You're His New Neighbor

Six

"You sure about this? We could go back to my place and not wear stuffy clothes." You held onto his arm, whispering to him as you walked up the steps together toward the venue hosting the military ball.

You were joking, of course.

You knew how important this was to him, but the tension was already thick. You took the stairs slower, his prosthetic making it more difficult for him to keep a steady pace.

You knew his leg irritated him sometimes, but he was powering through at an impressive rate, "Almost there." You encouraged him.

The grip you had on his arm told him you were there with him, for him, despite the wry suggestion to abandon the formality of the military ball completely.

"Not tonight, lass," he murmured back, his voice a husky undertone meant for your ears alone. "We've got a bit of a show to put on, don't we?" The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a semblance of a smile, showing his appreciation for your willingness to stand by his side—even when his pride was pricked.

Adjusting the weight on his good leg, he continued the climb, his focus shifting from the conversation to the coordination of his steps occasionally.

"Almost there," John echoed, that familiar grit in his voice like when a pipe was being stubborn at your house. "And then... well, then the night's still young, isn't it?"

It was bold, suggestive, but you loved it when he got a little spicy. You gave him a soft, teasing punch against his bicep, shaking your head and glancing away to hide the flush on your cheeks.

As you crested the top of the stairs, John allowed himself a moment to take in your appearance. The black lace dress hugged your curves in a way that had his blood warming, the high slit offering a teasing glimpse of your thighs—a sight he'd found himself fantasizing about more than once.

He straightened his shoulders, the medals on his dress uniform clinking softly, a reminder of the battles fought and comrades lost. Tonight, however, was about honor and recognition, and he had you on his arm—a point of envy for many of the men he knew would be there.

Honestly, he couldn't wait to show you off to his boys.

Price leaned in close, letting his breath fan your neck as he spoke, intimate on purpose. "Let's make 'em remember us, yeah? For all the right reasons."

"Atta boy." You smiled and patted his arm playfully, teasing him in a way that was uniquely part of your relationship. "Once we get inside, there'll be a chilled glass of Macallan with your name on it. My treat."

Your thumb ran over his forearm absentmindedly, the intimacy of the touch a little further past what could be considered 'just friends'. But you'd moved past that point, and tonight... tonight, you were whatever he wanted you to be, specifically because his bitch of an ex was there, and you were raring to stick it to her.

"Macallan, eh? You really know how to sweet-talk a fella," The touch of your thumb on his arm was a spark to tinder, the small gesture igniting a warmth that flickered along his nerves.

"Don't think for a second that the ex won't notice that," he said, nodding ever so slightly at your hand still resting on his arm. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Moving into the grand ballroom, the murmur of voices and the gentle clinking of glassware enveloped you. The scent of polished wood and the nearly overwhelming fragrance of expensive perfumes mingled in the air, but all John could register was you beside him—the softness of your skin, the way your hair framed your face, the sweet floral notes that seemed to cling to you.

The sight of his ex-wife in the distance, draped on the arm of the man she'd left him for, was like a cold dose of reality. John felt the familiar rush of anger, the betrayal still a fresh wound despite the years that had passed. But he was a master of control, a soldier in every sense, and he wouldn't allow her presence to ruin what was meant to be his night.