What I Love About You (Truly, Idaho)

by Rachel Gibson

  “Yip.” The dog circled twice but complied. Until they turned onto Blake’s street and the puppy jumped to look out the window. It wagged its tail like it knew the way home and licked the passenger side window.

  “I just cleaned that,” Blake pointed out, but the dog kept licking. He pulled into the garage and the door closed behind him. Once he’d scooped the dog up and set it on the concrete floor, it sniffed the furnace and water heater before moving on to the tool cabinet. Blake thought about keeping it locked up in the garage until he could take it to the animal shelter Monday morning, and that’s when it squatted and peed next to his gun safe.

  “No.” He rushed toward the dog. “Stop. Don’t piss on my floor.” Before he could stop it, the dog was done. It sort of shook its black fur and trotted toward the back door leading outside, leaving wet paw prints on the way. “A little late.” He opened the door and followed the puppy out into the backyard. A cool breeze stole down the collar of his sweatshirt and ruffled the surface of the lake. He didn’t suppose he could just leave the dog outside until Monday. “Do your business,” he ordered as the dog sniffed the trees between his and Sweet Cheeks’s yard.

  “Is that your puppy?”

  “Jesus.” She’d snuck up on his again. Sniper scouts had nothing on Charlotte Cooper. “No.”

  “Whose dog is she?”

  “It’s a boy.”

  She glanced behind her and took a few steps from beneath her trees. Unlike the last time he’d seen her, she wore a jacket and jeans tucked into furry boots. “Ohhh. He’s so cute. What’s his name?”

  “He doesn’t have one.”

  She gazed up at him and smiled. Obviously she didn’t hold grudges like her mother. “Can I pet him?”

  “Sure.”

  The kid dropped to her knees and put her hand on the puppy’s back. “He’s soft.” She looked up, then back down. The cool breeze picked up the ends of her ponytail and made her cheeks pink. “Can I hold him?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. She scooped the dog into her lap and buried her face in its fur.

  “Sure.” Blake smiled. “He likes you.” The puppy obliged by licking her face. She laughed, and Blake almost felt bad for what he was about to do. Almost. “He likes you more than me.”

  She nodded. “That’s because you are gwumpy. My mom calls you Mr. Gwumpy Pants.”

  Actually, her mom called him Raging Asshole, and he was just about to prove her right. Again. The little dog’s tail whapped the girl’s arm and its whole back end shook with excitement. She held the puppy tight as the dog tried to climb up her chest. It licked the hell out of her face, and she giggled. “Look how much he loves you.”

  “A whole lot!”

  “Do you want him to be your dog? I think he’d be happier with you.”

  Her little face lit up. “I can have him?”

  Blake nodded. “He loves you and wants to live with you. I can tell.”

  With her arms around the puppy’s belly, she stood. “I have to ask my mom.”

  And just like the Grinch who stole Christmas, he smiled and patted the top of her head. “You should just take him home and let your mom see how much he loves you.”

  “My mom’s not home from her work yet. Tilda watches me on Saturdays.”

  Even better. “Surprise your mom. Everyone loves a surprise.”

  Charlotte’s shoulders sank. “She’ll probably say no.”

  “Not if she sees how much you love him. She can’t say no once she sees the two of you together.”

  “Mommy won’t even let me have a cat.” She bit her lip as if she worried. “She’ll be mad.” Her big blue eyes looked up and she asked, “What should I do?”

  “Cry.” God, he almost felt bad again. “She’ll let you keep him if you cry.”

  “Weally?”

  “Yes.” The kid was probably going to get into trouble. “I’ll bring you over his dog food.”

  “Okay!” With the dog squirming in her arms, she turned and carried it into her yard.

  Kids loved dogs, he told himself. He watched her as he moved into his garage. The puppy was much better off with a little kid than a guy like him. She was right. He was grumpy. Dogs needed happy owners.

  He cleaned the puddle off the concrete floor, then grabbed his groceries out of the back of his truck and moved inside. He walked through the mudroom and past the open door to the wine cellar. He’d never been a wine drinker, preferring a cold beer or a shot of whiskey. The room opened into the kitchen, dominated by granite counters and carved wood cabinets. A big chopping block island took up the middle and was surrounded by appliances fit for a gourmet chief. Blake liked to eat gourmet meals, he just didn’t like to cook them. He preferred to throw things in a Crock-Pot and eat it for a couple of days.

