by Kate Aster
“I filled out an application online last week,” he adds.
“Oh,” I murmur, still shell-shocked.
Cass sends me an inquisitive look, obviously trying to figure out how I know this guy. “And your name is?” she asks him in her breathiest tone. Is she flirting with him? And can I blame her if she is?
Logan’s dazzlingly blue eyes shoot over to Cass. “Jake Sheridan.”
My gut seizes up. The lying piece of shit. “Jake?” I ask. “I thought you said your name was Logan.”
Coughing, Cass spits out a mouthful of coffee. Obviously, she is putting two and two together.
“Are you okay?” Logan—I mean, Jake—asks her.
Her cheeks are flushed. “Yeah. Sorry. Went down the wrong hatch.”
My eyes are still locked on his as I await his answer.
“Logan’s my middle name.”
I glance sideways at Cass who is giving a slight eye roll. Don’t say it, Cass. Don’t say it. But I’ll think it: Lying SOB.
“I’m Jacob Junior, so I’ve always gone by Logan, my middle name. But I probably put Jacob on the form.”
Yeah, right. Jake, Jacob, Logan. If I talk to him for ten more minutes, I’m betting he’ll toss a few more names my way.
Cass spots his application and hands it to me. I can see her pointer finger placed appropriately at the line where he listed his occupation. And my stomach roils at the words “Construction Manager.” Prick.
Navy SEAL, my ass. I can hear Kim’s words echoing in my brain. She was right, and I hate that. The guy is slicker than the best lube I sell.
How could I have been so stupid?
“Well, Jake—” I begin.
“Logan,” he interrupts.
Whatever. “—Kosmo isn’t here today. I only had enough volunteers to handle six dogs.”
“Okay. So how can I meet him?”
Insistent guy. He’ll do well in… construction management.
“Well, normally one of us will take the dog to meet you at your home. We always do house checks, anyway, before we adopt out a dog. You know, to make sure someone’s not living in a place that’s unsuitable for a dog. Like, say… a hotel.” I frown at him.
A half-grin sidles up his cheeks, and my heart rate picks up in pace by 10% despite the fact that this guy is a compulsive liar.
“I was just staying there a couple nights. I’m renovating my townhouse and had no plumbing.”
“Really.” Unconsciously, I draw the word out three or four syllables. “I thought you said you live in San Diego.”
“No, I lived in San Diego. A while back. I still consider it home, though.”
Sure thing, Slick. “Mmm, okay. Well, I’m not sure it sounds like you’re ready for a dog then.” I set his application back down on the pile.
“Of course I am.”
“Well, you said your townhouse is undergoing construction. With workers coming and going, I don’t think it would be the best place for a dog. He might slip out an open door. And I’m sure you must have seen on our website that Kosmo is a special needs dog. He needs a calm, stable home. Not a construction zone.” I know I sound patronizing, but I hardly care.
What an idiot I was. Sitting there last night, listening to him talk about life in the SEALs, which he no doubt learned about by picking up a few bestsellers. How many other women did he use that line on?
“My plumbing’s fine now. The townhouse is nearly complete. I have a fenced-in backyard. There’s nothing dangerous there for a dog.” His gaze on me is heavy.
“Okay. I’ll call you if he’s still available. There’s been a lot of interest in him lately.”
Kim shoots me a look and I silence her with a stifling glare. There has been no interest in Kosmo. Few people want to adopt a dog that comes with such a hefty price tag.
Logan—or Jake, Jacob, or whatever the hell his name is—inhales deeply, broadening his chest in a way that is, frankly, scary as hell. “I think we should talk,” he says. Then, glancing sideways at my two friends, he adds, “Alone. Maybe we could take one of the dogs for a short walk?”
If I wasn’t in a public place, I would be paralyzed in fear right now, especially with Kim’s suggestion that he might be an axe murderer still floating around in my brain.
“Sure.” I toss my shoulders carelessly to make it seem like my heart isn’t palpitating behind my ribcage. I stand up, suddenly feeling like a munchkin next to his 6-foot-plus frame. I am a Maltese to his purebred German shepherd.
Feeling Kim’s and Cass’s eyes watching me, I give my dog’s leash a little tug and walk down the brick-lined sidewalk toward the smell of coffee pouring out of Pop’s donut shop. It is busy every Saturday morning. Plenty of witnesses in case this guy turns Jekyll-and-Hyde on me.
When we are out of earshot from my friends, I turn to him. “So?”
“So. Small world, huh?”
I nod. “Small town.”
“You disappeared on me last night. I was worried about you when you didn’t come back. I even checked the restaurant and the front desk downstairs. But no one remembered you leaving.”
That is the one good thing about being average-looking like me. No one really notices me coming and going. I kind of fade into the woodwork.
“Well, I had second thoughts,” I tell him.
“I figured that must be it.” He stares at me for a beat. “You could have just told me that.”
He seems so damned sincere. I have to remind myself that, in the span of a few hours last night, this guy lied to me about his name, his job, and where he lives. He probably has a wife and kids waiting at home for him.
“You didn’t mention last night that you were looking for a dog,” I say.
