Never Forget: A Novella in the Echo Platoon Series (4 page)

“You might not realize what you’re getting into,” she warned.

“That’s the reason for the trial basis.”

She blew out a breath, deliberating. “Okay.” She spread her hands and shrugged. “Let’s try it.”

“Great.” His ruddy lips twitched toward a smile. He handed her a pen and index card which he produced from his thigh pocket. “What time and where?”

She turned the card over, noting his neatly written shopping list. “Is eight thirty too early?” she asked.

“Nope.”

Jotting down her address she had to quell the tremor in her fingertips at the prospect of seeing him again Monday morning.

“If you change your mind after you meet him, it won’t hurt my feelings,” she promised handing him back the card and pen.

He studied her address a moment and then looked at her. “Do you think he’s going to like the idea?”

“Probably not,” she admitted, “but it beats being grounded.” She sent him a tight smile.

“Ah,” he said. Private thoughts flickered in his dark eyes sparking her curiosity to know what they were. “I’ll see you in two days then. What time in the afternoon will you pick him up?”

“Well, I’ve cut back on my hours for the summer so I’m off at three.”

“Perfect. It’ll take you fifteen minutes from the air base to get to this address.” Handing her a business card, he pointed out the address on it.

His efficiency impressed her. He’d been the same way during the investigation of his commander last fall, deftly handling everything needed to prove his leader’s unethical ties to the mob. No wonder he’d risen so high in the enlisted ranks.

She took note of his obscure address—Muddy Creek Road, Pungo. “Good thing I have GPS.”

“It’s a straight shot down Virginia Beach Boulevard.”

“I’ll find it,” she promised him. “Should I pack Curtis a lunch?”

“Oh, no. I’ll feed him.”

“Thank you. He’ll eat anything you give him.”

“Plus I’ll pay him five an hour. It’s not even minimum wage but it’ll add up.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” She ought to be paying
him
for getting her son out of the house.

“He’ll need the incentive,” he said with assurance.

Picturing Curtis’s response to the new arrangement, he was probably right. “Okay,” she agreed. She nodded at the putty in his hand. “Good luck with the repairs.”

“Same to you,” he said.

Conscious of the shy smile on her face, she backed up three steps before whirling and walking briskly away from him. She could feel his gaze burning a warm path down her back, and she found herself putting a subtle sway in her step, wondering if he found her bare legs pretty.

At the end of the aisle, she glanced back just as he jerked his gaze up. Their eyes met again and a fresh wave of heat rushed into her cheeks, causing her to blush like a school girl. She darted out of sight to hide her flustered state.

W
HAT THE HELL
have I done?

Reality slapped Rusty from his trance as Maya turned the corner. Clearly, his brain became mush in her presence. There was no other explanation for the fact that he’d just saddled himself with another responsibility—like the dog wasn’t enough of a handful. Now he had to keep an eye on her son, too.

What had he been thinking?

Sure, the kid could throw the ball and take the dog for long hikes in the woods. But he’d lied about Draco not being dangerous. Any Navy SEAL dog worth his salt loved to bite. The more aggressive, the more type-A, the more capable a dog was of protecting his teammates. War dogs weren’t your average domesticated canine. And they didn’t turn sweet and cuddly overnight—especially not Belgian Malinois, who’d been bred for centuries to be high-strung, fearless, and aggressive.

Crap
. If Rusty didn’t take the time to train both boy and dog, the kid was going to get some puncture wounds. And then Maya Schultz wouldn’t even speak to him, let alone want to know him better. So why the new arrangement?

Scrubbing a hand across his forehead, he envisioned the vulnerability he’d glimpsed on her face when she admitted that her son had plowed his fist into the wall.

Yep, it was that helpless look that did it. The only thing worse than her son getting bitten by his dog on his property was the prospect of the kid unleashing his frustration on his mother in their own home, where no adult male was present to protect her.

I am such a pushover.

Draco got up and started walking. Sixty pounds of determination dragged Rusty in the direction of the exit.

“And we’re done shopping,” he acknowledged.

