by Casey Hagen
HAGEN NOVELS, LLC
KENNEBUNK, MAINE
Copyright © 2019 by Casey Hagen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
Hagen Novels, LLC
www.CaseyHagenAuthor.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Tallulah Trouble/Casey Hagen. — 1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-0000000-0-0
They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
―F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
Contents
What Are You Up to Little Brother? 1
Who’s That Girl? 21
Meeting her Furry Match 39
Taking Chances 54
Bring on the Humiliation 68
Training 82
Putting Out Fires 97
It’s Not All Sunshine and Roses 114
Diving In 127
The Past or Future? 140
Changes 153
CHAPTER ONE
ISAAC COLE GLANCED DOWN AT his cell phone.
5:46 AM.
She’d be passing by anytime, just like the three days prior. Not that he was a peeping Tom or anything.
There was nothing wrong with looking out your own window and keeping an eye on the neighborhood. Nothing at all.
There was probably less wrong with it on the first day when he just happened to be awake and handling an emergency call from Mr. Coulter about his Maine Coon, Sherlock.
It’s the fact that Isaac had set his alarm for five in the morning every day since, hoping to catch a glimpse of her again that could be called into question.
And that he stood in his living room. In complete darkness, watching. With coffee even.
Ahh, a new low after his divorce. Maybe his sister was right, and he needed to see a therapist after all because if this was how he planned to replace his sex life, even as scarce as it had become, he’d hit a new personal low.
He caught movement and squinted out his bay window. It would help if the sunrise would cooperate; instead, he struggled to focus in the astro twilight which really was only one step above total darkness.
Hank yanked and strained at his collar, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, his eyes darting about as the never-ending energy pinged through him.
Isaac shook his head and laughed. She’d been taking care of him for four days, and they might just look worse at this whole walking through the neighborhood thing than they had the first time they’d done it.
His gaze wandered to her bare legs. A faint glow from the walkway lights shone on them, but not enough to see much detail. Just a flash of golden skin as her sneakered feet slapped against the sidewalk.
She held her arms rigid, fighting Hank the whole way in a clear battle of wills. The problem was, you couldn’t will a dog like Hank into submission. And you didn’t make leash training him the first thing you did with him in the morning, either. The big boy had just spent the night sleeping away. He was ready to chase squirrels and lizards, meet new people, and basically take on the world with the vibrating energy of a five-year-old hopped up on pixie sticks and orange soda.
As she passed the Japanese Magnolia in the corner of his yard, Hank lurched forward, the collar breaking away, leaving her pinwheeling her arms through the air to catch herself.
“Shit.” His coffee sloshed over his hand as he dropped it to the coffee table. He shook the liquid off his hand as he shot out the front door.
“Hank!” she yelled as she crashed against the sidewalk, the concrete digging into her very fine backside. Her hands scraped along the ground, and she let out a hiss.
He reached her as she started to push herself up, her lips pinched into a thin line, her narrowed gaze following Hank as he stopped two houses down and danced around the birdhouse in the Densmore’s front yard.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he wrapped his fingers around her biceps to help her up. Her muscles flexed under his fingers, rock-hard strength covered in warm, velvety softness.
“Yeah, sick of being rescued, but I’m okay,” she muttered as she winced at her hands. “He did a number on me this time. My hands hurt bad enough that I don’t care what’s stuck to my ass. I’m not brushing it off; it can stay there,” she said, glaring down the sidewalk.
Wisps of dark hair had broken free from her ponytail and now framed her face, making her look almost angelic despite the anger evident in the pinch of her bow-shaped mouth.
Isaac stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew, letting out a sharp whistle that had Hank’s head snapping around. With two clicks of his tongue, Hank took off at a run right for them.
She tensed up beside him as if preparing for Hank to jump at her again.
“Take it easy; he won’t jump.”
“Uh-huh, you’ll excuse me if I don’t believe you.”
“Heel,” he said and raised his hand in the universal sign for stop.
Hank skidded to a stop and panted up at them, glancing back and forth between them.
She narrowed her eyes at the dog, then him. “How did you do that?”
Isaac bent over to pick up the leash and collar. “I worked with Hank for a bit before Sebastian and Kate adopted him.”
Sebastian and Kate still used the collar Hank came with from the shelter which had a latch issue. Every once in a while, one side didn’t click in all the way. “I take it you had his collar off?” he asked.
“Yeah, I washed it and the leash last night. How did you know?” she said, leaning over to look at the buckle in his hand.
“When you put it back on, it likely didn’t latch all the way. Sebastian and Kate planned on switching it out, but it looks like they never got the chance,” he said with a shrug. “Come on in, and you can get those hands cleaned up.” He slapped his leg, making Hank leap up and trot alongside him on his way up to the house, leaving her to follow.
