Can't Hardly Breathe

Rando? “The other night I didn’t hear you asking what I like to do in my spare time.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Her shoulders stooped. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you, Dorothea,” he replied without pause. “Now it’s your turn. Say, I forgive you, Daniel, and I would love to sleep with you. I think you’ll taste better than bacon.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he tried not to smile.

Then her sweet lavender scent intensified, as if she was somehow—purposely—attempting to lure him closer, and his good humor fled.

Want her.

He planted his hands on the wall, caging her in. Lust threatened to engulf him. Well, well. He’d never enjoyed pinning a woman in place—until now. Light streamed over his shoulder to bathe her delicate features. Tonight, she’d nixed the makeup, and he could have shouted with relief.

“I’m not sure I believe your apology.” She chewed on her plump bottom lip, an obvious nervous habit, and he had to swallow a groan. “If you wanted to keep your women a secret from your dad, why stay at the inn, where anyone in town could witness your...rendezvous?”

“His health is fragile. I stay close, especially at night. And I never flaunted the women. I sneaked them in and out.”

She glowered at him. “I told you I wanted one night, nothing more. No one would have found out about our...whatever, especially your dad.”

He glowered right back. “For all I knew, you planned to tell everyone in town the next morning.”

“And you’re certain I’ll keep quiet now?” Her dry tone had edges so rough they could have cut the insides of his ears. “You know me better?”

“Yes.” Jude’s report had come in about an hour ago. The final nail in the coffin for his control.

Dorothea had been married to a weatherman who might or might not have cheated on her with a coworker. She had a grand total of zero social media pages, and no one in town or otherwise had ever posted anything about her love life.

How Daniel interpreted the info: (1) she knew how to keep her relationships private and (2) his dad would never find out if Daniel spent the night with her.

As soon as realization had struck, he’d rushed to the inn, then followed her trail to the Scratching Post. But in a moment of startling clarity, he’d understood just how deeply his rejection had hurt her. He wasn’t adorable to her. He was going to have to work for her.

Game on.

“How do you know me better?” she demanded.

Admit he’d done a background check on her? Yeah, not gonna happen. She would rage. Well, rage more. “Maybe I had a little sense knocked into me.”

“Doubtful. As you previously admitted, you like the chase, that’s all, and I’m suddenly a challenge.” She gestured to the door with a trembling hand. “Leave. Please.”

“Leave...or stay?” He brushed the tip of his nose against hers, and she sucked in a breath. “I know which one gets my vote.”

Her gaze locked on his mouth. He thought—hoped—desire for him was rising inside her, a tide she couldn’t ignore. Then she flattened her chocolate-smeared hands on his chest and fisted his shirt to shake him.

“You’re being nice to me, and I don’t like it,” she grated. “Stop.”

“No, I don’t think I will. My momma told me I could catch more flies with honey.”

“First, you realize you just likened me to a fly, right? Second, why would you ever want to catch one?” Her nose wrinkled at the sides. “FYI, you can also catch flies with a dead, rotting carcass. Your own, to be exact.”

A laugh brewed in the back of his throat, astounding him. Clearly Dorothea had a superpower; the ability to amuse him, even while his body burned for hers.

“I’d rather catch you,” he told her, his voice going low and husky. “Say yes, and I’ll spend the first hour in bed making you come over and over again, doing anything you want. Everything you need. The second hour, I’ll make the first one look like amateur night. By the third, there’s no place on your body I won’t have explored—no place you won’t ache for me.”

“Hours?” She melted against him only to stop, blink up at him and bare her perfect pearly whites. “Look, I’m going to give you a bit of advice, okay? Most guys get lucky after they get to know the girl, but that isn’t a good strategy for you. Your face attracts us, but your personality repels us. Stay quiet, and you’ll stay lucky.”

Ouch, that stung—mostly because it was accurate.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrists and caressed his thumb over her racing pulse, internal wound forgotten as he marveled. Compared to his, her bones were small and delicate. Her skin radiated pure, silken heat.

“Am I going to get lucky tonight?” he asked.

Her gaze remained on their hands, where they touched. “No?”

