A Summer to Remember (2 page)

That's a lot to read into one look
, she mocked herself. Honestly, he was damn good-looking. The rest was fantasy.

Nothing wrong with a little fantasy
, Scott whispered.

“So…” The guy's husky voice broke the silence, along with the sound of his window sliding down. “You know what you want?”

An innocent question to conjure so many answers in her head. She stuck with the pertinent one. “A number one combo, no onions, and a cherry limeade.”

He pressed the order button, waited for the tinny response, and ordered two of the same. She breathed in the cool air that filled the cab, catching a faint scent of dog and a fainter scent of man. Men had the best smells. All it took was the slightest whiff of the cologne or shampoo Scott had used, a cup of coffee brewed strong the way he had, and in a flash, she would be in happier times. Definitely better ones.

He swiped his fingers through his hair, then took a band dangling from the gear shift and pulled it back into a ponytail. She'd never been a fan of long hair on men, but it worked for this one. After drying his hands the best he could on his wet shirt, he extended the right one. “I'm Elliot Ross.”

The introduction reminded her how out of character this was for her. Meeting a man for dinner, even if it was at Sonic, without learning his name first was something the before-Scott Fia would have done, certainly not something widowed, struggling Fia should do.
But now you know his name, and it's a nice one.
Not too common, not too unusual, masculine without sounding too macho.

“And you are?” His brows rose, and so did the corners of his mouth. She liked a good-natured man. Angst was nice to read about in a novel, and it worked fine for some of her besties and the men in their lives, but Fia was happy with balance, good humor, and optimism. She tried to be that way herself. It made life easier.

“Fia Thomas,” she said, and after an instant, she took his hand. Shaking hands was such a common, ordinary thing. She'd done it a thousand times, and nine-hundred-ninety-five of them had been brief, impersonal, barely worth classifying as contact. But on a few rare occasions, there had been more: a charge, a spark, the recognition of the potential that this person could actually rock her world, good or bad.

Elliot's palm was warm, the skin toughened from years of work. It was twice the size of hers, and it gave her that spark, that warning, that he could shake things up. Trouble was, things were already shaky. Any more shaking, and she could end up like the woman in the old commercial, knocked on her ass and unable to get up.

Though he showed no sign of letting go, when she tugged, he released her hand. She clasped both hands in her lap with an internal sigh of relief, feeling…safer that way.

What had happened to the days when being safe was the last thing on her mind?

“You don't have the typical Oklahoma accent,” he remarked.

“I'm from Florida.”

“What brought you to Tallgrass?”

“My husband, Scott, was in the Army.” The air between them changed, a flutter of discomfort, or maybe disappointment, accompanied by his quick glance at her bare left hand. Good. She appreciated a man who cared whether the object of his flirtation was married. “I was here when he deployed to Afghanistan, and I stayed here when he died.”

Elliot's expression turned solemn, his eyes going darker, his mouth flattening. “I'm sorry.”

She'd heard those words a thousand times—said them ten thousand—with little real meaning.
I'm sorry I was late, I'm sorry I missed dinner, I'm sorry to bother you.
But there was genuine emotion in his voice—not just sympathy but empathy, too. It wasn't something he automatically parroted but something he actually felt.

She couldn't bring herself to offer the other bland, automatic response—
Thank you
—so she forced a small smile instead. “What about you? You don't sound like a native, either.”

“I'm from West Texas.”

Instantly an image of him in Wranglers, cowboy boots, and a Stetson, with no shirt but a lot of smooth brown skin begging for a caress, formed in her mind. It warmed her enough inside to require the unzipping of her slicker. “And what brings you to Tallgrass?”

“The highway and my trusty steed.” He patted the dashboard with a grin before shrugging. “I'm just looking for a place that feels like home.”

“West Texas doesn't anymore?”

A distant look came into his eyes, resisting the casual smile he offered. “Nah. I went off to join the Army, and while I was gone, the town where I grew up pretty much shriveled up and blew away. My folks moved to Arizona, my sister to New Mexico, and me…like I said, I'm looking.”

