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Overlaying the scents of starch and shoe polish was a faint and tantalizing cologne, which grew stronger as she climbed the four steep steps to peek into Amos’s bedroom. Her eyes went straight to the queen-sized bed, with more storage underneath, and two octagonal windows, one on either wall. The burgundy comforter had been smoothed, but the pillows were still dented by two heads, one large, one small. Envy pricked her as she pictured Simon and Amos sleeping side by side, while she and Mateo slept alone, a thousand miles apart.
I’m coming back for you. She sent Mateo that telepathic message with the hope that he could feel it.
A thud near the front of the boat prompted her to return quickly to the living area.
“I did it! I thwam by mythelf!” Simon greeted her with breathless exhilaration as he ran up to her, wrapped in a towel.
“I’m so proud of you!” He would not have felt so proud if he’d gone swimming her way—with a life vest on.
“In the shower,” his father ordered. “Remember how far to turn the knob?”
“Yep!”
Simon shut himself inside the bathroom, leaving Grace to face his father alone. She acknowledged his accomplishment with a grimace, trying not to stare as he toweled himself dry in front of her. With her pulse fluttering, she turned and searched for the best place to tutor Simon.
“Where would you like me to work with him?”
Amos nodded at the breakfast nook in the kitchen. “Over there is probably best. You’ll have the morning sunlight, though I’ll be making lunch soon.”
Grace’s stomach pitched. “I’d like to teach him outside, if that’s okay, on the hill.” Maybe it was just Amos who unsettled her.
He stepped closer, drawing her gaze back to his. “Suit yourself.” Inclining slightly toward her, he drew a deep breath. “You smell like nutmeg.”
Seeing him focus on her lips, she blurted, “Just to make myself clear, I am here to help Simon, and that’s it.”
Amos stared at her for so long, her face heated as a blush rose to her cheeks. A familiar, mocking smile lifted one corner of his black moustache. “Are you trying to convince me of that? Or yourself?”
Her eyes narrowed even as her face burned. She pitched her voice lower so Simon wouldn’t hear. “You’re a jackass.”
His taunting smile disappeared. For a second, the veneer of his ultra-masculine confidence disappeared. “No one else dares to call me that, not to my face. But I like that you’re not intimidated by me.”
She cleared her throat. If he only knew how intimidated she was—not of his chest-thumping masculinity, but of her response to him.
“I’ll wait on the hill.” She skirted him, giving him a broad berth just in case he tried to embrace her again. She snatched up her bag of materials, exited his houseboat, and went to wait on the hill at the foot of an oak tree.
* * *
Amos glanced continually out his kitchen window as he put together an artichoke-and-rice chicken salad. The meal was easy enough to make but required lots of chopping, which didn’t pair well with peering out the window.
Up on the hill, in the shade of the oak tree decades older than the house, Grace and Simon seemed to be playing, not reading. She hadn’t brought texts or workbooks in her bag but, rather, red paper plates and—his eyes had to be deceiving him—canned whipped cream? Annoyance heated his blood. He wasn’t paying her a dollar a minute to play games.
Taking his agitation out on the green onions, Amos chopped them into tiny slices to be mixed with artichoke chunks, green bell pepper, olives, and cooked white rice. Happily, he had discovered that Simon would eat anything, even green stuff, without a word of protest. Emma Moulton had been right about that.
Amos poured in the dressing next—blended artichoke juice, mayonnaise, and curry powder. He stirred the salad well, covered it with plastic wrap, and stuck it in the fridge next to the shredded chicken, which he would add in an hour or so, when he called Grace and Simon inside for lunch.
What next?Amos cast another glance out the window. Being a senior chief, he couldn’t help but monitor the situation. His job entailed knowing what every subordinate SEAL was up to and checking that they did it well. Trusting Grace to do her job—especially when itlookedlike she was just playing with Simon and not teaching him—caused an inward battle.
Should he investigate? Or should he trust in her training and experience? He himself didn’t know the first thing about teaching a kid to read.
Recalling her response to his heavy-handedness back in Venezuela, he opted to stay clear. Grace had made it perfectly obvious she didn’t like being talked to like a subordinate—minionwas the word she’d used. Unfortunately for him, he’d been a chief and then a senior chief for ten years, so learning to talk any other way might take time.
While washing his cutting board, knife, and spatula, he watched with incredulity as Simon wielded the can of whipped cream, Grace guiding his hands lightly. His son was thoroughly engrossed, which was good. But shouldn’t there at least be a book involved? Amos blew out a breath. He had to see what she was up to.
Stalking off his houseboat, he headed toward them. Simon didn’t so much as glance up at Amos’s approach. The tip of his tongue touched his upper lip as he carefully sprayed the whipped cream onto the paper plate.
“Good! And what sound doesPmake?”
His son, looking doubtful, lifted his face to his teacher even as he put his lips together and made the proper sound.
