Page 48 of Lock ’N’ Load

He closed the door behind him, and she heard a distinct click. Well, he had warned her. In her haste last night to put distance between them, she probably hadn’t pulled it closed hard enough.

Minutes later, she’d brushed her teeth, finger-combed her hair, and put on those ridiculously baggy scrub pants, rerolling them to her knees so she didn’t trip over them. Before heading downstairs, she checked on Poofy one more time, but he was curled into a tight ball at the foot of the bed, so she left him alone.

At the bottom of the stairs, men’s voices floated to her ears. When she rounded the corner to the kitchen, seven sets of eyes focused solely on her, including Matt’s. Crossing her arms, she really, really wished she had a bra on underneath her shirt, and that she had something nicer to wear.

All of a sudden, she wanted to look nicer. For her own dignity, or so she kept telling herself, but not so deep down she understood she wanted to look nicer for Matt. Just in case…

Most of the men were sitting on stools at the kitchen island, wearing either jeans or cargo pants and T-shirts in varying colors. Matt poured two cups of coffee, but her eyes were glued to his tight, jean-clad ass and the way the snug black T-shirt tightened across his back, emphasizing the size and definition of all that hard muscle she’d had her arms wrapped around.

“Good morning,” she said, feeling the men’s intense scrutiny as any woman would in a room full of this much testosterone.

Glancing around, she realized the kitchen was larger than she remembered from last night, with white walls and cabinets and gleaming black granite counters. Antique schoolhouse pendant lights hung over the kitchen island, making something in the granite sparkle like diamonds. Everything looked new, but someone had obviously paid a great deal of attention in returning the house to its former grandeur. Funny how she hadn’t noticed any of that earlier. Then again, she’d been just a tad distracted.

The kitchen might be huge, but with all these giant men in it, she felt like a microchip in a room full of desktop computers. “Sorry if I disturbed you with my, uh, screaming.”

“No worries.” One of them, a handsome, olive-skinned giant of a man with brown hair and smiling brown eyes, slid off a stool. “Keeps us on our toes so we don’t go soft. Have a seat.” He indicated the stool he’d just vacated. “Heard you had a rough week.”

She snorted. “You could say that.” While she sat, each of them either smiled or chuckled, and it was obvious Matt had already filled them in. Eyeing a plate of bagels, her mouth watered, and her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since the day before. “Sheba scared the snot out of me.”

“Snot?” The gorgeous, sandy-haired man with deep-set gray eyes grinned at her from across the counter, transforming his seemingly humorless face. Then he surprised her more by laughing in the smoothest, richest baritone she’d ever heard.

“She doesn’t curse, and she doesn’t talk trash. Much.” Matt plunked a mug in front of her, reaching to the center of the island for the sugar and creamer, positioning them in front of her. As he did, she caught his freshly showered scent and couldn’t stop from inhaling deeply.

“Trista, this is Nick Houston with the Massachusetts State Police.” Still standing next to her, Matt pointed to the gray-eyed Greek god, then introduced the rest of the Greek god contingent.

“Dayne Andrews, FBI.” Matt indicated the equally large man to her left with eyes so intensely green they reminded her of raw emeralds she’d once seen in a museum exhibit.

Dayne nodded but didn’t smile, striking her as someone who said little, preferring to observe from the sidelines. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Eric Miller, ATF,” Matt continued, and a Viking-size man with spiky blond hair and clear blue eyes held out a hand that engulfed hers twice over as he shook it. Trista could easily imagine him wearing a metal skullcap with horns sticking out of the top.

Matt moved on to the next man. “Kade Sampson, Homeland Security.”

“Ma’am.” A dark-haired man with hazel eyes smiled broadly, revealing two of the cutest dimples she’d ever seen grace such a chiseled face.

Next, Matt pointed to a man with reddish-brown hair and the most unusual obsidian eyes. “Markus York, Secret Service.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Markus winked at her, calling attention to the deep scar over his left eye, which was still red and puckered, as if it was a recent injury.

“And this”—Matt clapped his hand on the shoulder of the man who’d relinquished his stool to her—“is Jaime Pataglio, aka Romeo, for obvious reasons.”

The comment had the men breaking into laughter. Even though she’d known them for a grand total of sixty seconds, their camaraderie was patently clear.

“I owe you an apology.” Eric, the blond, blue-eyed ATF agent caught her gaze, his expression apologetic. “Sheba getting in was my fault. With the kennel being right next to the kitchen, she heard us and wouldn’t stop whining to get in and see Matt. We had no idea Matt had brought a…guest.”

As if on cue, a series of whines came from the other side of one of the kitchen doors.

“That’s my girl.” Matt gave a half smile.

“Just like a woman,” Jaime said. “It’s like they’ve got a sixth sense, always knowing you’re talking about them behind their backs.”

“Hey, Romeo.” Kade nodded in her direction. “Be respectful of the lady present.”

“My apologies.” Jaime bowed to her so humbly she giggled.

“No apologies necessary,” she assured him. “I guess I’ll have to get used to all the manly banter, but I have to warn you, I have a pet peeve about the toilet seat being left up.”

The men laughed, and she laughed with them. After everything she’d been through, it felt good to find humor in something. Then she caught Matt watching her through narrowed eyes. He wasn’t laughing. What was up with that?