Shelter Me (20 page)

She’d worked her butt off at the adoption event, fed her family and taken a long shower. She should be totally wiped out. But all she could think about was that bed. That big, empty bed. Which reminded her of the empty spot for Allen’s toothbrush. His missing shampoo. And the list went on endlessly.

She opened her closet, which wasn’t empty. Allen’s clothes still occupied half the large walk-in. He’d only taken his uniforms and workout clothes with him. His suits, jeans, casual shirts and deck shoes all stayed. She hadn’t gone through his things, and she probably should figure out what to save. What to give her father-in-law and her children as keepsakes.

What to keep for herself.

Looking in the closet was never a good idea. Stepping inside was even more dangerous. The first month after he’d died, she’d closed herself in the space once a day, lights off, and breathed in the lingering scent of him while she cried.

She shut the doors, staying firmly
out
side the closet. No going backward. Forward was her only option, regardless of how badly it sucked.

The clock was silent. So was her house. Sierra had texted her about Trooper sleeping in the General’s room. The fact that Sierra had texted rather than finding her to speak was telling. Her daughter hadn’t announced she was staying in the loft apartment with Mike tonight, but it was after two and her daughter hadn’t come back from talking to her old boyfriend . . .

Lacey’s head fell to rest on the closet door. She did not need to think about sex. Not now.

She looked out of the corner of her eyes through the door into her bedroom. Her queen-sized bed was perfectly made with a green and yellow patchwork quilt, a gift from one of her foster moms. The pillow shams were stacked, the most orderly part of her house. Probably because she avoided sleeping in her bed whenever possible, taking an afghan to the sofa and telling her kids she fell asleep watching television. The fosters offered endless reasons to sleep by their crate because they needed monitoring.

Actually, since the day she’d been told her husband died, she hadn’t slept under the covers at all. If she slept on her bed, she stayed on top of the spread and used a blanket. So far, no one appeared to have noticed. She kept promising herself she would face that hurdle tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

A cold knot lodged in her chest as she remembered sharing that space with Allen. Not just for sex, but also for those quieter married moments where they lay side by side, propped on pillows reading or with iPads out to surf news sites . . .

Tomorrow was definitely not coming today.

She pulled on yoga pants and a T-shirt before moving out of the bedroom and into the hall. She made it three steps and heard a scratching on a door—from inside the General’s room. Must be Trooper wanting to go outside. He couldn’t run off if she kept an eye on him. She cracked the door and let him out.

“Need to go potty, boy?” She scratched his ears, only managing one stroke before he sprinted toward the door.

She flipped off the alarm and opened the door to the fenced area. Trooper shot out and made a beeline for the fat oak tree in the middle of the play yard. He lifted a leg and . . . he must have drunk a gallon of water.

Finally, he stopped, kicking his back legs and sending grass flying. He ambled around the quiet yard, sniffing, exploring. She dropped to sit on the top step and let him stretch his legs. He stuck his nose under a bush, doggie butt way in the air as he inched his head farther under. Springing back, he came out with a green tennis ball in his mouth.

Allen had written to her about how he and the soldiers unwound by playing ball with Trooper. It made them all forget for a moment where they were by bringing a taste of normalcy to their lives. A piece of home.

It must have really felt like home for Allen given she always had a dozen or more dogs around.

Snorting on a teary laugh, she scrubbed her wrists under her eyes. “Trooper,” she called, snapping her fingers, “come. Wanna play?”

He bounded toward her, dropping the ball at her feet and then sitting perfectly still, waiting.

“Good boy. Good boy. Fetch.” She pitched the tennis ball across the yard. “Fetch.”

He sprinted full out, retrieved and brought it back.

She tossed and counted stars.

He ran, picked it up, brought it back.

She lost track of how many times she threw the ball, lost track of the time altogether. She spent so much time caring for animals, she hadn’t realized how rarely she got to play with them anymore. There was something soothing in this repetitive ritual, the easy give-and-take of it under a perfect Tennessee night sky.

