by Enders, KC
I crank my vehicle to a start and listen to the engine. Liam knows his shit when it comes to old engines and restorations, picking apart whatever issues might cause a stutter, a cough, or a hiccup. And now that he’s stroked Maggie’s ego, she’s purring in a way I’ve never been able to get her to. I shoot him a text, thanking him and letting him know about Chloe’s taillight, adding in that I’m available to lend a hand if she calls and needs anything.
I slip my truck into gear and take off toward home. Whatever the issue was, Liam worked his magic, and now, she’s sliding through her gears like she’s eager for it.
Maggie has been the only woman in my life—the only dependable one—for a while. We’ve spent some serious time together, but she barely even registers in my mind as my thoughts drift back to Chloe and her pinup curves. I don’t care what branch of service decorates a man’s uniform; pinups and nose art from old World War II planes are where it’s at.
By the time I walk through the door of my apartment, I have a ridiculously clear image in my head of Chloe perched on Maggie’s hood, looking all kinds of sexy. I should shove the objectifying thoughts away. I really should.
Instead, I shed my sweaty, sandy clothes and climb under the hot spray of the shower. In my mind, her cardigan is busting at the buttons with a flash of red lace peeking through. I picture the way her fitted skirt skimmed every glorious curve, especially the pop of her ass from the lift of her shoes. I squeeze my eyes shut and grip my dick, giving it a firm tug as I imagine sexy-as-fuck seams up the backs of her stockings. I stroke two, three, four more times and then grunt out my release, almost embarrassed with how fast I blew my load. Before I even mentally got her undressed.
With steam swirling around me and hot water sluicing down my body, I finish my shower. I dry off and pull on some athletic shorts.
I grab a water from the kitchen and scoop some ice cream into a coffee cup. SportsCenter is already queued up on the TV when I hit the remote. Basketball stats scroll across the bottom of the screen as teams and players are analyzed to death. I pick at my ice cream, trying to make it last but failing miserably. By the time the announcers are done with their predictions on the next handful of basketball games, my cup is empty.
NHL standings lead to baseball chatter, and then I’m done. I shut things down, draining my water bottle at the same time. My dishes clatter as I load them into the dishwasher.
When I finally crawl between the sheets and close my eyes, my brain whirs, picking up speed instead of allowing me to drift off. I’m stuck in this weird place, not entirely single like Chance, not living the family life like I had planned. My ties to my past are holding me captive, not letting me move on. I loved Aly with all my heart, but there’s no way I could have stayed with her. Not after what she did.
The next hour is spent trying to shut down my thoughts, but it’s useless. I lift my head from the pillow and stare at the drawer next to my bed. The prescription is in there, every single pill accounted for, except one.
My doctor prescribed them for nights like this, where my body is tired but my mind doesn’t seem to want to stop. It worked the one time I took it, but I’d rather not do that again. Not now. Not when things have been going so well.
Instead, I turn over onto my back and take that first cleansing breath. I blow it out, completely emptying my lungs, and then slide into the rhythm of box breathing, controlling my emotions. Clearing my mind.
Chapter Five
Chloe
Anticipation should be reserved for only good things. Vacations. Holidays. Birthdays and peeling back the last little bit of tape when opening presents. It should actually be illegal to feel it for anything other than the good stuff, but more and more, I’ve been hovering on the edge, waiting for the next battle in this never-ending war.
“It’s not a war, Chloe. It’s a mission, in-country. A day in the sandbox. A walk downrange. That’s all. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Dallas’s words trickle through my mind as I wonder what he would have to say about the elevated tension propelling my car down the road. If he were still alive, none of this would even be an issue. We’d be home on our little farm, surrounded by a couple more kids.
Instead, every muscle in my body is coiled tight. Waiting. Dreading. Preparing for the imminent battle ahead.
“You have your cleats? Water bottle?” I ask Jake as casually as I can, not wanting to poke the beast.
I happen to know for a fact that both items are in the duffel behind my seat. Because I put them there.
Whoever said that boys were easier to raise than girls hasn’t met my son.
Jake rolls his eyes, slumps low in his seat, and pouts loudly as he stares at the back of the passenger headrest.
I had no idea eleven-year-old boys could be such nightmares. I miss the days of barely contained excitement, of Jake bouncing on the balls of his feet, of puppy-dog eyes. He had the best puppy-dog eyes.
“This is dumb,” he grumbles. “Nobody even watches this stupid sport.”
I glance at the dashboard clock as I pull into the first spot at the edge of the field. “Give it a minute, buddy. You might actually enjoy rugby if you just give it a chance. Learn the rules and try. It’s good to do something different,” I say, infusing enthusiasm into my statement but not too much because, you know, prepubescent attitudes are unpredictable at best.
The click of the cooling engine is the only sound in the car, and what I wouldn’t give to have some other noise to distract me or some other person to share this delightful moment with. Not some other person. Dallas.
“No.”
One, two, three, four …
My jaw works back and forth over my molars.
I count.
I breathe.
I pray for patience and wisdom and just a tiny bit of a reprieve.
“All we did was run last time. We didn’t actually do anything,” Jake whines.