  He tossed the grocery bags on the island and moved past the empty dining room into the living room. This and his bedroom upstairs were his favorite rooms in the house. He loved the big fireplace surrounded by river rock and the floor-to-ceiling windows both upstairs and down that looked out onto the lake and dense forest beyond. A sixty-inch TV sat in his entertainment center in front of a leather couch and two matching chairs. The rest of the room contained various pieces of exercise equipment and boxes filled with Blake’s life. Pitiful few, actually, when he looked at them. Most were filled with remnants of his military life. Books and documents. The helmet that had saved his life on numerous occasions and the plate that had stopped a bullet from entering his heart. His chest ribbons and dress blues and old dusty tech boots.

  His boots echoed as he moved to the window. He glanced down at the front of his hooded sweatshirt now covered in black puppy fur. It had a suspicious wet spot on the pocket, and he reached one hand behind his head and grabbed a fistful of sweatshirt. He pulled it over his head and tossed the shirt on a workout bench. He didn’t particularly want his house filled with dog hair, let alone pee, and figured he’d dodged a bullet. It wouldn’t be the first time, and he scratched the small round scar on his shoulder just below the SEAL trident tattoo on the ball of his shoulder. That scar wasn’t the only reminder of his service. He had a four-inch scar on the side of his knee from a hard helo landing, and a permanent crease on his side from an AK–47 round. He had the trident on his shoulder and Hosea 8:7 on his belly just below his navel. He loved the whole wrath-of-God and reap-the-whirlwind prophecies of the Old Testament. He didn’t believe that God had chosen him for divine retribution, but he did believe he’d saved the lives of civilians and soldiers. When he looked down the crosshairs of his scope, he liked to believe he’d been inserted in a hostile environment to make sure some evil motherfuckers reaped the whirlwind.

  Now what? he asked himself as he looked out at the lake and the sun inching toward the tops of the mountains. What was he going to do with himself? The doctors and addiction counselors in rehab had advised him against returning to work so soon. It was their opinion that his job was one of his biggest triggers. It juiced him up on adrenaline, and knocking back alcohol afterward was not only a social requirement, but a way to relieve stress.

  Reaching for the bottle was a habit that had started after BUD/S, hanging out in dive bars with buddies talking shop and drinking his weight in beer. That was a habit he needed to break, but he didn’t believe he had to change his job, any more than he believed he was powerless over addiction.

  A fish jumped a few feet from his dock and sent a ripple of tight circles across the green surface. He had options besides hopping from hot spot to hot spot around the globe. Less dangerous options requiring less high-octane adrenaline. He could secure diplomats or cargo ships or rhinos in the Congo. He could always contract with the CIA or FBI. He was patriotic. Loved his country. Red, white, and blue to his marrow, but he’d had enough of working for Uncle Sam. Of training for a mission for months, inserting and living in harsh environments, only to be told to step down once he ha
d a high-value target in his crosshairs. And of course, the government paid a lot less than private military companies.

  A doorbell rang and he turned his back to the lake. He assumed it was his doorbell. He’d never heard it before. He moved through the great room, past the wood and iron staircase, to the entrance. The blurred shapes of his neighbor and her daughter stood on the other side of the beveled glass. He could hear Charlotte wailing, and through the watery image, he could guess that her mother wasn’t much happier.

  He opened the door and didn’t bother to hide his grin. Most definitely, Sweet Cheeks was not a happy camper.

  Chapter Four

  He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Natalie opened her mouth to yell at the neighbor and call him a few choice names, but her mouth got dry and snapped shut. Without the safety barrier of a shirt, his testosterone hit her like an atomic blast. She was surprised it didn’t blow her hair back and melt her face. Looking at all that skin, she couldn’t quite recall why she’d marched up his steps.

  “Mama won’t let me keep Spa-ky.” Charlotte hiccupped, and suddenly Natalie remembered exactly why she wanted to punch him. Not only had Charlotte always wanted a dog, she’d always wanted to name him Sparky after the dog in her favorite movie, Frankenweenie.

