“Do you have something?” I asked, and kissed him. He tasted of vodka and pine. “Something?” He was already kissing me back, hands in my hair, both of us lurching against the dugout wall. “You know.” I pried at his collar; he pried at mine as his mouth traveled down my jawline. A button spanged off the table. “Do you have—” “I don’t have a ring,” he confessed. “It was hard enough getting a loaf of decent bread and a damned can of stew.” “For the love of—” I pushed him into the chair, climbed into his lap, put my forehead against his so we were eye to eye, dark eyes drowning in blue, and locked
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