by Selena Kitt
"Three tours?" she echoed, for the first time not smiling at all. "What branch were you?"
"Army all the way. Hooah."
"Thank you for your service," she said sincerely.
That was unexpected.
"I've been home two months," he said, not knowing how else to reply.
She lifted one shoulder in the slightest of shrugs. "Thank you anyway."
He opened, then closed his mouth, and finally managed, "You're welcome."
They walked together across the mostly dandelion and clover lawn, but branched off in opposite directions, each heading for their own car. He would have loved to have walked her to hers, but that wasn't something clients were supposed to do with their real estate agents. He'd already looked up her skirt and although she didn't know about that, he didn't want to come across as creepy.
It was probably just as well. She wasn't married, but that didn't mean she didn't have just as strong an attachment to some hitherto unknown boyfriend or Dom. Whoever 'Daddy' was, Nolan couldn't help feeling just a little envious.
"I'll follow you?" he called to Tricia as they both unlocked their cars.
She nodded, beckoning with a wave before she tucked her skirt demurely and got into her car. He gave the house another once over, already partially convinced that he must be either crazy or desperate, because surely no one would touch a house like this without meeting one or both criteria. He was almost glad Tricia didn't linger, giving him any time to change his mind. When her brake lights winked on, he quickly started his car, checking the non-existent traffic over his shoulder before pulling out into the street just behind her.
She drove all of twenty feet before pulling into her own driveway.
Unable to help it, Nolan started laughing when he saw her get out again. She was grinning, that same, slightly blushing grin she'd given him on the stairs right before he'd glimpsed 'Daddy's Little' beneath her skirt.
She waved him in to park at the curb. "Come on in. I'll make coffee."
Watching her walk up the neatly manicured sidewalk to her front door, he shook his head. Yeah, whoever 'Daddy' was, he was one lucky man.
Chapter Two
Everything that Nolan Anderson owned fit in the back of his pickup and the smallest cargo trailer that U-Haul offered for rent. Which was pretty much what a guy could expect when he tells his cheating ex of a best girl that he doesn't care what she takes so long as she's out of his base-provided housing by the time he gets back to the States. He had no excuse for the way he'd handled it, apart from his stung pride and the deep sense of loss and betrayal that had accompanied her confession. Via Skype, of all things. And she must have been equally stung, because she'd taken him at his word and emptied that house all the way down to the carpet and bare walls. She'd even taken his drums and she'd hated those things, refusing to let him practice on them if she was home.
Seven years had passed since that breakup, but since he'd spent most of that time on back-to-back tours, the sum and total of what personal possessions he'd bothered recouping amounted to almost nothing: a used couch and recliner, laptop, a few dishes, and his grandfather's bedroom set, given to him last summer just before his mother passed away. Fortunately for him, in Oregon, thirteen thousand plus closing costs was enough to buy a fully furnished house so long as he wasn't too picky about the condition of said furnishings.
Everything was older than he was, including the electric stove (enameled, of course; split pea soup green) and an ugly brown couch situated inside a bright yellow sun ball big enough to seat three people. At first glance, he thought the dining room table one stiff breeze away from total collapse, only to discover it was sturdy as hell; the creator had apparently meant for all six legs to stick out diagonally in different directions. Just like they'd meant to carpet the egg-style dining chair in purple shag. Obviously, clash was the prevailing style choice.
The first night in his new home, Nolan hung out the U.S. flag his aunt had sent him for a housewarming present and ate his supper—grilled ham and cheese and a beer—on a pink beanbag chair in front of a console television that didn't work. Half an hour later, he took the flag down and stuffed it into the nearest half-unpacked box because the constant flapping kept sparking flashbacks of camouflage tents and the desert wind. The following morning, he took everything the previous owners had left behind to the county dump and when he arrived home, it was just in time to field his first emergency. Contrary to every belief right from the moment this house became non-refundably his, it wasn't even his emergency, and it did not involve either the porch or the roof.