A question rather than a statement of fact. What sweet progress. “I’ll take your no as a maybe.”

“Don’t. I—”

“Too late. Besides, if I were in the habit of giving up easily, I would have died the time I took five slugs to the chest.”

She gasped. “You almost died?”

“Multiple times. Kiss my scars and make them better?”

Now a strangled sound left her. “I... You—” She drew in a deep breath, slowly released it and visibly calmed. “You know what? Let’s never discuss this again. Next time we see each other, let’s pretend we’re strangers.”

“Counteroffer. Let’s discuss this all night. Next time we see each other, let’s pretend we’re lovers and we’re allergic to our clothing.”

Her lips pursed. “I’m not playing games with you, Daniel.”

“Not yet.” He ghosted his knuckles along the curve of her jaw, relishing her softness and warmth. “But soon, I hope.”

She leaned into him, realized what she’d done and batted his hand away. “Your sudden desire for me—”

“Trust me, it isn’t sudden.”

“—is insulting,” she finished. “Wait.” She shook her head, as if she needed to reset her brain and replay his words. “What?”

Why not tell her about the first time? “I remember driving past your bus stop one morning back in high school. You were watching your feet as you kicked a pebble. The rumble of my truck’s engine drew your attention, and you glanced up, smiled shyly. You even blushed.” Just like now, this moment. “I got hard just looking at you.”

“You did?” Wonder lit her eyes, the air between them charging with electricity. Then she growled and stomped her foot. “You haven’t changed. You always say the right things, building up a girl’s hopes, then you crush her with disappointment.”

“Always? Name one other time I’ve crushed your hopes.” And he had changed. Losing loved ones had chipped away at his happiness. Killing enemy soldiers had left a stain on his soul, even though the government had sanctioned his actions.

“In school you—”

When she said no more, he prompted, “What?”

“Never mind. If you want me now,” she said, “you’re going to have to prove it. And I don’t mean with a hard...you know.”

“You know?” He snickered. “Say it. Tell me what it’s called.”

“You don’t think I will? Fine.” Up went her chin. “Penis. Penis, penis, penis.”

He laughed—again—and then she laughed. Their eyes met and they both quieted. Tension mounted quickly. Lightning strikes of sensation shot through him. Perhaps her body acted as a conductor; she jolted as if she’d just been hit.

“You should go,” she croaked, stepping to the side.

Leaving held no appeal, but there was a time for war, and a time for retreat. If he continued to push, he’d only orchestrate an ambush—for himself.

“This isn’t over, Dorothea. We’ll talk soon.”

“No, I—”

He pressed a finger to her lips, saying, “Soon.” Then he left the apartment before she could contradict him.

Outside, cool night air failed to temper the heat of his desire.

He was used to being turned down by ice queens. At first. In the past, he’d always loved to romance a succinct no into an enthusiastic yes. But Dorothea wasn’t made of ice. She couldn’t be. She smoldered. And yet he suspected turning her no into a yes would be far more satisfying—even if he’d rather have her yes now than later.

He climbed into his ’79 Chevy pickup and headed into town. Twelve years ago, he and his dad rebuilt the engine. The thing guzzled gasoline like Brock guzzled beer, but it was part of his family.

Out of habit, or instinct, whatever, he parked in the lot across from the Strawberry Inn. Then he remembered he hadn’t rented a room tonight. Why not jog home and burn off a little excess energy?

Couldn’t hurt. He exited, popped the bones in his neck and took off.

By the halfway mark, his heart rate finally spiked for a reason other than desire or even his usual PTSD. Tension seeped from his pores, and his mind cleared of every thought but one. Since his honorable resignation from the military, he’d moved from one woman—or life raft—to another. Should he really drag Dorothea into his crazy?

He remembered how sweet the chocolate tasted on her soft skin.

Yes, he really should drag her into his crazy. Wasn’t like she had to stay with him. One night wasn’t a big deal. No harm, no foul. Although...

Maybe he could convince her to give him two nights? Possibly a week. An aberration from his usual MO, sure, but she was an aberration. Someone he’d known since childhood. He shouldn’t just bang, bail and oh, well. And it wasn’t like she had her hopes and dreams pinned on a commitment. The night she’d come to him, she’d asked for sex, nothing more.