  “You lost your dog,” Natalie said.

  Blake tilted his head to one side, and those cold gray eyes of his took a slow journey down the front of her trench coat, pausing briefly at her belted waist before continuing down her bare legs to her black pumps. “I don’t have a dog.”

  Don’t look, she told herself. Don’t look to see if he has a six-pack. Keep your eyes above the chin. “You’re not going to foist your dog off on a little girl.” A little girl who’d been told she couldn’t have a dog. A dog was a big responsibility. A puppy needed training and attention. Natalie liked dogs. She’d been raised with dogs, but she and Charlotte were not home during the day. It wasn’t fair to leave a puppy crated all day while they were gone.

  He lifted his gaze to her face and leaned one big shoulder into the door frame. “Someone left him in my truck, but he isn’t mine.” He looked pleased and relaxed, like he’d gotten away with something.

  Natalie was neither pleased nor relaxed. “Your puppy bomb is not my problem.”

  “I’m not familiar with the particulars of property law in Idaho, but in most states, I believe possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  “Uh-huh.” She folded her arms across the front of her coat. “Hand him over, Charlotte.”

  “But Mommy, I love Spa-ky.” Charlotte buried her face on top of the puppy’s head and cried. “Spa-ky loves me.”

  Without taking her gaze from the naked man in front of her, she said, “The dog belongs to Mr. Junger.”

  He shook his head and straightened. “Sparky does not belong to Mr. Junger.”

  “Give Mr. Junger the dog.”

  “Mr. Junger doesn’t want Sparky.”

  “Too bad.”

  “But Mommy . . .” Charlotte cried as tears ran down her red cheeks. The puppy squirmed and yelped and fell from Charlotte’s grasp. “Spa-ky!” She reached for the dog but it darted past Blake’s boots and disappeared into his house.

  “Shit.” Blake looked behind him, then back at Natalie. His mouth slightly opened, bewilderment pinching his brow as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

  Natalie smiled. “We’ll just say good-bye now.”

  “Wait.” He glanced back inside the house.

  She grabbed Charlotte’s hand and took a step back. “Possession is nine-tenths the law. Remember?”

  “Spa-ky!” Charlotte wailed and dramatically raised her free hand toward the door. “Come back. I love you.” She twisted and pulled, and Natalie held on, shocked by her child’s behavior. “You’re mean to me,” Charlotte managed between sobs, and Natalie felt like she’d been stabbed in the heart. Then Charlotte broke free and darted past Blake, her blond ponytail flying behind her as she disappeared into the house.

  “What the hell?” He looked at Natalie, his brows rising up his forehead like he was baffled by a little girl’s emotional outbreak.

  “You,” she said, and took a step forward. All the anger she’d felt for him when she’d marched over here rose up in her again. She loved Charlotte more than anything on the planet. She’d tried so hard to have her and was grateful every day, but raising her alone was hard sometimes. Being a single mom, she took the brunt of Charlotte’s heartache and disappointments. The last thing she needed was for some asshole neighbor to make her life even harder.

  “Me?”

  “You did this to her.” She pointed past him. “Now you’re taking that dog back.”

  He looked behind him, then back at her. “How can I take Sparky back now? You heard her. She loves Sparky.”

  “Don’t call it Sparky.” She moved to brush past but he didn’t budge so she shoved her shoulder into his chest like a linebacker. “You took advantage of a child. Jerk,” she added as she bounced off his hard muscles.

  He stepped aside and smiled. He had some sort of military tattoo on the big ball of his shoulder. “Please come in, Natalie.”

  “It’s Ms. Cooper.” The last thing she wanted was to be on a friendly first-name basis with the man who’d told her child that he “shit bigger than you,” then given Charlotte—no, Natalie—the responsibility of his dog. “Charlotte,” she called out as she walked inside. Natalie had been in the house once before when it had been owned by Nick and Delaney Allegrezza and their six loud children. Now the big house felt empty as she moved through the entry and past the stairs. The sound of her heels echoed off the hardwood and she stopped in the great room. The house felt empty because it was empty. Or practically empty, anyway.