He laughs. “And you didn’t mention you rescue dogs. I thought you said you work in some kind of sales.”
I glance at him, nearly sucked into the vortex of his baby blue eyes. Noooo, a silent scream wails inside my hormone-laden brain. “We’re an all-volunteer organization. I have two other jobs to pay my bills.” My voice is clipped. “The dog rescue is just something I do on the side.”
“Good for you. I wish we had talked about it last night. I love dogs. I’ve wanted one for years,” he says, sounding so sweet I can feel cavities forming in my teeth. He touches my arm lightly and I hate the way my body reacts, blood surging south, warmth pooling just below my naval.
I square my shoulders toward him, and give him my deadliest glare. I don’t have time for this. I have more respect for myself than to give another minute to a guy who lies to me within minutes of meeting me. And pretending to be a SEAL? Hell, that’s just unpatriotic.
“Listen, as nice as it is to talk about old times, I really do have to get back to my volunteers.”
He takes a step backward, looking confused. “And Kosmo?”
“What about him?”
“I’d still really like to meet him. I think I could give him a good home.”
I nod curtly. “I’ll be in touch.” I turn on my heel and walk away. Yet pulling my eyes from him is almost painful. Such a waste of good looks on a complete liar.
And my thoughts seem to echo those of my friends. Thank God I hadn’t slept with him.
Chapter 3
- LOGAN -
My niece is tearing a path across my parents’ front lawn toward my truck and, just like that, my world lights up.
Hannah is beyond adorable in her two tight braids with her glasses that are just a little too big for her face. Despite the sour attitude of her mother, my niece seems to have retained that special joy that comes from being seven.
She’s at that age when she doesn’t mind me calling her names like Peanut, Sugar Puff, and Pumpkin. Which is good, because I think I’ll always think of her as Pumpkin. She still takes me on fairy hunts in the woods that line the banks of the creek beyond my parents’ house. And she closes every day saying it’s X number of days till Santa comes.
I think we’re about at day 230 now.
�
��Did you get the doggie? Did you get the doggie?” Hannah chants as soon as I open my door.
The smile that had just been on my face threatens to disappear. I’ve tried to forget about Kosmo and the bat-shit crazy girl who seems to like playing God with the animal. It’s been a week since I saw her in front of the pet store, and I still haven’t heard a word about my application.
I’ve rewound the 24 hours I had known her a few times in my head, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why she turned into a cold-hearted ice queen overnight.
Thank God I hadn’t slept with her.
Seriously… I bought her dinner. She pretty much invited herself to my room, plastered me against the elevator in a kiss that was off-the-charts, then disappeared on me as I sat waiting in my room with two orders of lava cake (which I managed to eat later by myself). Then she treats me like I committed a crime the next day.
But my niece, in all her wide-eyed innocence, has reminded me why I’m really pissed off.
That woman has blocked me from getting the dog I want.
“No, Pumpkin,” I answer. “Not yet, anyway. But hopefully soon.”
Her hazel eyes are sad, ripping the heart out of my chest, until she brightens only three seconds later. “Want to hunt for fairies?”
“You bet.” I love the way her mind works—changing direction as quickly as the wind. My niece has ADHD, and I always joke that between her ADHD and my PTSD and my brother’s OCD (though he’ll never admit to it), we’ve got enough acronyms in our family to sound like a branch of the federal government.
She is a whirlwind of energy, a whirlwind that her teachers complain about relentlessly, according to her mother.
“Just let me drop these groceries in to your grandma.” I take her hand and walk up the paved driveway to my parents’ house.
I can never seem to call this place my home, even though I have many memories here. This house is luxurious, and I don’t feel like I fit in. Especially not after five deployments and countless missions that showed me how most of the people of the world live. This is the kind of opulence that almost makes me feel a sense of shame.
Don’t get me wrong. Even though it was my grandfather who started JLS Heartland, my dad worked his ass off to get the company to where it is today, and I give him a lot of credit for that. He never even went to college, and started working for JLS the Monday after he got his high school diploma. With Dad at the helm, JLS grew from a solid construction company to a housing development empire. JLS Heartland has developments in 32 states now.
Even since his diagnosis, Dad still manages to work eight-hour days, doing most of his work from home. “Eight hours is a short day for me,” he is always quick to remind my mother when she nags him to rest. And he’s right. Fourteen-hour days were always the norm for him. I barely have any memories of my father because of it.
My mom smiles at me as I walk into the kitchen.
“I still don’t get tired of seeing you walk through my door, Logan,” she says. I know she’s referring to the years I was away. They were hard for her, and I still feel a pang of guilt for putting her through that. But she understands why I felt the need to serve.
Which is more than I can say for my dad.
I smile in reply. “I picked up the stuff you asked for,” I tell her as I set a bag of groceries on the counter. My mom is chopping some vegetables for tonight’s Sunday dinner. She could easily hire someone to do the cooking for her, but she politely refuses. She won’t hire a driver to take Dad to his doctor appointments and, until last year, wouldn’t even hire someone to clean her house.
She is a proud woman who thinks she can do everything herself. Which is one of the reasons I came back to Ohio. She needs help with Dad. And even though I have brothers, I know that as Dad’s dementia progresses, she’ll need all her sons here.
