black ops group, and worked the air portion to keep soldiers safe. It was a very dangerous job and Roan had worked primarily with enlisted Air Force CCTs, never any pilot officers. It gave him a new appreciation of Shiloh’s father, and his respect for the man rose even higher.
“I didn’t know if you’d be interested.” Shiloh saw him nod, as if understanding what she meant. “My dad used to tell me stories about the black ops groups he worked with. Nothing that was top secret, of course, but he could tell me incredible stories and I hung on every word. Later, he would go on to write about this type of thing, but never about actual events.”
“With his background, I imagine he could pen a really good suspense and adventure tale,” Roan said.
“He did. They were so alive, Roan.” She smiled fondly. “I was young, but my aunt and uncle allowed me to start reading his books when I was fourteen. They felt I was old enough to understand them. I just fell in love with my dad’s storytelling. I hung on every word he wrote. I loved it because it brought back wonderful memories of me sitting at his feet when he’d tell me one of his black ops stories.”