Page 17 of Serve ’N’ Protect

She fisted her hands on her hips. “God, you’re stubborn. You can barely walk. At least, let me make you dinner. You need to eat.” Someone’s stomach grumbled, although she couldn’t be sure whether it was hers, Markus’s, or Ghost’s. “So does Ghost.”

“Fine,” he growled. To his dog, he said, “Ghost, bowl.”

Ghost hopped off the sofa and trotted into the kitchen. A moment later, he returned, proudly displaying a metal dog bowl clamped between his teeth.

“That’s a neat trick.”

“Before he became a K-9, he was a service dog.”

“Did he get fired?” It was hard to imagine Ghost as some little old lady’s service dog.

“People thought he was too big and scary.” Markus pointed to Cassidy. “Give it to her.”

Ghost trotted over, presenting her with his bowl. She took it from his mouth. “Thank you. Now, where is your food, and how much do you get?”

“Plastic bin near the kitchen table,” Markus said absently, as if his mind was still somewhere else. “There’s a mug inside the bin. He gets a full one.”

“You relax here, and I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready. I hope you don’t mind if I eat with you. I’m starving.”

Without waiting for a reply, she trailed Ghost into the kitchen. The dog’s nails clicked on the wood floor and his tail wagged expectantly. The second she’d scooped out his dinner from the bin and set the bowl on the floor, the kitchen filled with the sound of a happy dog crunching noisily on kibble. At least one of them was appreciative of her efforts.

Ten minutes later, she had a small pot of sauce heating on the cooktop, another filled with water for spaghetti, salad fixings on the cutting board, and a loaf of garlic bread in the oven. Clearly, someone had stocked up on food. The refrigerator and freezer were crammed with steak, chicken, fish, and vegetables. Although, she’d had to search for the spaghetti and dig deep into the bottom of the freezer for the garlic bread. Carbo-licious here we come.

While waiting for the water to boil, she prepped the salad. When the water was ready, she opened the box of spaghetti and dumped it in, stirring it a few times until it went limp. She turned, bumping into her cane where she’d hooked it on a corner of the counter, and shrieked louder than an alley cat.

Markus had come into the kitchen and she hadn’t heard a sound. Even injured, the man moved as quietly and stealthily as a ninja. Must be all that secret agent training. Maybe he could teach her how to not sound like a peg-leg pirate clumping all over the neighborhood.

Ghost lifted his head from where he’d been slurping water. Satisfied there was no crisis he needed to respond to, he lowered his head and resumed slurping.

“Don’t do that.” She took a deep breath to slow her pounding heart.

Somewhere, he’d procured a shirt—a long-sleeve black T-shirt with USMC in big yellow letters on the front. The shirt wasn’t tight but snug enough to showcase thick pecs and outline some pretty well-defined abdominals.

“Sorry.” Using the table for balance, Markus leaned over, reaching for her cane.

“No, don’t. I’ll get it.” They grabbed for the cane at the same time. Much as it had when they’d been petting Ghost, their hands touched. This time, he didn’t pull away. Neither did she. Eyes Cassidy had thought were obsidian and darker than the night sky were actually a very deep shade of brown but with tiny specks of gold she hadn’t noticed before. “You, uh, shouldn’t be exerting yourself.”

He released the cane, grunting as he tried to stand. Pushing up on her cane, she used her other hand to assist him to his feet. “Sit.” She pointed to a chair at the round oak table. “Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes, and why aren’t you lying down? I was going to bring dinner into the living room for you.”

He pulled out a chair, slowly lowering into it. “I’m not good at sitting still.”

“Is that how you broke open your stitches?” She popped open the top door of the brand-spanking-new, drool-worthy double ovens to check on the bread.

“Yeah.”

As she closed the oven door, Cassidy waited for him to elucidate exactly what he’d been doing that tore open his stitches. Naturally, Mr. Monosyllabic didn’t offer up any information. “So, what were you doing?” She opened the refrigerator, surveying the choices of salad dressing in the door. “Chopping wood? No, that I would have heard. Trimming the hedges? Nope, woulda heard that, too.” She chose the Italian vinaigrette then closed the door.

Dark brows bunched, calling attention to the scar on his forehead. “Do you always talk so much?”

“Yes.” If you only knew. She began drizzling dressing over the salad. “So what were you doing?”

His jaw clenched, emphasizing high, sculpted cheekbones and the leanness of his face. She wondered if he had any American Indian heritage.

“Changing a lightbulb,” he said in a voice so low she thought she’d misheard him.

She stopped tossing the salad and turned. “Did you say changing a lightbulb?”

“Yeah.”