A wealth of oak and hickory trees replaced the line of buildings. The tops seemed to reach the sky, shielding the golden glow of the moon. He—

Snap.

The sound of a breaking limb.

Daniel dived to the ground, at the same time reaching for his Glock. Over the years, his eyesight had grown accustomed to the dark; he could now pick up details other people missed. Though he expected to see enemy forces marching closer...he saw a dog? He—she?—hobbled out from behind a bush, spotted him and froze, utterly petrified.

He took a moment to breathe as his too-tight throat loosened. This wasn’t hostile territory. No threat advanced. But someone did need his help.

As he stood, the dog bolted, only to whimper and stop.

Cooing in a gentle voice, hoping to soothe the animal, he closed the distance. A Chihuahua. He/she cowered and peed in the grass.

“I’m not going to hurt you, little guy...girl?” Daniel used the flashlight app on his phone. Girl. Both of her back legs were mangled but scabbed. She’d been attacked, probably days ago.

What had gotten her? Coyotes ran rampant out here. So did shit humans willing to use innocent animals as bait in a dogfight.

Rage scalded him. Another whimper; she must sense the darkness of his emotions.

Daniel breathed in, out, and forced himself to calm. He knew nothing about dogs, but he’d dealt with plenty of scared, wounded soldiers. Easing beside her, he started talking. He told her all about his day, even about Dorothea, allowing her to get used to his presence. After a while, she stopped cowering and weakly nuzzled his hand.

Right—that—second. She broke his freaking heart. How long since she’d been petted? Or fed?

His mother had been afraid of dogs, no matter their size, and he remembered one of his high school girlfriends complaining about her parents’ pet. Filthy creature, she’d said with a sneer. Always chews on my shoes and poops in my closet.

Actions unhurried and measured, he picked up the dog, his grip as light as possible. She couldn’t weigh more than five pounds. He decided to take her to the local vet. Dr. Vandercamp lived a few streets away from his dad.

“What’s your name, little girl?” She wore no collar. “I bet it’s something menacing like Killer or She-beast. You Chihuahuas are known for your tempers, right? Well, I’m going to call you Princess.” Nicknames mattered. Just ask Dorothea. Nicknames built you up or tore you down.

Jude was once called Priest. While some soldiers had girlfriends in every port, he’d remained faithful to his wife. Happily so.

Brock was sometimes likened to a bulldozer. The Brocdozer. He’d tended to mow down anything in his way.

Daniel was known as Mr. Clean. When a situation got dirty, he rushed in and cleaned up the mess.

Irony at its finest. He couldn’t clean up the mess he’d made of his life.

When Daniel reached his dad’s neighborhood, he quickened his step. The housing subdivision had three streets and a grand total of twelve homes, each centered on a one-acre plot. Some of the homes resembled barns, while others were more traditional two-story colonials.

Dr. Vandercamp lived in one of the barns. The porch light was off. To discourage visitors? Oh, well. Daniel knocked on the door. Hard.

Several minutes passed before the lights flipped on and the old man—

Nope, not the old man, but his son, Brett, who was Daniel’s age. Right. He remembered Virgil telling him that Brett had become a vet, just like his dad, and that he’d taken over the old man’s practice.

Brett wore a pink T-shirt that read “Save the Boobies,” a pair of boxers and a scowl. “What do you want, Porter?”

Far from intimidated, Daniel said, “I found this little beauty a few miles back. She’s injured. Do you have the tools to care for her here, or do you need to go to your office?” Subtext: Princess was getting treatment tonight.

Brett’s gruff exterior was suddenly replaced by caring concern. “Poor darling. Don’t you worry. I’ve got what I need here.”

Good. “I’ll pay for everything.”

An-n-nd goodbye concern. “Considering you made a house call in the middle of the night, you’re lucky I’m not going to make you pay double.” The guy looked the little Chihuahua over with a critical eye. “She’s malnourished, and she’ll need to be hooked to an IV for the rest of the night. Maybe tomorrow, too.”

Daniel reluctantly handed her over, knowing she would be terrified of the new human as well as the new situation. And he was right. She peed on him.