This kid has never been a whiner. Not when he was a baby, not as a toddler. Not even in the first couple of years after we lost his daddy.
“Get your cleats on and buck up, little trooper. It’s time to put your game face on and give this a go.” I climb out of the car and pray that he listens and does just that, just this once.
The transition from sweet mama’s boy to surly tween is a dicey tap dance of uncertainty.
At the back of my car, I pop the hatch and grab the leash neatly coiled in the corner.
“Come on, Bronson. Sit.” I point to the edge of the tailgate and rub my hands over the short black fur of his face.
I might get attitude from my kid, but at least the dog still listens to me and gives me the puppy-dog eyes.
I reach to clip his leash on, but like a flash, Bronson takes off in a blur, running across the field.
“Where’d he go?” Jake screeches. Panic peppers his voice because while he might think he’s all grown, he’s still just a little boy who loves his dog.
“Get your cleats on, and let’s go. I’ll—” I stop, dumbstruck by what’s playing out in front of me.
Jake climbs out of the car and stands next to me, looking as astounded as I feel. “Is he dancing, Mom? Is Bronson dancing like he used to?”
There, in the middle of the field, my dog is jumping and wiggling around the tall, broad stack of muscle. Wide-eyed, I take in the sight, and a gasp catches in my throat. Bronson’s not an old dog by any means, just now showing a touch of white on his chin, but he hasn’t acted like this in ages. Not since …
“Mom? Why is he doing that now?” Jake appears beside me. “You said he hasn’t danced since Dad died.” His words are breathed out in a hush.
We stand statue-still as Miles jogs toward us, trying to grab at the worn leather collar that’s bouncing all around but it’s just out of reach because, to Bronson, this is the best game ever. Miles darts his gaze to the cars pulling into the gravel lot, concern pinching at the corners of his eyes. My dog, however, could not care less. His focus is singularly
on the man approaching us.
Miles slows, dropping to a knee, and Bronson does a nosedive, half underneath him. He rolls to his back, twisting as all four paws kick at the air.
“Toss me his leash?” Miles asks, one big hand splayed across the white-and-black dappled chest of the squirming dog, the other extended toward me.
Jake whips the leash from my grasp and runs, practically falling to the ground next to Miles. Other kids spill from arriving cars and run toward their coach, and the now thoroughly exhausted dog who’s panting and drooling heavily. Miles clips the leash in place and drops the loop into Jake’s hand.
Leaving the new kid on the team to be the center of attention, Miles stands and makes his way to me, Bronson watching him the entire time. “Think your dog might be happier to see me than the kids. ’Course, I’m not going to make him run drills for the next twenty minutes,” he says, an easy smile pulling at his lips. He rests a hand on his hip and shifts his weight, swiping at a glistening smear of dog slobber.
“I’m sorry. Here, let me …” I pull the sleeve of my hoodie over my hand and wipe at the mess.
It’s not until my hand is firmly attached to his leg that I pause and maybe die a little on the inside because my palm is resting against his thigh. His very muscular, very exposed thigh because those shorts he’s wearing are short.
My cheeks flame as I pull my hand away like his skin is on fire. The burn of embarrassment simmers up from deep inside me. “Oh, for the love of God,” I mumble. “I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. Jeez.” I glance around to see just how many people witnessed me molesting the man.
Thankfully, the only one who seems to have noticed is Miles. His easy smile, still in place, is enhanced by a rumbling laugh, rich and smooth like caramel.
“Thanks,” he says softly.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I just groped my kid’s coach. Not intentionally, but still. And to make matters worse, I kind of liked it. I pull my lips between my teeth and bite down on them. Nodding my head, I turn toward the group of boys gathered around Jake and a very pleased-looking Bronson.
“I’m going to take my dog for a walk, I think. Let you get on with your practice.” I wave my slobber-stained hand toward the field.
I’m used to being cool, generally full of grace, in awkward situations. Evidently, not today though. Not only is my dog acting like a fool today, but I am, too.
I whistle shrilly, drawing attention, and Bronson stands, stretching out his back legs before loping toward me.
A series of sharp claps makes my shoulders jump, and my spine stiffens automatically.
“All right, boys, let’s stretch it out like Jake’s dog.” Miles winks as he passes me, trotting out onto the field.
* * *
The phone rings a handful of times before Kate answers, laughing and out of breath. “Hey.” She can barely get that little word out before gasping for air.
“Tell me I’m not interrupting any shenanigans,” I groan.
Kate and her husband, Jack, are the most disgustingly in-love couple ever. I’d hate her if I didn’t love her so much.
“Pfft, no. Jack’s getting the boys settled into a project, and I was just chasing Hays down, trying to get her into some shoes so we can go run some errands.” Kate groans, followed by a heavy sigh. “The hell with it. I’m too tired to go anywhere now. Tell me about my first favorite kiddo. How’s he adjusting to Southern life?”
Kate was Jake’s kindergarten teacher a million years ago. When Dallas’s best friend knocked her up and married her, she became family. Dallas would have loved to see Jack and Kate together. To finally see the confirmed bachelor with a family of his own. With five-year-old twin boys and a four-year-old daughter, the sound of exhaustion in my friend’s voice is nothing new. But there’s something there, something I can’t quite put my finger on that hints that there’s another one on the way.