I share a conspiratorial look with Hannah as I witness her snatching a cookie from the plate Mom has reserved for dessert.
Over her shoulder, my mom asks, “So, I don’t see that dog with you today. Did you not get him yet?”
Again, with the dog. Obviously, sharing the idea with my family was not the thing to do. “No. I put in an application, but haven’t heard from the woman who runs the rescue organization yet.”
“Maybe she didn’t get your application. I never trust all those online forms they have these days. I always think it’s better to hand things to someone in person.”
Sure, I think, unless the lady apparently hates you with a vengeance. “She got the application. I saw her in person last week. I just think she doesn’t want me to have the dog.”
“Why on earth not?”
I sigh. I’m not about to tell my mom that I had nearly slept with the woman. “For some reason she doesn’t like me.”
My mom drops her knife and eyeballs me. “Why on earth would she dislike you?”
I crack a smile. My mom is always saying why on earth this and why on earth that.
“Maybe she has something against military guys.” There actually are women that do. I’ve known a couple kids of service members who had some resentment toward a line of work that took away one of their parents for most of their lives. I can’t blame them in the least. I even dated a girl briefly who was terrified she’d fall too hard for me, and then just be waiting around all the time like her mother did for her Navy dad. Waiting for me to come home. Waiting to get orders that would send me away again. Waiting for that dreaded day when a Casualty Assistance Calls Officer might show up at her door and tell her that I wasn’t coming home again.
There is a lot of waiting in the military.
But Alexandra didn’t seem to mind that I had a military background when we talked over dinner that night. I can’t remember all that I told her, but she definitely got that predictably dazzled look in her eyes when I told her about my life as a SEAL a while back. Damn, she had been cute with those dark eyes and gentle curves, and a wholesome façade hiding the inner witch that I got to see the morning after.
“Are you just giving up, then?” my mom asks.
I glance over at Hannah before I answer. I never want that little girl to think that her uncle gave up on anything. “Just trying to figure out what my next move is.”
“You could just go to the county shelter and adopt a dog there.”
“Yeah, but this one really needs some medical help.”
My mom glances my way. “Taking on another hard luck case, are you?” She smiles, probably remembering all the injured animals I used to bring home as a kid. “Well, then just do what you always did when you were a SEAL.” My mother perks up a smile as she reaches for the refrigerator door.
“What’s that, Mom?”
“Command. Take the lead. Tell that woman what you want and ‘don’t give up the ship.’” She ends her statement with a famous Captain James Lawrence quote. I have to love the way Mom is always weaving some Navy heritage into the conversation. You’d think she had been married to an Admiral all these years.
She is right, I realize hours later as Hannah and I are deep in the woods looking for fairies, armed with flashlights and magnifying glasses, and covered in some kind of apple-berry scent that she said would attract them. And yeah, I realize that my brothers in the SEALs would never let me live it down if they knew I let my niece douse me in perfume.
My mom is right. I don’t need to retreat. Time to march forward.
I slip away to the front porch just after dessert with my phone and start typing out a message to the contact email address I found online, when one of my brothers steps out on the porch.
“It was nice of you to come,” he says.
Ryan is my younger brother by ten months, which classifies him as my Irish twin, I guess. “I always do,” I tell him.
“Yeah. Keep it up, okay?”
“I will.”
“I know Dad appreciates it.”
I nod slowly, knowing immediately where this conversation is headed. I’m the eldest son—the one Dad always
imagined handing over his business to one day. Even though I enjoy construction, I love actually building something with my own two hands. Dad’s business has gotten so huge that the only place for me in his company is something behind a desk, wearing a suit, and having godforsaken business lunches with people I don’t give a shit about.
I know; I interned there in high school before I got accepted to the U.S. Naval Academy, breaking my father’s heart.
“He’s glad you’re home. We all are. Especially now.”
I sigh deeply, wanting to ask him something, but not really ready to hear an honest answer. “How’s he been, anyway? He always seems fine at dinner.” About a year ago, when I was stationed in Annapolis, I got a call from Dylan, my youngest brother. He had received a phone call from Dad asking when Dylan’s plane was going to land and where he needed to be picked up.
Trouble was, Dylan wasn’t flying on any planes that day.
My dad is pretty stubborn, and he insisted that Dylan had told him that he was flying into Ohio that day. We all shrugged it off. Dylan does travel a lot, and Dad was under a lot of stress at work.
But then about a month later, he called me from his car. He didn’t know where he was. Not just like his car had made the wrong turn and he was in an unfamiliar part of town. He didn’t even know what state he was in.
I’m not sure why he called me, actually, but I’m glad he did. Because if I hadn’t heard it for myself, I never would have believed it.
He hung up the phone with me against my pleas, and I called the police to try to get some help finding him. They found him in Pennsylvania two hours later.
The diagnosis was vascular dementia.
That day when I had flown to Ohio to meet my family in the hospital, I learned that the man I knew as strong and determined and successful would slowly wither away into someone who didn’t even recognize me. It would take a while—maybe five or so years depending on how quickly it was advancing, the doctor said. But it was inevitable.