At least he’d gotten what he came for—plus a whole lot more. All that responsibility for what? For the unlikely prospect of forging a connection with the widow of one of his fallen teammates. He sneered at his uncharacteristic optimism.

Good luck
.

Chapter Four

‡

M
AYA MARCHED INTO
her son’s bedroom and raised the shade, admitting brilliant morning sunshine. “You need to get up
now
, honey. He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

Curtis pulled the pillow over his eyes. “Why?” he whined in a voice that started in a boy’s register and broke into a man’s.

He’d been asking that same question—
Why?
—ever since she’d informed him that come Monday he’d be working for a retired Navy SEAL, helping to care for the military dog he’d just adopted.

“I don’t want this stupid job,” he added.

Ignoring his protest, she grabbed his blanket and pulled it off him. The length of his growing, half-naked body drove home just how big he was getting. It was about time he took on more responsibility.

“You’re going to love it,” she predicted. “You’ve been asking me for a dog for years. This will be just like having one—and you’ll be paid, too. So up and at ’em. Time to roll,” she added, using one of Ian’s favorite expressions and employing his brook-no-arguments tone of voice.

She’d been thinking of Ian a lot lately. If not Ian, then Rusty.

“Fine.” Curtis dragged himself to a sitting position and swung his feet to the floor. “How long do I have to do this?”

“I don’t know,” she said, relieved that he was finally cooperating. “As long as it lasts, I guess.”

“All summer?” He plodded into his bathroom while wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“I don’t know,” she repeated as he shut the door between them.

What did she hope to get out of the arrangement, besides the peace of mind in knowing Curtis was gainfully occupied while she was at work? A vision of Rusty’s dark eyes, his ruddy lips curving toward a smile caused her pulse to accelerate. Did she want to get to know him better?

Yes. What would Ian have thought of him?

She didn’t know. He’d never mentioned Rusty Kuzinsky, probably hadn’t even known him before that fateful day on Gilman’s Ridge. So many men slaughtered in an attempt to save just one.

Shaking off the memory, she left the room to finish getting ready for her own workday. As she brushed her teeth, she noted the brightness in her eyes’ reflection and the heightened color in her cheeks. Applying a touch of lipstick, she considered the outfit she was wearing with a smile of approval—a white skirt paired with a lettuce-green blouse that brought out the pale-green color of her eyes. She fluffed the waves of her short blond hair as Curtis thundered down the stairs.

“Grab some breakfast, honey,” she called. “Mr. Kuzinsky said he’ll feed you lunch, but you don’t want to go there hungry.”

Listening to him pour a bowl of cereal, she went to collect her laptop bag and purse, placing them both by the door and then peering out the window. He wouldn’t make her late for work, would he?

Just then an older model, rust-colored Camry swung into the parking space in front of her house. Mr. Efficiency rolled up out of it, wearing a pair of triathlon sunglasses, khakis, and a gray T-shirt that highlighted his trim, muscular physique. His dark auburn hair matched the color of his car. He might be retired, but he moved like a young man, striding with purpose toward her door. She swung it open before he could knock.

“Good morning,” she greeted him.
Goodness, was that breathy voice hers?

He lowered the hand he’d lifted. “Am I late?”

“Of course not. Are you ever late?”

His eyes, crinkling at the corners, put a giddy feeling in her stomach. “Not usually,” he admitted.

“Come on in,” she said.

He didn’t need to know that she’d cleaned her entire house yesterday in anticipation of his viewing it. Not a speck of dust dulled the shiny surfaces of her living room furniture.

“Nice space,” he said taking in the open-concept lower level, with a kitchen leading to the stairs and master bedroom.

“Thanks. A rental, but it’s kept up by the management.” Shutting the door she caught the same scent she’d appreciated on Saturday—lemon and sage.

“Curtis is just finishing his breakfast.” She nodded toward the breakfast bar where her son looked up from his cereal and stopped chewing.

Silence ensued as the two males assessed each other.

Rusty broke the spell. “Hello, Curtis,” he said, crossing toward the breakfast bar and holding out a hand. “Name’s Rusty. I knew your father,” he added.

Curtis’s eyes widened as they flicked in her direction. Oh, yeah. She’d forgotten to mention that part.