Moving methodically from room to empty room, Nolan was knocking down cobwebs and wasp nests and sweeping up the massive casualties that only forty dollars' worth of bug spray could inflict when he heard a distant scream for help. Meandering his way to the front door for a look out, he reached it about the same time Tricia did. She must have run all the way from her house to his. Wide-eyed and breathless, she was also flushed and dripping wet from pink-striped bangs to halfway down her t-shirt.
"My sink blew up!" she exclaimed, gazing up at him with big eyes and fingers tapping out a Morse-code of concern. "There's water gushing everywhere!"
"Did you shut off the valve?"
She blinked at him twice, big eyes growing even bigger. "I… shut off the faucet, but the water isn't coming from there. It's coming out the side."
Nolan propped his broom in the corner behind the door. When she took off running back to her house, he jogged after her. The sound of spewing water falling like a hard rain on linoleum could be heard from the moment she opened the front door. Getting out of the way, she pointed down the far hall, where billows of steam poured from the open master bedroom.
Nolan quickened his step. He also grabbed the lap blanket off the back of her recliner to use as a shield against the hot spray, and once he was close enough, he threw it over both sink and malfunctioning faucet. It kept the worst of the burning water off him long enough for Nolan to dive under the sink and shut off both valves. The rest of the morning had him lying half under her bathroom cabinet, a pillow unsuccessfully attempting to soften where the wooden lip bit into the small of his back while he repaired her plumbing and wondered exactly how he'd volunteered to do this. He hated plumbing. Hated it with a passion, and heaven knew, he had a ton of repair work just waiting for him at home. Yet, here he was, with the old faucet and corroded copper pipes lying on the floor near his feet while he glued the new plastic pieces together and struggled to make everything fit.
"I really appreciate this," Tricia said, and not for the first time. Looking back through his splayed knees, Nolan could just see her via her reflection in the dressing mirror that hung on the bedroom side of the bathroom door. She sat on the counter, ankles demurely crossed and holding onto the screwdriver and wrenches he hadn't needed since disassembling the old faucet. It was just an ordinary summer Saturday and she was dressed the part in baggy pink coveralls, cut-off and rolled up just above the knee, white sports bra, and sneakers. On every pocket hem, yellow duckling and white bunny decals alternated with shovels, hoes, watering cans, and buckets of either vegetables or yellow, white and pink flowers. She looked ready for a day of grubbing in flower beds in an outfit that didn't look entirely out of place and yet which any five-year-old would have loved. He loved it, too. Especially her hair, pulled back in twin ponytails now. A brunette version of Pippi Longstocking's, all except for the pink stripe in her overlong bangs. That hung free. Parted to one side, it framed her eyes and her right cheek beautifully.
"Not a problem," Nolan said, heaving himself out from under the sink. Having done all he could until she had a new faucet to replace the old one, he accepted the towel she handed him and wiped his hands. "I'm happy to help."
And he was. Plumbing in her house was still plumbing, but standing in her bathroom, he found it almost pleasurable… when he wasn't also wondering why 'Daddy' wasn't here doing it himself. Maybe he was at work, although it didn't take more
than a casual glance around her bathroom to see there was no male influence anywhere in evidence. No razor or shaving cream on the counter by the misbehaving sink. No beard or moustache trimmer, and only one toothbrush—a bright pink one with dinosaurs on the handle—in the cup holder she'd moved to the towel shelf before clandestinely covering it with a washcloth (which he'd pretended not to notice).
"I think the kitchen sink's still working," she said, perking slightly. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
He shook his head. "No, that's okay. I should probably get back to work before something happens."
Tricia didn't exactly un-perk, but her smile quirked a little crooked. "Something… like what?"
Shaking his head, Nolan tried not to think about her tattoos, but they'd pretty much been haunting his thoughts since the day he'd caught that brief glimpse up her skirt. He shook his head again, laughing softly, knowing better than to say anything and yet also knowing when it came down to self-preservation, saying something now might be the only thing that kept them both from doing something they'd regret.
