“You think I’ve a third leg?”

“Or an extra pinky finger. What do I care?”

Can love be found in the war-torn streets of a foreign city?

No, if you asked Sandra. And definitely not in shonky westernised bars where she sought distraction from the surrounding chaos and self-imposed man-ban. If only her disdain for the destruction caused by men who war, and desire for their ‘tackle’ didn’t frustrate her sanity.

With weeks left, a Special Forces Major pushed her resolve beyond its limit. His smouldering blue eyes reduced parts on said ban into a hot mess, drowning her like the bar beer she upended in his honour. He infuriated, as equally as he intoxicated her better judgement. Just don’t ask her to admit it. 

Finally, on a night off after a month long operation, Adam didn’t expect trouble. But he got it, by the bucket load. More specifically a petite mad-pixie with auburn hair. Her fire and ice demeanour accosted his very existence. Problem with that, his team rescued her group of teachers weeks later. Separated from his squad and forced to spend time in her company, sparks flew, words hurled, grunts and growls boomed, cornering more than his ego.

They say the line between love and hate truly runs on a razor’s edge. Or is hate sometimes a shield to protect where the fiercest battles are fought and won?

The one in our hearts.