Her first fostering experience had come about when Sierra was in second grade and she needed a service project for church. Their schedule had been so crazy with soccer practice and school, plus she’d just started teaching online. They’d decided to foster a puppy for the local shelter while he recovered from a skin condition. They’d fallen head over heels for that puppy as they’d watched and tended him, bathed him, loved him until his fur grew back and the light returned to his eyes. They’d almost adopted the pup, but when she’d seen the joy on the adopters’ faces, she’d found a calling.

She’d fostered for years, helping shelters and rescues wherever her family moved during the crazy period of their lives when Allen had been transferred umpteen times. Fostering animals had been a grounding ritual for them, a way to feel at home each time they pulled up stakes. When they’d come here three years ago with the intent to retire and settle, she’d decided to act on her dream to open her own rescue. Since she finally had her forever home, she would share it with animals in need of shelter and love. She’d focused everything on making this rescue successful while keeping her job teaching online and bringing up her kids. Allen had been gone half the time, so the dogs were her family in his absence. She’d respected the fact that he’d been as married to his job as he’d been to her, and she’d tried to find work that gave her that same sense of duty and satisfaction.

For years, she and Allen had been on separate but parallel tracks, like dogs with their own kennel runs. She’d always thought there would be time for her and Allen, for their marriage, later. That one day, they’d be back on the same track again.

She’d launched her dream and she’d lost her husband. Lacey pitched the ball again only to realize Trooper had fallen asleep at her feet.

Lucky dog.

*   *   *

MORNING SUNLIGHT WAS
only just pushing through, but once Mike got his internal clock set, he wasn’t one to sleep late. He’d learned early to get up on his own for school if he wanted time to pour himself a bowl of cereal before he left.

So even though he’d made love to Sierra late into the night, he’d still woken at dawn, and slipped out of bed careful not to disturb her.

As she slept across the room, he moved quietly in the kitchen. In spite of his nacho Romeo tune, he could cook for himself, damn well, for that matter. He’d done so since he was a kid when cooking was a survival skill if he wanted to live off more than Ramen Noodles and school lunches. By eight years old, he’d figured out how to fry eggs, which made for a good breakfast sandwich. He’d graduated to pancakes—cheap and easy to find the ingredients in his grandmother’s pantry.

His skills in the kitchen had come a long way since those days. And God, how he’d missed a good breakfast when he was overseas.

Today, he’d made French toast with roasted apples, and in a couple of minutes, he would have warm caramel to drizzle over the top. He stirred the wooden spoon in the simmering sauce. The moment was so damn
normal
. It had been so long since he’d experienced regular life, it was still surreal. Bleached clean sheets. Fresh food. Picnics in the park. Lounging in bed discussing wall colors after sex with a gorgeous woman.

A woman currently tugging on her panties, his T-shirt and nothing else.

Sierra walked across the studio apartment and leaned a hip on the island. “That smells
amazing
.”

“Your grandfather was a hundred percent right about missing real food during a deployment. I haven’t finished working my way through meals I fantasized about.” Speaking of fantasies . . . an image of painting Sierra with warm caramel then licking it off her almost made him burn the French toast.

He grabbed the spatula and flipped the toast.

Sierra toppled the pepper mill on the counter and spun it in lazy circles. “You’ve always been a better cook than me.”

“Yes, ma’am, but that’s okay. I like to cook.” He lifted the wooden spoon and blew on the caramel. “And seeing pleasure on your face? All the better.”

She leaned in to lick the spoon, her eyes closing as she swallowed with an appreciative hmmmmm.

His temperature spiked. Only the cooking food kept him from reclining her on the island and playing out that caramel fantasy. “You like it?”

“Very good. Thank you,” she said as he returned to the stove. “You never told me how you learned. You always just said you picked it up out of necessity. So . . . ?”

“Watching television cooking shows.” He winked at her. “I’ve always had a secret crush on Julia Child.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Please don’t take offense if I call out for Rachael Ray next time we’re in bed together.” Next time? Damn straight.

“You’re wicked.”

“I am.”