She was going to throw him out of her house, he thought. The minute he said it, she was going to know exactly how he knew what was written on her thighs and she was going to send him home with blistered ears. And yet, even knowing how stupid this was, he still opened his mouth. "Like Daddy coming home and finding me in the middle of your bedroom. Trust me, 'I'm only here to fix her pipes' is not an excuse he's going to accept gracefully."
Tricia stared at him for almost a full minute in perfect silence, her mouth gradually rounding in an expressive 'O' that ran the gamut from surprised to instant understanding to immense embarrassment—all in the blink of her heavily mascaraed eyes.
"Oh," she said, spots of pink staining high on her cheeks. "Thank you. Um… that's a very nice way of saying I need to get a longer skirt."
Nolan ran the towel between his fingers before clearing his throat. "I shouldn't have looked, I'm sorry."
"No, no. Um…" She cleared her throat. "Entirely my fault. Okay, well… Um, how about we start by saying you aren't in my bedroom, you're in my bathroom. And then we can go from there straight into the fact that you wouldn't be in either place if I had a Daddy at this point in time."
"That's almost worse," Nolan said, not sure if he ought to feel foolish or relieved.
"How so?"
"Real Daddies don't leave their marks and then just walk away."
The color on her cheeks stained a little deeper. "And you know that because…"
His hands were as dry as they could possibly get, yet he was still wiping. He couldn't believe he what he was about to admit. "Let's just say, seeing that tattoo struck a little close to home for me."
Her mouth rounded again. "Well, if that's true where's your Little?"
"Jesse was more of a Middle really. A few years back, she decided what she needed was a Daddy who was serving somewhat closer to Connecticut than Iraq. So…" He shrugged one shoulder before gesturing expansively. It was her bathroom, but his shrug stated clearly, 'Here I am'."
"I'm sorry," Tricia said, sympathetically.
"Looking back, it's hard to blame her."
"Giving up the relationship wasn't an easy decision for us, either. But it was the right one. It was more my thing than his anyway." They were both quiet, staring at one another and thinking of lost loves, then Tricia perked again. "Does this mean we've finally gotten past the whole: Do you have a wife/husband, girlfriend/boyfriend, significant other part of the whole 'I think I could really like you if I only knew your relationship status' thing?"
He started to laugh again.
She grinned, needing no other answer. "Okay then. Well, I know you have a ton of work waiting for you, but I'm pretty useless without a faucet, so… how about this? I'll show you where the hardware store with the best prices is if you will help me get my bathroom working again. After that, I am hugely willing to come over to your house and be your slave labor for the rest of the day. How's that sound?" She raised her voice, hurrying to talk over all the non-existent objections he wasn't inclined to offer. "I can sweep, wash out cabinets, scrub walls and windows, and help you get that big ol' house ready to move your furniture into. Possibly even before nightfall. When does the U-Haul have to go back?"
"Day after tomorrow."
Now it was her turn for an all-encompassing shrug. "Easy peasy. We got this. And when we're done, I'll take you out to Kay's for pizza!"
"Coffee, deli and pizza," Nolan mused.
"It's an awesome gas station." She hopped off the side of the sink and ducked past him, racing for the kitchen. "Just let me get my purse."
He had so much work to do and yet, ten minutes later, there he was, unhitching his truck from the U-Haul trailer and holding the door for Tricia. It was one of the best and yet the most surreal moment since his discharge from the military—sitting next to Tricia in her bunny and duckling gardening coveralls, bouncing along together down twenty-three miles of narrow country road toward the first town big enough for a Home Depot. He didn't do a lot of talking. Mostly because Tricia had that covered. Hands on bare knees, back straight, she kept up a lively chatter on anything and everything that caught her eye as they drove along—Big Red, the town rooster, waiting patiently in front of the auto mechanic's shop for someone to open the door; the antique-y appeal of all the old-time covered bridges (Scio had the distinction of being the covered-bridge capital of the world, did he know?); how too bad it was that his house hadn't closed in time for him to be here during the local Lamb and Wool festival with its adjacent Sheepdog Trials, not to mention the annual crowning of the new Miss Sheep.