“I get that. I was looking for a while, too.” For most of her life, she'd been on her own, except for those too-short years with Scott. Absent father, disinterested mother, no family to help her…It had made her strong, but damn, that strength had come at a price. There was a part of her that would give it all up in exchange for a normal life, good health, and a man who would protect and keep her safe. She knew what it was like to be fierce and independent. Sometimes, just for a change, she wanted to be pampered and coddled.

Elliot's gaze fixed on her, searching, before he asked, “You find what you needed here?”

There was such intensity in his eyes that it seemed almost physical, warming her face, sliding along her skin, tying a knot in her gut. She had to shrug out of the slicker to slow the heat burning through her, had to clear her throat before she could answer, and when she did, the words came out husky. “Yeah. I did.” What she needed, what she wanted, and the hope for maybe, someday, what she only dreamed about.

Movement blurred on the sidewalk, a carhop on skates rolling their way. Elliot's gaze didn't waver, though, not until it softened, not until he quietly, with some satisfaction, said, “Good. That's good.”

Elliot liked women. All women. He didn't have a type, no preference in hair color, physical characteristics, sometimes not even personality: He had great memories of a few women who would have driven him crazy if they'd stayed together one minute longer. Women were the best idea God had ever had, soft and funny and smart and difficult and beautiful and sexy and aggravating and intriguing and frustrating and so incredibly sweet.

Fia Thomas—he wondered if that was short for Sofia—was making a great start on being all those things. He wouldn't be surprised if he drove away from her tonight with one of what Emily called his serious casual crushes. He always fell a little bit in love with the women he dated. It never lasted long, and he was okay with that, since he wasn't eager to get his heart broken. He'd volunteered for a lot of dangerous things in his life, but heartache wasn't one of them.

He paid for their dinner, brushing away the five bucks Fia produced from one of her slicker pockets. Handing her a paper bag and a drink, he grinned. “You can buy next time.” Since he would be in Tallgrass awhile, might as well make sure she had a reason to see him again.

“That sounds fair.” She unpacked her bag: fries on the dash, hamburger staying warm in foil, ketchup squirted from plastic packets onto an edge of French fry packaging. “It can even be home-cooked as long as it doesn't have to be my cooking.”

“Hey, you provide the kitchen, I can do the cooking. I like to cook.”

She studied him a moment before licking a dab of ketchup from her fingertip. “I like a man who knows his way around a kitchen,” she said at last.

If she would lick her finger like that again, all innocent and tempting and unself-conscious, he'd gladly do the shopping, the prep, the cooking, the serving, and the cleanup for the best meal she'd ever had—and breakfast to follow.

Mouse climbed into Elliot's seat as he unwrapped his burger, breaking the tension that surrounded him, making it easier for him to draw a breath. When he tore off a bite, she took it delicately from his fingers, chewed it carefully, then set her butt on the console, and waited, quivering, for the next.

“How long have you had her?” Fia asked around a mouthful of her own burger.

He gave the dog an affectionate nudge with his elbow. “Two days.”

“Is she a rescue?”

He didn't need to study Mouse to see what Fia saw: scrawny body, ribs showing through her skin, old injuries to her legs and torso. “Yeah. Some kids were playing soccer with her. She was the ball.” He flexed his hand again, taking satisfaction in the aches there—and greater satisfaction that the teenagers were in a lot more pain than either him or Mouse.

“Poor baby. Lucky you and your trusty steed rode to her rescue. I hope you gave them something to remember you by.” She smiled, softening the lines and the thinness of her face. Mouse wasn't the only one who needed a few pounds to fill her out. In her loose-fitting T-shirt and shorts, Fia looked as if she hadn't found much interest in food lately. Grieving a husband who'd died so young could do that to a woman.

He thought briefly of Scott Thomas, wishing him peace, respecting his sacrifice. Not every service member saw combat, but everyone who signed up during wartime knew it was a serious possibility, and they were willing to accept that. Elliot had been lucky enough to come home, as tough and determined as when he'd left, thanks to his parents, Emily, and his own hardheadedness.

