SIX
Miles
A full laugh rumbles out of me. It feels good—maybe a little bit foreign, but good. It’s been far too long since I felt this free.
Wind whips through the cab of the truck, ruffling the ears of the hound dog in my passenger seat while he glances out the window, checking out the passing scenery.
Chloe called to him, bribed him with treats. She tried her best, but short of hoisting the seventy-pound dog out of my truck, he wasn’t going anywhere.
So, I’m giving Bronson a ride home. At a red light, I pull my phone from where it’s wedged under my leg and snap a picture of him. With his black head and his black-and-white coat, he’s like the dog version of Chance. Except the dog isn’t a dick and doesn’t bitch about my truck.
I pull into the driveway behind Chloe’s vehicle. The single-garage door lifts, but she stops short of pulling in. Both she and Jake hop out.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know… he’s never done anything like this before,” she says, talking a mile a minute as soon as her feethit the ground. She opens the passenger door of my truck and calls, “Come on, Bronson. Let’s go.”
The dog merely turns his head to me, like we’ve got some kind of secret understanding.Don’t I wish?
I swing my door open and step out, the dog following close behind. He trots to the tiny front lawn, lifts his leg, and then winds his way through the garage and into the little white house.
“I don’t even know what to say.” Chloe tilts her head to the side as she stares through the maze of boxes and crap in the garage to the open door her son and dog disappeared through.
“Don’t they say dogs and kids are good judges of character?” I lean against the hood of my truck and cross one ankle over the other. Dirt smudges, from rolling around on the rugby pitch, mar my knees.
“Dogs maybe. Kids”—she shrugs her shoulders—“who knows? Eleven-year-old boys don’t seem to use good judgment—ever.
“Thanks for giving my dog a ride all the way home. Can I, um… I feel like I should offer you something in return. Do you have plans for dinner? I was just going to make some tacos.” A cloud of uncertainty passes over her face, and she twists her lush pink lips to the side in an adorable pout. She slides a hand behind her neck, fingers toying with the black curls that have escaped from where she’s got most of it in a pile on her head.
She’s nervous, and I wonder, not for the first time, what her story is. Single mom in a military town is not a big deal. The reasons behind her being alone though, those are vitally important.
“I don’t want to impose,” I tell her. It’s not anoexactly.
“It’s just a couple of tacos and maybe a cold beer to wash them down. I mean, you did drive out of your way just because my dog decided today was his day to be an asshole. Come on,” Chloe says, picking her way through the boxes.
I push a breath out and follow behind her.
As the garage door descends, she turns to me and apologizes, “Sorry for the mess. I really need to find a place for this stuff, but there’s always something else to do that sounds so much better.”
We step into a bright kitchen with white cabinets and a stone countertop, but half-stripped wallpaper marks the space between the two.
“And you’re going to tell me that stripping wallpaper sounds better than getting your vehicle in the garage?” I ask.
This area is safe enough, but it’d be better if she could just pull straight in and close the door, walk right into the house.
Chloe hands me a couple of beers and an opener before pulling what she needs from the fridge. “Yep. Without a doubt. The dirty outside stuff was always the first thing I sloughed off when Dallas got home.”
I cock my head, eyebrows high, and thrust an open beer bottle toward her. She rolls her lips between her teeth and then smiles tightly. As she opens her mouth—hopefully to explain, give me something—Jake skids into the kitchen, wet hair plastered to his head, pulling his T-shirt down.
“Is dinner ready yet? Coach Miles, why are you still here?” Jake screws his face up at me while grabbing a sports drink from the fridge.
Chloe cuts open an avocado and squeezes the guts into a bowl. “He’s having tacos with us since he had to drive your dog home.”
Jake looks from his mom to me and back again and then nods. “’Kay.” He paws through the pantry, coming out with a bag of tortilla chips. “Do I have to set the table, or can we eat in front of the TV since it’s special?”
“The table, please. And then go do your homework. I’ll call you when it’s ready,” Chloe tells him.
Jake comes off as a typical moody kid more often than not when I’ve seen him, but tonight, at home with his mom, I get a different picture entirely. He might want to think he’s a little badass, but he knows his manners and respects his mother. That says a lot.
He sets the table and scurries off, feet pounding up the stairs.