“You look a lot like him,” Rusty added, releasing the boy’s hand.

“That’s what everyone says.” Curtis finished chewing and swallowed. “I don’t remember him, though,” he added without a trace of emotion.

A cloud seemed to descend over Rusty’s head. He nodded and looked around the kitchen.

Maya found her hand on his solid shoulder.

He cast a sharp glance at her.

“I have to leave,” she said with an apologetic grimace. “Do you mind locking up when you go?”

“I’m sure Curtis will handle that,” he said, glancing at her son. “Have a good day at work, Maya. We’ll be fine,” he added.

But his tone was shot with the tiniest thread of uncertainty. And who could blame him? He’d never had kids. He had no idea what he was getting himself into.

“You can call me, you know, if you run into any trouble,” she offered.

“No-o.” He shook his head. “We’ll be good,” he said with more confidence.

She’d read once that SEALs used positive language to help construct positive outcomes. “Neuro-linguistic programming?” She cocked an eyebrow.

A short burst of laughter escaped him, wreathing his face with lines of pure amusement that made the breath tangle in her throat.

“Something like that,” he admitted.

The urge to hug him overwhelmed her suddenly. Not only did she want to know if his body was as densely muscled as his shoulder suggested, but gratitude held her in a stranglehold. This arrangement sure beat leaving Curtis at loose ends with bad-news Santana hovering on the fringes and influencing her son in less-than-positive ways.

Reining herself in, she focused on Curtis. “Now, you listen to Mr. Kuzinsky and use your manners,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am,” Curtis said, though the sullenness in his gaze did not bode well in her opinion.

“I’ll see you shortly after three,” she added. “Bye, Rusty. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

But there it was again—that reservation in his tone that suggested there might actually be a problem. Perhaps she just imagined it.

Hefting her bags, she let herself out of her condo and headed to her car, sidestepping a thirty-something man walking his Doberman Pinscher.

“Morning,” she said, casting him a cautious smile as the dog swung its nose in her direction.

“How you doin’?” the man replied, sliding an oily gaze down the length of her body.

Maya stiffened. She had met this man somewhere before—probably just out walking his dog. Something about him, either the grubby sweatpants or the thick gold necklace around his neck, warned her to keep her distance. Not for the first time did she consider moving to a safer neighborhood.

As he tugged the Doberman past her, she continued to her van, settled inside, and turned over the engine, cracking the windows to cool the warm interior. She was putting on her seatbelt and preparing to back out of her parking space when she saw the man stop and look back at her.

Given the expression on his face, he, too, was trying to recall how they knew each other. Maya sent him a forced smile then looked away in order to reverse her van. As she accelerated out of the condominium complex, a glance into her rearview mirror showed him standing in the same spot, ignoring his dog who tugged at the leash.

A
frisson
of alarm raised the downy hairs on Maya’s forearms. Even across the ever-growing distance between them, she sensed the man’s sudden hostility.

Time to move, she decided, picturing a quaint little house in the country and wondering what Rusty Kuzinsky’s farmhouse looked like.

*

“
O
KAY, LISTEN UP,”
Rusty said, as he and Curtis rounded his house toward the crate he’d erected in the backyard the day before. He could hear the dog going crazy in it. He stopped walking, and the kid, who was already an inch taller than him, looked down and over at him.

Given the anxious look on Curtis’s face, he didn’t know the first thing about dogs. But that could be good, Rusty reasoned, because then maybe he had no preconceived notion that all dogs were sweet and loveable.

“Draco’s not your average dog,” he explained, though he’d already sketched Curtis a history of Draco’s life—the extreme temperatures and hard work he’d endured and how many lives he’d saved. The kid already knew the dog was a hero. “You need to stand back a while and just watch me interact with him. Don’t approach him until I introduce you. He’s got some anxiety issues, which will go away eventually. But right now, he’s still wired, you understand?”

Curtis nodded. Rusty thought he saw him swallow.

This was not the time to mention that the dog might bite if he wasn’t careful. Christ, if the kid was any more fearful, Draco would smell his fear and run roughshod over him.