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( Chapter Thirteen: HEAD OVER HEELS )
ROBIN TACKED JIM'S BRAND NEW CHEVRONS ONTO HIS UNIFORM FOR HIM, using the tanned thread that she'd scavenged from Olive's sewing box to complete the job. The lucky chap had received battlefield commission for his work in Normandy, as well as a decoration recommendation for a bronze star. It seemed as if his officer training had finally payed off: he was an NCO, now — a staff sergeant. It was a funny thing to think about, that; she had a sergeant sweetheart.
"I don't know why all these things have happened to me, I'm just an everyday guy," he admitted, wringing his tanned hands. He'd caught the sun a little from being outside so much, on orders, bless him. It made the bridge of his nose slightly pinker than the rest of his face, and she warned him he ought to have been watching out for getting sunburnt, but she supposed that soldiers on the brink of possible death didn't really care for the state of their skin.
Robin couldn't understand what it was that she saw that he couldn't. Perhaps, she imagined, it was something to do with leaving Aldbourne as a semi-ordinary man in an American Airbourne uniform, and returning as a bronze-starred war hero. Obviously though, she'd never been shipped off to war herself as such. As a matter of fact, she'd never even come close to knowing what it was like. She didn't even know why she was trying to empathise — she'd have the settle with the fact that she'd never be able to understand the way he felt and why he did. It made her heart clench a bit.
Nevertheless, she agreed with him lightheartedly, "I suppose so, to some people you might just be an an everyday guy. But to me, you're an every day for the rest of my life kind of guy."
There was little to no wear and tear on his khakis after she was done with them, sewing up the little rips that were made in the cloth from the French glass that he'd fallen into. What a bimbo, she thought to herself, punctuating with a small huff of a giggle. At least he was still in one piece and not like some of the men she'd seen in the hospital recently. They'd been locked and loaded since D-Day, but Corporal Rembrandt Armitage had found the time to instructing her on how to drive during her lunch breaks, which was oh so lovely of him.
She waved the out shirt properly to admire her neat stitching. Obviously, she was no Olive Freebury, but she'd done a decent job in half the time — it wasn't nearly the same as his dress shirt, it was less creamy and more canvas and course beneath her fingertips. She slid it over her narrow shoulders and hurriedly buttoned it up halfway, saluting him the British salute rather than the American one. Trouble was, she didn't know the difference.
He watched her in childlike awe, ashing his cigarette into the tray on the bedside table. There was something warm surging beneath her chest that had been absent beforehand. God, he was so handsome, with his high cheekbones and soft jaw. Absentmindedly, she asked, "Are you ever going to pop me the question, James?" fiddling with the bottom hem of his shirt against her thigh, where the hairs were blonde and feather-soft. Perhaps she sort of fancied herself a military wife.
