Gail looked at her watch—five a.m. Oh, right. It was evening by the Peleliu’s operational cycle. She still didn’t have the hang of that.
Then she looked up at Chief Stowell leaning on the table as if he’d been there a while. Watching her.
“Evening,” she managed. Not seeing Sly for five days—except when she’d been begging him for help and about a hundred times out of the corner of her eye—always gone when she turned to really look—she’d managed forget how perfect he looked.
Blisteringly handsome? No. Too many men boasted that and it was often their only good attribute. But Sly was awfully good-looking.
Strong. Tonight he wore khakis and a Navy blue t-shirt that clung to his upper body. She’d been able to feel his strength when they’d kissed. Couldn’t seem to stop thinking about that act
