Major

“Whoa, shit!” she yells when we crash into each other and no fewer than fifteen personal hygiene items go flying into the air and crashing to the floor. I hold onto my bulbs because, unlike this woman, I don’t try to balance an unmanageable amount of purchases in my arms without a basket.

She’s on her knees collecting her things before I can apologize, which technically, I don’t have to do because it’s not my fault. She ran into me. I should move to help her, but she’s really fucking beautiful . . . down there . . . on her knees. For fuck’s sake, Major, get a grip. You’re a damn Marine. Help her already.

I crouch down just as she’s standing, and we collide again. This is ridiculous. I stiffen when her head cracks against the bottom of my jaw and she moans and grabs her head.

“Ow!” she yells for the second time in a matter of seconds.

“Stop moving,” I say, taking her by the shoulders. “I’ll take care of it.”

Her eyes narrow and her lips press together in a straight line. She looks pissed or maybe shocked—I’m not sure which—but thankfully, she can follow instructions.

She stills, and I straighten up to retrieve a shopping basket from the opposite end of the aisle. When I turn around, someone is standing with her, presumably her mother the way she’s hovering and checking the lump that I am sure is growing on her head. I crouch down, neatly place each item in the basket, and hand it to her.

“Shopping baskets significantly reduce the instance of head injuries in retail establishments,” I say. I’m being serious, but I can see a myriad of emotions crossing her beautiful face, including irritation and anger—but most of all, frustration.

“Watching where one’s going doesn’t hurt either,” she says, flashing me a quick sarcastic smile.

I don’t have time to deal with her right now, even though I would really like to stand here and continue to watch her mocha skin flush and her deep brown eyes flash with anger.

I look at my watch. Fuck. I have nine minutes to get home and get my day back on schedule. I should ask if she’s okay. I should probably apologize, even though it was clearly not my fault, but I’m in a hurry. I step around the two women, grab the razor blades I was after in this aisle, and make my way through the store to the cashier.

Back at home, I install the light bulbs that unexpectedly exploded this morning. I dispose of the containers and recheck twice to be sure I didn’t miss any glass when I swept up earlier. Then I sweep one more time for good measure and breathe a sigh of relief. I had to rewrite my entire list of things to do today just to insert ‘go to Target’, but the satisfaction of crossing it off was worth it. My day is back on track, it’s sixteen thirty, and I’m on my way out the door to start my afternoon run.

What a fucking relief. I can relax for an hour now and let my mind go blank while I count my steps.

One,

two,

three,

four. Only 1296 to go before I meet Garcia and Davis for dinner and drinks.

Sweat is dripping down my back and between my shoulder blades. One mile into my run, the sun is in my eyes and the smell of fresh cut grass is thick in the air. California in the summer. It doesn’t get any better than this. My mind is multitasking this afternoon. Part of it is counting my steps, another part is counting the palm trees as I pass them, and another is replaying the Target incident.

I can’t stop thinking about that woman on her knees with her Nike sun visor and her long, wavy black hair in a messy ponytail. When we were finished banging heads and colliding into each other, I systematically assessed her beauty. She was understated and casual, wearing shorts and a tank top. Her glasses made her look like a sexy librarian. She looked like she was going to play golf. In fact, the woman who was with her did too. Mother and daughter golf. How sweet.

There was something about her, something interesting and intriguing. I usually deplore sassiness and disobedience in a woman, but when she spoke back to me, it was a turn on. Fuck, I need to get laid. I’m getting a semi thinking about a stranger at Target.

I don’t date, and it’s been a while since I’ve had time to go out perusing for someone to bed, but it’s getting harder and harder to go without sex—pun intended. Serious relationships are impossible, and I don’t do casual well either. I can’t stand the loose unpredictability of that kind of setup. I do one-night stands in impersonal hotels where no one gets attached and no one gets hurt.

Things have been hectic on base lately with new recruits arriving fresh out of boot camp. I haven’t had a spare minute to go out for anything other than dinner. Bars aren’t my thing, so Davis and Garcia compromised, agreeing to meet for dinner even though I’m sure they will try to drag me along for a pub crawl when we’re finished. I’ll tolerate one or two for a hookup, but when I’ve found someone to break my dry streak, I’m gone.