It bespoke something awful of his natural proclivities that the picture that sprang instantly to mind was that of Tricia on her hands and knees, her cute little nose blackened and her face artfully painted in old-fashioned, big-eyed, Betty Page 'I'm so naughty' makeup. It quickened his heart to imagine her scantily dressed in a fluffy white, sheep's-wool bikini with hoof-mittens on her hands, and bright pink bows tied around the floppy-ears of her sheep's headband. His heart skipped a beat entirely over the mouth-watering mental debate: Would she be cuter with or without a little sheep's tail butt plug seated deep and thick in the little brown moue of her back passage? With, he thought, because God help him, the idea of holding onto the fluffy base while he sank his cock into her was almost more than he could endure without a groan of his own. He wanted to see her back arch. He wanted to bring her right to the verge of gasping, squealing and moaning as he continued to hold it and thrust, filling and fucking her the way Daddy's Littles should be fucked. Head down, ass up.
"Earth to Sergeant Anderson," Tricia sang, catching his attention.
"Sorry?" He dropped a hand from the steering wheel to his thigh, hoping the thrust of his truly uncomfortable erection wasn't as noticeable to her as it was to him. All he could feel was the scouring coarseness of his underwear in the confines of his denim jeans and the heady throb of his cock, growing progressively more distracting the longer he thought about whether or not she might be stealing peeks at his lap.
"You missed the turn."
Aw, hell. Nolan snapped back to himself long enough to realize where he was. Albany wasn't as huge as, say, San Francisco or New York City, but it was fairly sizeable for Oregon, with the Home Depot kept separate from town by the twin north and southbound running lanes of I-5. Sure enough, he'd driven right through the stop light and past the entrance to the store. He had to turn around on the other side of the overpass and go back.
"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Tricia teased, with a sparkle in her eye that suggested she might already know.
Nolan had a hard time not smiling back. "Miss Sheep," he said, but did not elaborate.
Parking the truck, they went in through the lumber side. He helped her pick out a faucet and, since he was here, loaded up on plain white paint, spackle, sheetrock and hopefully enough roofing shingles and tar to do the job, but which probably wouldn't be once he climbed up
high enough to see for himself how extensively he'd need to replace the existing roof. Then, because he was thinking about it, he also bought a ladder. On the way home, they ran up I-5, taking the backway into town because that, as she told him, would take them right by Kay's.
Although a gas station now, once upon a time Kay's had been a bar, and the inside décor was strongly reminiscent of its colorful past. So was the gruff old woman behind the register; Kay herself, she greeted Tricia like a long-lost daughter.
"That time of year again, is it?" she called, taking in Tricia's coveralls. "You going to bring me your excess blackberries like you did last summer?"
"Only if I get a bottle of jam out of it," Tricia answered, heading straight for the coffee.
"Done deal." The woman eyed Nolan, her gaze sharpening as she looked him over. "Who's this, then?"
"My new neighbor. Miss Kay, this is Sergeant Nolan Anderson. Fresh out of the military, he just bought the old Smith residence."
"Military, eh? What branch?"
"Army," Nolan answered, coming to the counter to shake the work-rough hand she offered. For an elderly woman, she had a strong grip.
"My grandson's army. On his second tour right now, though he's due home any day, we hope."
"Hooah," he said, out of respect.
"Damn straight," the woman agreed with a nod. "Grab you a coffee, son. It's on me."
Pleasantly surprised, Nolan followed Tricia to the coffee station. It was an old machine, not ancient but the only flavors it offered were regular and decaffeinated. A bucket off to one side presented an assortment of creamers.
"If you like one cream in your coffee, you'd best add five," Tricia whispered out of a corner of her mouth. "I'm telling you, this stuff is strong enough to slap you stupid."
"I heard that!" Kay snapped out, good-naturedly gruff from the register.
"I love you, Mama Kay!"
Nolan took the chance and added two French Vanilla creamers, but one sip told him Tricia was right. The coffee was stronger than anything he'd experienced, even overseas. He added three more creamers and a single sugar.
