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operational.
    “Naomi?” He said her name as though repeating it and she blinked.
    “Sorry, composing in my head.” She said the first thing that came to mind rather than point out her internal speculation. “What do you have for lunch?”
    “Salads—looks like pasta salad, some hot roast beef sandwiches and iced tea.”
    Her stomach let out a vociferous growl and her face heated. “Sounds tasty.”
    They divvied up the food and conversation lagged as they dug in. She couldn’t help but watch him as he ate. The lack of a healthy appetite was a lingering symptom of PTSD, along with nightmares, jitters, and a pathological avoidance of things that might remind them of what they desperately wanted to forget.
    She read all the brochures.
    “This is excellent.” She mangled the gratitude around a mouthful. “Thank you so much for bringing this.”
    “You’re welcome.” The words garbled in his mouth too, and they both laughed.
    “Can he have some?” She gestured to the dog and Matt shrugged, pulling apart his sandwich and feeding some of the roast beef to the Labrador. Jethro didn’t question the etiquette and gobbled it down. The smart animal swung his gaze to her and she obediently handed him some as well.
    “Okay, now I feel like it’s a picnic. Doesn’t seem right to eat in front of the dog and ignore him.”
    “No, ma’am,” he agreed. “Though he’s pretty good about not begging.”
    “He’s a good dog.” Wiping her hands on a napkin, she studied Matt. “Thanks for coming out here every day—seriously. You inspire me.”
    He hesitated, one hand on his Styrofoam cup. “I do?”
    “Yeah, composing can be kind of lonely, but you show up and give me someone to play for—an audience is always inspiring.” Dodging the more obvious answer proved the right choice when the tight lines around his eyes eased.
    “Well, I’m sure you’ve performed in front of people before.” Matt packed away the trash, stacking it neatly in the basket then stretched out to lie on his side. Jethro crawled forward until he could sprawl against Matt’s chest. Jealousy admired a dog who took what he wanted and tried not to envy him.
    “Yes and no.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve sung for my friends, played on the quad at college—played for my family. Stuff like that. But not for people I don’t know and definitely not my own material.”
    “You’re recording an album, I thought.” Puzzlement wrinkled his brow.
    “Yeah, that’s ’cause I made this recording with my computer—played some songs, recorded myself, and sent the MP3s to a producer. He liked what he heard. Had me record a few more things and then offered me an opportunity to play for him.” She grimaced. “He’s giving me the chance to record something for Regina Records and you know—go with it from there.”
    “So you’re a performer.”
    “Yeah, one who gets flop sweats when she stands in front of large crowds. I prefer a more intimate setting.” She debated how far to push it, but Matt’s interest felt genuine and showing her own vulnerability might make him more comfortable about his own. “Honestly, I wanted to be a songwriter—not a performer.”
    “So why are you recording something then?” To his credit, he didn’t give her the look her brothers did—the one that said, So, stupid, why are you doing it ?
    Owing him a reward for the bemused question that didn’t insult her intelligence, she lifted her shoulders. “Honestly? Because if I record it, then I get a say in how the songs are used and maybe—just maybe, I can help. My dad always told us, ‘he who gives the order should lead the charge.’ I want my music to matter, I want my songs to help. I can’t—I can’t dodge bullets or wear a uniform. I grew up Marine, but that isn’t for me. I’m too much of a chicken when the big guns are out. I’d rather run and hide than run and face them. And that’s okay because I have four brothers who run into those fires