  At one end of the large room sat a grouping of furniture and some boxes, dwarfed by the massive windows and space. Exercise equipment took up a portion of the middle of the room, as if he’d moved everything he owned in one spot and left it there. “Charlotte,” she called out again as she moved to the kitchen. One single Crock-Pot sat on the granite counter, looking kind of sad. “I’m not playing games, Charlotte. You’re going to be in big trouble if you don’t come out.” She glanced in the dining room, empty except for a nail on the wall. Either he’d lived alone in a little apartment, or he was divorced and his wife had taken him to the cleaners. If she liked the guy, she might think it was sad. Like his lonely Crock-Pot. But she didn’t like him.

  “Check the wine cellar.”

  Natalie turned as he moved toward her, his long stride and wide shoulders those of a supremely confident man. His pants were low on his hips; she could see the Under Armour elastic band of his underwear hid most of a heavy black tattoo. He pulled a gray T-shirt over his head and down his chest. No six-pack, but she could probably bounce a quarter off his abdomen. She didn’t know where he got the shirt, she was just glad he got one.

  “Down that hall.” He pointed.

  He walked close behind her, and sure enough, through an open door on the left, she found her daughter kneeling on the narrow stone floor. The little black dog that had caused such chaos lay on his back in front of her, paws in the air, fast asleep. The wine racks lining the room from floor to ceiling were empty except for one bottle of Johnnie Walker. The room was just wide enough for Natalie to kneel next to Charlotte, and the hard floor chilled her bare knees. She brushed a strand of hair from her daughter’s wet cheek. “Come on, baby.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I love Spa-ky.”

  “I know, but I’m sure Mr. Junger loves him, too,” she lied. “And he loves Mr. Junger.”

  “We could share Sparky.”

  Natalie looked over her shoulder and up. Way up into his Hollywood-handsome face and eyes, cool and watchful. “Share a dog?” She didn’t even try and keep the aggravation she felt from punctuating her words. “Like parents share kids?”


  “Why not?”

  Because she didn’t want to share a dog. Because he was devious, and she was sure she’d end up with it full-time. “Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  She supposed that answer was obvious given his interaction with her child.

  “Yeah.” Charlotte nodded as she looked up at the neighbor. “Like Mama shares me with Nana and Papa.”

  Every other weekend, Charlotte stayed with Michael’s parents across the lake. Regardless of Natalie’s relationship with their son, Charlotte was their only grandchild and they loved her.

  “Pleeeeasse, Mama. I’ll be weally good and eat all my celery and carrots.”

  “Really good.” Natalie returned her attention to her daughter and corrected Charlotte’s habit of dropping random R’s.

  “Really good,” Charlotte repeated, all pitiful and heartbroken. “Rrrr-weally good.”

  “Okay.” She sighed, giving in to her child’s heartbreak. “We’ll take the dog every other weekend.”

  “I was thinking half the time. Fifty-fifty.”

  Of course he was. “We’re not home during the day.” She grabbed a part of the empty wine rack and stood. “So, every other weekend and Wednesday night on our free week.”

  “Tuesday and Thursday nights on your free week.”

  She frowned because she was going to make a deal with the devil. A devil that smelled like soap and a cool breeze against warm skin.

  “I’ll throw in the food.”

  “Every other weekend. Tuesday and Thursday nights, and you pay for the first vet visit.”

  “I’ll buy him toys,” Charlotte threw in as if she had her own bank account.

  He grinned and stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

  This wasn’t exactly what she’d planned when she’d walked over earlier, and she wasn’t quite sure how she’d ended up with part-time custody of the neighbor’s dog. She slid her hand in his. His hot palm heated up her cooler skin and the pulse at the base of her wrist. If Charlotte hadn’t been kneeling at her feet, Natalie might have forgotten that she didn’t like Blake Junger. That he was arrogant and pushy. Not to mention rude and foulmouthed and judgmental. And those were just the qualities she knew from her few brief encounters. She might forget all that and wonder what it would be like to slide up his chest and smell his skin on the side of his neck. “I expect that dog to be house-trained by Wednesday.”