He'd lost a lot of people he'd loved, though, and a lot he'd hardly known. He was glad to be out of it, to be home in the United States, but if the Army needed him to go back, he would.
Live for something rather than die for nothing
, General George S. Patton Jr. had said, a fine sentiment, but Elliot preferred to switch it around:
Die for something rather than live for nothing.

There had always been passions in his life, so he'd never had to settle for nothing. He never would.

“What kept you in Tallgrass after your husband passed?” He softened the words, the way he would soften any personal question, maybe a little bit more given the subject.

She pinched off a piece of her hamburger, including a generous hunk of meat, and offered it to Mouse. The dog hesitated, glanced at Elliot, and he nudged her to let her know it was okay. She took it in her mouth, then retreated to the backseat to eat it.

“There was nothing in Florida to go back to. And Oklahoma has the best people. All my friends are here.” Fia paused long enough to dip a French fry in ketchup, then studied it a moment before adding, “Though all of them are transplants except Bennie and Patricia. They're all Army wives. Army widows. They're my family.”

He understood the value of family, both the one a person was born into and the one they picked for themselves. He stayed in close contact with his parents and Emily; he talked with his nieces and nephew every week; he'd attended the last two family reunions and felt like a better person for it.

Holding what was left of her burger in one hand, Fia gestured toward Mouse. “Can she have…”

“Sure. I don't want her to get used to people food, but right now, I figure she needs all the calories she can get. She's been hungry too long.”

Finishing off his own sandwich, Elliot watched her feed Mouse one bite at a time. When she was done, she crumpled the wrapper, then swiped one hand through her hair. It was brown like his, just a few shades darker, and shorter by inches. Even with the dampness in the air, it lay smooth, framing her delicate face and, at first glance, making her look dangerously young. At second glance, though, it was clear she'd passed legal age a few years back. He would guess she was in her mid-twenties, maybe a year older, maybe a year younger.

At first glance, second, and third, she was beautiful in a fragile, innocent way, though he knew appearances could be deceiving. She might rouse his protective instincts—most women did—but she was physically strong, evidenced by impressive biceps and triceps and long solid muscles in her thighs and calves. Emotionally, she was probably pretty strong, too. Being an Army wife wasn't for the faint of heart.

Even though she'd lost her husband, her smile came quick and easy and found its way from her mouth into her dark eyes. It was something to behold, that smile. “I've never met a pit bull before. She's sweet.”

“The breed's gotten a bad rap. Worst damage I ever suffered from a dog was from a miniature poodle with pink bows on her ears. I've still got the scars on my ankle.” He moved as if to pull up his jeans leg to show her, earning a laugh from her that was so damn appealing, it made him laugh, too.

Just think, if Mouse hadn't needed to take a leak, he wouldn't have been standing in that parking lot in the pouring rain, he wouldn't have been holding an umbrella for the pup, and he wouldn't have met Fia.

Damned if he didn't owe the dog a T-bone.

Marti Levin had been through the worst life could throw at her: her parents' divorce while she was in college; her father's sudden death from a stroke at the age of fifty-one; her husband Joshua's death in Iraq at the age of twenty-six; her best friend Lucy's heart attack; her mother Eugenie once coming to stay with her for a month that, thank God, had lasted only a week. Those things had been horrible—okay, Eugenie's moving in had been more scary than horrible—but none of them had prepared her for what she was facing on this rainy Friday night.

Another relative moving in.

Her fourteen-year-old niece.

Marti paced the baggage claim area at Tulsa International Airport, checking her cell every time she pivoted in front of the large plate glass windows. Cadence's flight had arrived on time according to the arrival-departure board. Getting off the plane, stopping at the bathroom, and making the short walk from the terminal to baggage never took long this time of night in Tulsa, but twenty-five minutes had passed, and there was still no sign of her. Twenty-five minutes that Marti had used to rethink her brother's plan.