“So seriously, no joking”—she hitched up onto a barstool and leaned on the counter—“tell me about learning to cook. I want to know.”

“My grandmother slept in mornings,” from late nights at casinos. He saw the concern flickering across Sierra’s face and found himself justifying before he could stop. “She was supposed to be a grandmother, not a parent, ya know? And honestly, I preferred my own food. When she cooked supper, her repertoire pretty much consisted of meat meets a can of soup.”

“I thought men were happy with food. Period. But then . . . Wait. You said
when
she cooked.” She frowned. “Your grandmother didn’t feed you?”

He wasn’t comfortable with her sympathy, but he was already neck deep in the conversation. “She kept stuff in the pantry—”

“Mike—”

“But I wanted to learn to cook the things I saw on TV, and I needed extra ingredients.” The next part of his story was trickier to navigate. “Our budget was tight so I couldn’t ask her for extra cash for my cooking experiments. I tried winning money at bingo like my grandmother, but that didn’t work. Guess I don’t have the family lucky touch with the daubers.”

“What did you do?”

“One day I was walking home from school and I saw this guy in the subway playing his guitar with a jar for money.” He slid the toast from the pan to two plates. “I didn’t have the money for a guitar, but I signed up for the choir at school.”

She grinned. “You were in the choir as a kid? I bet you were adorable.”

“Adorable? Really?” He shuddered and leaned to kiss her nose. “Since there weren’t many boys who actually volunteered—ones that could also sing on key—the chorus teacher made a point of helping me so I would stay. I took guitar lessons from her and she loaned me a guitar in exchange for recruiting more boys to join the chorus.”

“She sounds like a good teacher.”

She was. That guitar had changed his life by giving him something positive to do with his time—and a way to earn his own money. “By spring break I could play well enough to earn Easter dinner with my subway tips. By the summer, I made enough to feed us three square meals.” A big deal once the school lunches stopped for three months.

Sierra frowned. “You worked in a subway? That doesn’t sound very safe. What did your grandmother say about it?”

“She didn’t know.” Not because he was particularly sneaky, but because she wasn’t that observant. But he left that part out. There were already enough barriers—differences between them.

“Where did she think you went?”

“A friend’s house. The library.” He’d lied so she wouldn’t want a cut of his earnings. He figured she got plenty because she ate what he cooked. Strange how she never asked him how he got the food. Did she think he was shoplifting?

Hell, he couldn’t imagine anyone getting away with that here at the McDaniel house. Even old Alzheimer’s Gramps would have caught a glimmer, which likely would have led to another conversation on condoms.

Had the old man been more savvy about Mike and Sierra than it seemed?

Already this whole conversation was hitting a few too many nerves for his comfort level. “Breakfast. Eat up.” He nudged a plate toward her. “And go easy on the caramel sauce. I have plans for the leftovers.”

*   *   *

A HALF HOUR
later, sated with French toast, Sierra leaned across the island to kiss Mike, savoring the taste of syrup and caramel on his tongue. “Breakfast was awesome, but can I take a rain check on the extended time with caramel sauce?”

Mike slid his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head, kissing along her cheek to nip her ear. “Are you sure I can’t entice you to stay longer?”

“I have to help Mom out.” She picked up her plate and stood. “Later, though?”

He reached to take the dish from her. She held on for a second, tugging him closer until she leaned forward and kissed him. She wanted to stay but needed some space of her own to process all he’d told her. It wasn’t so much what he’d said but the fact he’d never shared these things before. That made her question everything from their relationship before, and until she had that sorted out, she didn’t know how to move forward. She ended the kiss, then kissed him once more. Briefly. Then she let go of the dish.

With a sliver of air between them, she said, “A lot happened here last night. I need space. I think you do, too. Having your help here has been a godsend, but it’s also almost as if we’re . . .”

“Living together.” His forehead fell to rest on hers.

“If we’re not careful, this could get messy fast at a time when we’re both raw after what happened to my dad.”

Mike flinched. There was no missing it. She felt that instinctive cringe all the way to her bruised heart.