by Sandra Owens
“That will happen, even faster if he gets some training, but yeah, this isn’t a good place for him right now. Too many interesting things and people to check out.”
“Live and learn, right?” A couple walked up to her booth. “Um, I need to get to work.”
“You have your phone on you?”
“Yes. Do you need to make a call?” Heaven help her, the man really did have a killer smile.
“No. I was going to put my number in it. You know, in case you decide to take me up on my offer to help you train Rambo.”
“Oh. Right.” He probably thought she was a scatterbrain, but it was entirely his fault for being so sexy that it was hard to think around him.
As if to prove he needed training, her dog was straining at the end of his leash, trying to get the couple’s attention with begging yips, hoping for a little petting. “Rambo, no.” She pulled him back toward her, and of course, he planted his paws so that she ended up dragging him.
She glanced at Jack, expecting to see disapproval, but the only thing in his eyes was amusement. “Here.” She unlocked her phone and handed it to him. “You’ll definitely be hearing from me if you can teach him some manners.”
“I can.”
When he handed her phone back, their fingers brushed against each other, and there was that tingling again.
“Take care, Nichole.” He squatted in front of Rambo. “I know you have a lot of energy, buddy, but try to behave for your mistress.” Rambo tossed himself onto his back, his tail scraping across the floor.
“I don’t think behave is in his vocabulary.”
Jack glanced up at her as he gave her dog a belly rub. “Part of teaching him that word will be to teach you how to master him.”
There was something in the way he said that, in the flash of heat in his eyes, that had her almost fanning her face. “Um, master him, right.” Jeez, Nichole, get your mind out of the gutter.
That was easier said than done with this man, and when the heat returned to his eyes and one side of his mouth curved up, she knew he knew right where her mind had gone. Again.
She glanced at the couple, who were still browsing. The woman picked up a mug. “I love how you embedded a maple leaf in these. I’ll take the set.”
“I’ll be right with you.” She glanced at Jack. “Gotta go.” Before something else came out of her mouth... Like my bed is only a few minutes from here. Want to go play?
He rose in a slow unfolding of his body that had her eyes tracking every movement and flex of his muscles. Oh, yeah. Sex. On. A. Freakin’. Stick. She’d been burned so badly by her last boyfriend that she’d gone through an I-hate-men stage. That phase might have just ended.
“Hope to hear from you, Nichole,” he said before picking up his coffee.
“I think you will,” she murmured as she watched him walk away. “And real nice butt, Whiskey,” she added.
Her morning had started off as one of the crappiest ever. She’d woken up tired and out of sorts after drinking enough wine to get up the nerve to call Trevor the Bastard Allen at three in the morning and tell him what she thought of him for sabotaging her commission. She’d figured that if she was up at that time of night, stewing over what he’d done, that it was only right for his sleep to be disturbed. The jerk had pretended not to know who she was.
Rambo hadn’t helped her mood when she’d found her favorite running shoes chewed up. Her fault for leaving them out, but weren’t all the toys she’d showered him with enough? Considering everything the world had rained down on her recently, she deserved a hot SEAL to play with, right? But she refused to appear too eager—because, really, the man probably had eager-to-get-into-his-pants women at his beck and call—so she’d wait a bit to contact him.
Chapter Two
There were two seasons in Afghanistan: freeze-your-ass-off cold and heatstroke fucking hot. At the moment Jack was positive he’d sweated off a good fifteen pounds under his uniform, flak jacket, and gear. He spit the dust out of his mouth and swiped his sleeve across his forehead. If he took off his helmet, a gallon of perspiration would probably fall down his face. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that the warm water he was chugging was a beer so cold that it had turned into an icy slush. Didn’t work.
After giving Dakota some water, he nodded at his team. Time to move out. They were doing a reconnaissance run, looking for an Afghan official who’d been kidnapped. Intel had come in that the man was being held in the small village two klicks ahead. Since the information had come from an unreliable source, their orders were to find a place where they could observe. If they could confirm the official’s presence, they’d mount a rescue.
He was point with Dakota, and he made a useless wish that they could find a location to set up that had a damn shade tree. Useless because there wasn’t a single tree between him and the horizon. Dakota was a few steps ahead, her tongue flopping out the side of her mouth as she panted in an attempt to cool down. She was his third dog, and a good one.
A klick out from the village, Jack removed his sunglasses to wipe the sweat from his forehead again. Dakota came to a sudden stop, then pushed her sixty pounds of muscled body against his legs, forcing him back.
Jack lurched up, the sound of the explosion roaring in his ears and the smell of burning flesh in his nose. A wet tongue licked his face, the stench of cooked skin replaced with dog breath. Dakota’s whimpers penetrated his brain, bringing him back to the present.
He sucked in a lungful of air. “It’s okay, girl.” More air inhaled. “I’m awake.” This was their routine each time the nightmare came. It was always the same, the thunderous boom of the explosion sending him straight up in bed, his heart jackhammering in his chest, and his lungs searching for air. Dakota was always there to bring him out of it.