Dallas didn’t get to see any of it.
Dallas died too soon.
“Jake’s adjusting, I guess. He’s made a couple of friends.” Bronson walks alongside me, his leash folded across his back. “I just need him to be okay, Kate. I need everything to be settled.”
“Yeah, I know. And what about you, Chloe? Have you made any friends? Found someone to go out with? Have a glass of wine or maybe dinner?” Kate asks softly. “Maybe someone you want to date?”
Done with our walk, I click the button to open the hatch of my SUV and dump some water into a bowl for Bronson. He drinks thirstily and then lies down next to me as I watch the scrimmage happening on the field.
“I’ve had some wine,” I tell her avoiding that last question she snuck in there.
“And the panic attacks? You’ve got those under control?”
Jack’s voice filters through the background, interrupting, “You tell her yet?”
I laugh. “Tell him I’ve already figured it out. When are you due?”
Kate groans. “October. I swear to God, I’m going to cut his dick off. I was on the pill and still made him wrap it. It’s like he’s got super swimmers that’ll stop at nothing.”
Silence thunders through the miles. I will never wish what happened to my husband on anyone else, but that was supposed to be us. Dallas and I were supposed to have the big family. That was our dream. Reality is such a disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Chloe. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t ever apologize for your beautiful life. The sun shining strong on you guys doesn’t mean it’s dimmer on me. Congratulations, really.”
My gaze sweeps over the boys running down the field, tossing the ball like they’ve been doing this for ages instead of just a couple of weeks. I don’t know much about the game, but even Jake looks like he’s caught on to things, though he’s only just started. Miles runs with them, encouraging both sides in the scrimmage at the same time. He claps his hands, shouting out instructions. When he stops the play, he calls all the boys over to him and pulls two out of the group. Crouching low, he shows them how to grab hold and roll to the ground, tackling in the most controlled alligator roll. His small black shorts pull tight across his ass, the muscles of his thighs pushing the cotton to its limits.
“Chloe, did I lose you?” Kate asks.
She didn’t. I heard every word, every encouragement to put myself out there. To allow myself to try. To think about dating. I’m just not sure I’m ready.
“Nope. Sorry, I was watching Jake at rugby practice.”
“Rugby? How’d that happen?”
“Hey, it looks like they’re wrapping up, so I need to let you go.”
“Okay. But you owe me answers. I need to know more about this thing with rugby, and you didn’t answer me about maybe dating.” Kate laughs.
“Give my love to Jack and the kids, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.” Not waiting for a reply, I blow a kiss through the phone and end the call. Quick as I can, I reach over the seat for Jake’s water bottle.
“Good work, men. That’s it for today.” Miles’s voice booms through the crisp spring air. “Make sure to drink your water and do your moms a favor—shower as soon as you get home.”
I will never understand why boys groan the way they do at the thought of taking a shower.
Instead of moping his way back to the car, Jake takes off across the field and gathers up the small orange cones, bringing them to the back of the pretty green truck. Miles lifts a steel bottle to his lips, his throat working as he swallows the water down. My gaze slides over him as I catalog each and every ridge and dip of his well-toned body.
He waves as each kid calls out, “Thanks,” or, “Good-bye.”
And when Jake presents him with the tower of cones, Miles tucks them in a mesh bag along with several balls. He opens the door to the truck, and Bronson leaps from the back of my SUV and bolts across the lot, hopping into the passenger seat, like it’s the only place he belongs.
Chapter Six
Miles
A full laugh rumbles out of me. It f
eels good—maybe a little bit foreign, but good. It’s been far too long since I felt this free.
Wind whips through the cab of the truck, ruffling the ears of the hound dog in my passenger seat while he glances out the window, checking out the passing scenery.
Chloe called to him, bribed him with treats. She tried her best, but short of hoisting the seventy-pound dog out of my truck, he wasn’t going anywhere.
So, I’m giving Bronson a ride home. At a red light, I pull my phone from where it’s wedged under my leg and snap a picture of him. With his black head and his black-and-white coat, he’s like the dog version of Chance. Except the dog isn’t a dick and doesn’t bitch about my truck.
I pull into the driveway behind Chloe’s vehicle. The single-garage door lifts, but she stops short of pulling in. Both she and Jake hop out.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know … he’s never done anything like this before,” she says, talking a mile a minute as soon as her feet hit the ground. She opens the passenger door of my truck and calls, “Come on, Bronson. Let’s go.”
The dog merely turns his head to me, like we’ve got some kind of secret understanding. Don’t I wish?
I swing my door open and step out, the dog following close behind. He trots to the tiny front lawn, lifts his leg, and then winds his way through the garage and into the little white house.
“I don’t even know what to say.” Chloe tilts her head to the side as she stares through the maze of boxes and crap in the garage to the open door her son and dog disappeared through.
“Don’t they say dogs and kids are good judges of character?” I lean against the hood of my truck and cross one ankle over the other. Dirt smudges, from rolling around on the rugby pitch, mar my knees.
