Triple Threat. Jennifer Labrecque

completed an intense course in Farsi.

      “Where are you heading?” Mitch asked.

      “Back home for the weekend. Another one of my buddies is getting married. Poor bastard. I’ll stay at my folks’ place, even though they’re away right now.” His friends were dropping like flies now. This was number four. And Eli had agreed to be a groomsman when said bastard, Greg Waddell, married Lisa Mosley. He and Greg had had a reputation in town for pulling some harmless but dumb-ass pranks when they were younger, like spray painting the town water tower one night. Eli had the leave time coming and it’d be cool to reconnect with some of the people from his severely misspent youth. It was kind of strange that while he’d spent the last several years traveling the globe, so many of the people he’d grown up with had stayed in Jackson Flats.

      And she would be there. His gut clenched at the thought of Tara Swenson…her mouth, her hands, her soft, soft skin, her legs wrapped around his waist, her writhing beneath him, on top of him…This time he was definitely staying away. Twice had been two times too many. No more close encounters of the hot kind with her.

      “You need a psych eval, man, if you’re spending your leave at some wedding.”

      Eli shrugged, stopping at his pride and joy, his 2008 Shelby Mustang GT500KR, black with silver stripes and packing 500 horses in the engine. He popped the trunk. “They’re not bad and the parties afterward are usually kick-ass.” That was an understatement.

      His first buddy had succumbed to matrimony five years ago. Eli had been fresh out of college and had just been handed down his commission. Yeah, he’d thought he was the man. The champagne had been endless and the night had been hot. And what had started out as a casual romp had turned into something way, way more…so not what he wanted, needed or was looking for. He’d woken up the next morning, looked into Tara’s sea-green eyes and felt something inside him turn upside down.

      And in keeping with his military strategic training, he’d taken the only viable course of action. Far better that a soldier retreat than surrender. So, he’d run like hell in the other direction.

      And then, there was Christy and Matt’s wedding two years earlier. Hell, they’d divorced before the ink was dry on the license. But Tara had been there. Neither one of them had planned to hook up, but dammit to hell he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Before the night was over, they were wearing out the sheets in a hotel thirty miles away.

      His entire body tightened, quickened when he remembered the hottest sex he’d ever had. He’d almost called her after that night. Hell, he’d even put together an e-mail once and then deleted it. He was heading overseas and that didn’t make him much of a candidate for a relationship. It wasn’t fair to her. And besides, his career plans didn’t include any emotional commitments. He suspected Tara was the one woman who could derail those plans. So, they’d scorched the bed…and the carpet…and the shower…And, once again, he’d walked away.

      Thinking about that was a bad-ass idea. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories. Then he put his duffel bag in the trunk and slammed it closed.

      Mitch frowned. “I tell you what. I’ll stick with the bar scene and leave the wedding deals to you.”

      “How ‘bout you recon the bars up at Bragg before I get there?”

      Mitch strode over to his restored-to-mint-condition ’69 Ford Bronco. “Deal. Enjoy your wedding.”

      “Will do.” He planned to have a helluva good time. And he was due a little R&R after busting his balls for his wings the last three weeks. After all, there were lots of fish in the sea. And this time, he’d make it a point to fish far, far away from where he might catch Tara.

      Because come hell or high water, he was not sleeping with Tara Swenson again.