He held open the door, and Hank snatched the small treat Isaac held next to his pocket and darted inside.
She shook her head and let out a sigh of frustration watching him, the sound of his nails clicking on the tile as he scraped through the entryway.
“You don’t like dogs much, do you?” he asked, holding the door. He scrambled to remember if he’d left any messes lying around. His ex-wife, Amy, hated it when he dropped things wherever the whim struck him the minute he walked through the door. She’d bragged to all her friends and family, hell, even his family about how she had broken him of the habit. He used to laugh it off, never realizing how much it bothered him…and then the day arrived that his divorce was finalized. He caught himself staring blindly at the papers while putting his medical bag in its proper place in the top cubby of the front closet instead of on the floor next to the door where he preferred to leave it.
His fingers had frozen for a minute with the bag half in the slot, just long enough to snap out of his once-married fog to realize that he didn’t have to follow anyone’s rules.
He’d moved his bag back to the spot next to the door. He’d put his socks and underwear in his bottom drawer, just because he could. He’d moved the glasses from the cabinet next to the fridge t
o the cabinet near the counter peninsula, basically as far as he could from the fridge.
Okay, so that one had been stupid.
He’d been drunk with power and newly acquired freedom. He’d eschewed the rules of order and made it a point to do so, at least in regard to his personal life, ever since.
“I like dogs just fine. But that one,” she said as she stepped into the house and aimed a rigid finger in the direction Hank ran, “is a menace to society.”
A series of barks echoed from the kitchen. He glanced down at her and laughed. “He is not; he just needs a bit of training.” Following the noise, he found Hank sitting in front of the cookie jar on the counter. Lila, his three-year-old Labradoodle, stayed on her dog bed in front of the sliding glass door, her head resting on her paws, casting the occasional glance at Hank.
Lila, the dignified lady that she was, didn’t do mornings. And she didn’t do raucous excitement.
She crossed her arms and tapped a foot on the floor. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do for the past three days,” she said with a pointed glance at Lila.
“From my living room window, it’s looked an awful lot like he’s been walking you for those three days,” Isaac said.
“Funny. Now that is a well-behaved dog,” she said, pointing at Lila.
“That, is a diva. But thank you. Please, go ahead and wash up,” he said, gesturing to the sink.
She stepped up and flicked on the faucet. With a quick glance in his direction, she wet her hands, pumped out some hand soap, and set to lathering her hands vigorously enough to make a surgeon proud.
He slid a Milk-Bone from the jar and held it out before Hank. “Wait,” Isaac said, in order to see if Hank remembered the lessons he’d given him in the shelter.
The dog dropped down on his butt and turned his gaze from the bone, his eyes occasionally darting back, but he didn’t take the treat without permission.
“Good boy,” Isaac said, giving Hank the approval to take his treat. He snagged two cups from his mug tree and poured each of them a steaming cup. “Cream, sugar?”
“Black,” she said.
“Nice,” he muttered, sliding the mug across the granite island to her. He added a bit of sugar and half and half to his own, stirred, and took a sip, glancing over the rim of his cup at her as he leaned against the counter next to the sink.
She flattened her palms on the counter, ignored the offered drink, and leaned toward him, revealing a hint of cleavage.
Nice cleavage.
The kind that made you want to linger there, exploring the soft mounds against your lips, and maybe on the rare hot California afternoon, with humidity hanging in the air, a light sheen of perspiration would dot her skin. And who could blame a man if he darted out the tip of his tongue to taste the salty slickness of it?
He shifted in an effort to inconspicuously find more room in the front of his jeans as his dick woke up and practically panted in anticipation, a lot like the adoring Hank, who now gave his kitchen floor a tongue bath.
“So, you’ve been watching me?” she asked, her questioning gaze meeting his.
Before landing in Tallulah Cove, he’d lived in the land of short shorts, bikinis, and halter tops. Women cinched their waists and got implants. There were natural beauties, sure. But the woman before him, she possessed strong muscles hugging feminine curves made from hard work. She oozed discipline and fierce power. Something told him she didn’t get that way in the gym, either.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and slid his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been having coffee in my living room. It’s not like I’m in there with binoculars.”
For the first time in years, he craved to know a woman, what made her tick, her past, her present, what she wished for in her future.
He hadn’t realized he missed the exhilaration of interest and desire.
Until now.
She straightened, tilted her head, and tapped a finger on her lip. “Hmmm, I don’t know about that. It seems like this town doesn’t wake up until about seven. Why are you up so early?” she asked before picking up the cup and taking a tentative sip of the coffee.
“Vet emergency,” he said as he leaned an elbow on the counter, crossed his ankles, and gave her a confident smile.
She raised a brow. “Three days in a row?”