* * *
A week passed, and Jack still hadn’t heard from Nichole. He’d been sure he’d get a call from her after they talked about Rambo’s training. Had he lost the ability to read women? Maybe the bomb had stolen that particular talent.
He continued with Dakota’s daily therapy treatments on her leg and stuck to his morning ten-mile runs. Although he was scarred all the way down the left side of his body except where his flak jacket had protected him, his legs worked just fine. And Dakota was making good progress, which was great.
What he wasn’t good with was his damaged shoulder and arm refusing to heal as fast as he wanted. His team needed him, and between worrying about them and having nightmares, he was fighting bouts of depression. But he was a SEAL and SEALs sucked it up. So that was what he was doing, or trying to.
His house had belonged to his parents, and at their deaths five years ago, ownership had come to him, no mortgage attached. He’d considered selling it, but it was full of memories of his mom and dad, and he’d decided to hang on to it. For a while anyway. Now he was glad he had. He’d had a place to come home to after getting hurt. Besides, the mountain views off his back deck were amazing. It was a good place to heal.
Unable to fall back asleep after his latest nightmare, he made a pot of coffee and went out to the deck to watch the sun come up. Dakota put her head on his knee, her dark-chocolate eyes peering up at him.
“Time for our run, huh?”
Dakota barked her agreement.
“Let’s go then.”
She was a Belgian Malinois, a working dog. A dog that needed to be active and useful. With her damaged leg, she couldn’t manage his ten-mile runs, so he’d go a half-mile one way and back with her, then put her in the house before doing another nine miles. She was never happy about getting left behind. She still believed it was her job to protect his six, and how could she watch his back if she wasn’t with him?
His thoughts returned to Nichole as he ran. How had he been so wrong, certain he would hear from her? And what to do about it? Although he should forget about her, he was finding that
impossible.
Maybe he’d give her another week, then drop by her booth at the River Arts District. Tell her he was in the neighborhood—or something stupid like that—and was curious to see how Rambo was doing.
Or maybe not. If she didn’t call, then she wasn’t interested in seeing him. Truthfully, it was irritating that he couldn’t get her out of his head.
Hot and sweaty after returning home, he jumped in the shower. He had a physical therapy session in the afternoon, but what to do with himself until then? The hours when he had nothing to do but think were killing him. He was out of the loop—didn’t know what was going on with his team—so he worried. Were they out on an op right now? He should be with them, and although it wouldn’t be Dakota, he’d have a new dog sniffing out bad guys and IEDs, helping to keep them safe.
Ants crawled under his skin, something that was happening more and more lately. He snatched up the keys to his Ford 150 pickup. Dakota loved to go for rides, and it made him happy to see her hanging her head out the window, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, a silly dog grin on her face. Yes, his dog smiled, and although she looked ridiculous doing it, he never could resist smiling back at her.
He was in dire need of a buddy to go out and have a beer or two with, if the highlight of his days was a grinning dog. A certain woman who seemed to be ignoring him would be even better.
“Want to—” His phone rang before he could say the words go for a ride, which would have brought his sleeping dog instantly to her feet. Even so, she jumped up from her nap on the floor and glared at the phone.
“Disturbing your precious sleep, are we?”
She shifted her glare to him, as if he’d purposely made the contraption make noise.
The screen displayed Caller Unknown, and he almost didn’t answer. But it was an Asheville area code, and his heart skipped a beat. No, it wasn’t Nichole. She would have called him by now. He answered anyway.
* * *
Nichole managed to wait an entire week to call Jack Daniels, and that wasn’t an easy thing to do. She wanted to call him minutes after he left to tell him she would take him up on his offer to train Rambo. Each time her fingers crept to his number on her phone, she chanted, Don’t be easy. Don’t be easy. Don’t be easy. Because seriously, what woman wouldn’t throw herself at his feet and beg him to take her, however, wherever, and whenever he wanted? She wasn’t going to be one of those girls.
So she made herself wait. It didn’t stop her from watching the entrance to the artisans’ mall, half expecting to see him walk in. He didn’t. Not only was that disappointing, but it made her wonder if she was wrong in thinking she’d seen interest in his eyes. And because she let seven days go by, and because he hadn’t made an appearance, she was now hesitant to call him. Maybe he was relieved she hadn’t taken him up on his offer to train Rambo.
She sighed when her dog put his paws on a customer’s legs, begging for attention. “No, Rambo.” He ignored her. “I’m sorry,” she said to the woman as she tugged on his leash, dragging him back to her. He was such a friendly dog, and she didn’t want to curb his enthusiasm for life, but he couldn’t keep jumping on people.
“Perhaps he would be happier left at home,” the woman said before walking away.
Nichole resisted the urge to stick out her tongue. No, he needed to learn how to behave. This was the first time since last week she’d brought him with her. A colony of ants had taken up residence in her kitchen, and the exterminator had sprayed this morning. Worried that Rambo might have a reaction, she hadn’t wanted to leave him in a closed-up house all day.
She not only wanted a companion but also hoped Rambo would be protective of her when he grew older. She was a single woman, sometimes leaving the Arts District after dark, and she felt safer having a dog...or she would if he ever learned how to guard her.