“You’re going to be okay, aren’t you, sweet girl? Yes, you are. Oh, yes, you are.” Brett’s hazel gaze flipped up to Daniel. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

“You don’t have my number.”

“Do you really think getting it will be difficult?” The door shut in his face.

“Thank you,” Daniel called.

He jogged to his dad’s house. When he’d first arrived in town, the colonial had been a run-down mess. Before starting LPH, Daniel had redone the trim, replaced the roof and painted absolutely everything.

A quiet entry proved unnecessary. Jude and Brock sat in the living room, exactly where he’d left them. They spent a lot of time here, discussing work and watching Virgil whenever Daniel had to be gone for an extended period.

“Why do you reek of urine?” Jude looked him over and frowned. “Better question. Why do you have a streak of blood on your shirt?”

The guy noticed everything. “I found an injured dog and took her to the vet. Where’s my dad?”

“In bed. Told us to use our inside voices or he’d put buckshot in our asses.” Brock grinned a sinner’s grin. Completely unrepentant. “Does he not know he’s partially deaf and wouldn’t be able to hear us if we shouted?” Of course, he shouted the question.

No bellow of warning came from Virgil’s bedroom.

Daniel stalked to the kitchen, grabbed a beer and returned to the living room, falling into one of the chairs. What a day.

Beside him, Jude balanced a laptop on his thighs, his prosthetic limb propped against the coffee table. With his pale, shaggy hair, navy blue eyes and golden tan, he could have passed for a surfer—if there had been anything lighthearted about him. The right side of his face bore the same shrapnel scars Daniel possessed, though Jude’s were worse; one cut through his lip, giving him a permanent scowl.

“How’d it go with your girl?” Jude asked.

My girl. Not really. “I failed worse than Brock when he tried to pick up an entire bridal party.”

Brock, who occupied the other end of the couch, laughed and fluffed the cushion under his neck. He kept his jet-black hair cut close to his scalp and, no matter how often he shaved, always sported a five-o’clock shadow. His eyes were so pale a green they sometimes appeared neon.

“Why are you grumbling about a rejection?” the guy asked. “You’re no longer on the sidelines. You’re now in the game.”

Next time we see each other, let’s pretend we’re strangers.

Daniel drained half the beer. “Her defense might be stronger than my offense.”

“Gotta admit,” Jude said, casting the beer a death glare. “She’s not your usual type.”

The glare, Daniel understood. A drunken frat boy was the one who’d killed his family. The idiot had driven one hundred miles per hour down an overpass at night and slammed into Constance Laurent’s minivan.

But Daniel wasn’t a frat boy, and he wanted to help his friend get past his past, not coddle him.

He drained the rest of the beer and said, “I know she’s not my usual type. She’s better.” Sexier, with a fiercer temper.

“Dude. If you’re this enamored of her after...what?” Brock spread his arms. “Two conversations with her? You’re in trouble. Take it from me. I’ve been divorced twice—”

“From the same woman,” Daniel interjected.

“Still counts. Anyway. The three of us, we are high maintenance, no doubt about it, and we’re never going to make a romantic relationship work long-term until we get our heads screwed on properly.”

“I have no interest in making a romantic relationship work long-term,” Jude grumbled.

Grumble was all he did anymore. But then, he wasn’t living; he was surviving.

Daniel had been doing the same, hadn’t he? Moving from girl to girl. He sighed. “You implying my head is on crooked?”

Brock gave him a pitying look. “My friend, I’m flat-out telling you. Your head is only hanging on by a thread.”

Maybe, maybe not. But probably. Funny thing, though. He’d never been more certain about a woman. He wanted Dorothea in his bed, but he also wanted to talk with her, to laugh with her...

Unfortunately, he had a feeling he would do almost anything to get what he wanted. Consequences be damned. Which proved Brock’s claim. Daniel’s head was hanging on by a thread.

But no matter. He wasn’t a freaking mansel in distress, waiting for his white knightress to come and save him.

He’d have fun with Dorothea, be distracted by the chase. If she succumbed, great. If not, no big deal. One way or another, he would move on. As always.

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