His lips twitched as he held back a laugh at himself. “None of your business. Now, what’s your name?”
“Grazi,” she said.
“Really?”
Her gaze snapped to his, and she raised a brow. “Yes, why?”
He shrugged and pushed away from the counter, wanting to get closer to her. “I don’t know. Seems kind of simple for a woman like you. Is it short for something?”
“Graziella,” she said, her gaze sliding away, a pink tinge staining her cheeks.
And it embarrassed her.
Interesting.
“Better,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, it’s not. Graziella is graceful, feminine; she has perfectly smooth cat-eye makeup, and sleek, shiny blonde hair cascading down her naked back,” she said with exaggerated lash flutters and sweeping arm movements. She dropped her arms at her sides, but held her shoulders high and straightened her spine. “She isn’t career Army; she doesn’t fly helicopters, run five miles a day, and wear camo pants.”
She definitely took pride in who she was, held herself with confidence, displayed her strength, but damned if her perceived inadequacy to live up to a name didn’t put a ding in that armor of hers.
That bothered the shit out of him.
“What about her personality?” he asked, circling around the island to stand next to her.
Hank abandoned his spot in the kitchen. He spun in a few circles and dropped down next to Lila and blew out a breath before laying his head on his crossed paws.
She drummed her fingers on the counter, shrugged, and turned toward him. “Does it matter when you look like her?”
The pendant light hanging over their heads set her copper eyes aglow. He smiled down at her, set his coffee aside, and hooked a finger around the lock of her hair fluttering in front of her eye.
She sucked in a breath but didn’t back away as he twirled it, rubbed it between his fingers, and let it slide from his grip to land against her cheek.
Something thrummed between them. Something he’d never felt before. Not even with Amy.
“It better matter since looks aren’t forever. Your version of Graziella sounds boring,” he said quietly. His throat ran dry as attraction whipped through his veins at a breakneck pace. He cleared his throat, and needing a bit of distance, he reached for his coffee once again and held it between them like a shield.
“Really? Most guys I know would love to fuck her.”
“Jesus.” He laughed, wiping the coffee from where it dribbled down his chin. “You’re blunt.”
“I’m honest,” she said.
“A good quality to have.”
“The best quality to have,” she agreed.
Since his divorce had been final and he’d settled in Tallulah Cove, residents had been trying to fix him up with every available woman from twenty to forty. He’d dated a few but never felt the spark. He’d had a couple of one-night stands that hadn’t done more than scratch an itch; the physical attraction was there, but he hadn’t managed to drum up one ounce of desire to know them as people.
Until now.
She was visiting from out of town. He’d do good to remember that. Attraction, heat, even sex were one thing, but handing his heart over to someone who had a life and career elsewhere would be stupid.
Of course, what he needed to say to her, in the spirit of honesty, might just make her walk out the door with a firm ‘goodbye’ anyway.
He cocked a hip against the island next to her. “Well, since honesty is so important to you. You suck at training Hank. You’re doing it all wrong.”
Her copper eyes shot fire at him. “Hey—”
He held
his hand up, much like he did with Hank to get him to stop. He swallowed a laugh when the gesture worked. “Hear me out. He’s a dog, not a soldier. And he’s high energy. Here’s the part you’ll love, since you’re military and all—he needs a regimented schedule.”
She dropped a hand to her hip and jutted her chin in the air, all confidence and confrontation. “See, I can do this.”
“Not until someone trains you,” he said.
“Excuse me?” she said with her eyes narrowed and leaning toward him.
Hank lifted his head and glanced between the two of them.
“You heard me.”
“And you think you’re going to train me?” she countered.
“I know I am,” he said.
He pushed away from the island and stepped into her space, making her crane her neck to look up at him. “Why don’t you let Hank walk you home, since we both know that’s how it’s going to go.” He brushed a finger over her bare, sun-kissed shoulder and dragged the tip down her arm. Reaching her hand, he lifted it between them and traced his index finger over her scraped palm. “You can get these hands cleaned up a bit better, attend to that sweet ass of yours, and I’ll be over this afternoon for your first lesson.” He kissed the angry flesh of her hand.
She angled her body away from him. He didn’t know if it was the kiss or his suggestion, but with her, he was sure to find out.
“You mean Hank’s first lesson, right?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m not sure I want your help anyway,” she muttered, reaching for Hank’s collar.
The pup bounded to his feet, and she headed for his door, hunched over, her hand wrapped around the buckle.
He followed her and within inches of her back, close enough to feel the heat rolling off her, he leaned over, laid his hand over hers, and squeezed. The sound of the buckle snapping all the way into the locked position echoed in the doorway.
Funny thing about his stubborn little soldier, when tilted off her axis, she forgot details. He highly doubted she did that in her military world, but around him… all bets were off.