Her dog was a sweetheart, and she loved him dearly, but if some guy tried to get in the car with her, Rambo would probably open the door for him and then shower him with kisses. She didn’t expect Rambo to be a puppy guard dog, but she would sure like to see him grow into the role. It was doubtful that was going to happen without some kind of training.
It was time to call Jack. A customer walked up, one who thankfully seemed to like rambunctious puppies, and after playing with him for a few minutes, the woman bought a complete ten-piece set of dishes. After agreeing on the date Nichole could deliver them and paying for half the commission, the woman moved on to the next booth.
It was a good sale, although not a record. During the past year she’d been making a name for herself, and clients were seeking her out. Her biggest sale would have been a commission to supply a local three-star Michelin-rated restaurant with dishes designed solely for them—the commission that Trevor the Snake Allen had sabotaged. That she’d thought he was an amazingly talented potter, had thought he was a friend, and had made the mistake of telling him about the commission had her wishing Rambo was trained to kill. Maybe her puppy could lick him to death.
Trevor had gone behind her back and somehow convinced the restaurant owner that Nichole wasn’t capable of delivering such a big order in the agreed-on time frame, but that he could for five thousand less than she’d quoted, and deliver two weeks sooner. Even worse, the owner had given Trevor her samples so he could duplicate them.
She wasn’t happy with the restaurant owner, but she was livid with Trevor. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had a signed contract. After showing her samples and agreeing on a price and deadline, she’d told the owner that she’d return the next afternoon with a contract. She’d left the samples with him, another mistake, but it never occurred to her that a snake would slither in and bite her on the butt.
There was no recourse, as she hadn’t copyrighted the design. Most potters didn’t, as it was expensive to file a copyright for each design they created. If she’d had an inkling that Trevor would steal her commission, she sure would have.
Rambo circled her legs, tying her up again. She sighed as she bent over and untangled herself. “You’re a stinker, you know that?” He licked her hand.
She picked up her phone, found Jack’s name, and hit Call.
“Daniels here,” he said.
“Um, hi. It’s Nichole Masters. Rambo’s owner.”
“Hello, Nichole. This is a nice surprise.”
He sounded pleased to hear from her, and that had her smiling. “Were you serious about training Rambo?”
“No.”
Her heart tumbled, feeling like it landed in her stomach. “Oh—”
“I was, however, serious about helping you train him. It won’t do any good if you don’t know what you’re doing. He’ll just forget anything he learns if you don’t know how to reinforce what we teach him. That means you’re included in the sessions, otherwise it’s a no-go. Are you good with that?”
So good! “Sure. That makes sense, and I do want to know how to handle him. I want him to be happy, but he also needs to behave. Right now, he’s not so good at that.”
“Most puppies aren’t. What is he, four or five months old?”
“I’m not sure of his birthday, but about that.”
“In people years he’s a preteen. Lots of energy and testing the boundaries. When do you want to start?”
She glanced down at Rambo to see he was gnawing on the table leg. “As soon as possible.”
“What about this evening?”
Her heart gave a little lurch. That soon? “Yeah, sure. I usually get home around six. Give me a little time to change and grab something to eat. Say six-thirtyish?”
“Why don’t I make it easy on you and bring a pizza?”
She was liking this guy more and more. “That would be great.”
“What do you like on your pie?”
“Anything but green peppers, olives, and anchovies.”
“Already we have something in c
ommon.” He chuckled. “Text me your address, and I’ll see you this evening.”
Before she could respond, Trevor Allen walked up, and the rage she’d managed to stifle the past few days surged. “What are you doing here?”
“Nichole?” Jack said. “Is everything okay?”
“I have an offer for you.” Trevor lifted his chin toward the phone at her ear. “When you finish your call, we’ll talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Finish your call, Nichole.”
“Go to hell.” She turned her back to him.
“Nichole?” Jack said again.
“Gotta go, Jack. See you tonight.” She disconnected before he could ask what was going on. Her hands were shaking as she shoved the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. How dare Trevor the Bastard come here, much less want to make her an offer. There was nothing he could say that would make her want to be anywhere near him or connected to him.
Rambo yipped, and she glanced over to see he was bouncing around Trevor’s feet. “Rambo, no!” She snatched him up. “We don’t speak to him. Ever.”
“Ah, come on, Nichole. It was just business, and you should be thanking me. I taught you a valuable lesson. I do feel a tad sorry that you lost the contract, so to make it up to you, I’m offering you five thousand to work with me on getting the commission finished on time.” He smiled.
For a very short time she’d thought his smile was boyishly cute. She’d even been a little in awe that such a talented potter was interested in her. Wanting him to see her as a peer had prompted her to brag about the commission she’d been offered. A big mistake that.
Now she wanted to slap that stupid smile right off his face. He was a good-looking man, his appearance artsy with his black hair a little too long and scraggly, dark eyelashes that she envied, and hazel eyes that had fascinating gold rings around them. His style of dress was grunge, and he embraced it with enthusiasm with his oversize shirts, torn jeans, and scuffed combat boots, the very picture of a serious artist...or so she was sure he believed.