Sagittarius Saves Libra (Signs of Love)

He used that time to haul in a deep breath, then slapped on a grin and pulled open the door. He could do this. Smile and nod, keep it casual—

Yikes!

Whatever he’d expected to find on the other side of the door, this wasn’t it. Carl had pictures of most folks that Jason might run into, but only one of the sergeant and that was from a distance, no more than a tallish figure in the shade of a beech tree. He’d imagined him older—much older. Mid-fifties, maybe, with tired eyes and a kindly smile. What he definitely hadn’t imagined was late twenties, dark eyes, a firm grimace, and . . . out of uniform.

Like really out of uniform.

An entire naked chest rose and fell before him, slightly exaggerated no doubt from the mad dash he’d done over here. Thick with hair, which was something Jason had never managed. And matted with sweat. All that skin tapering to his waist shimmered.

“Carl?”

A pair of long legs packed into bulging green boxer shorts was attached to the bare torso, and further down, past corded thighs, large toes peeked out of jandals—ah, thongs. Thongs.

Jason’s gaze travelled on instinct back up to that stomach. Ribboned with muscle. Actual, defined musculature. He’d never seen anything like it in real life before. He checked the admittedly ridiculous (and almost irresistible) impulse to reach out and feel those contours. Not that his eyes were deceiving him!

This was like . . . looking at the man Jason wished he were. So gloriously put together.

A hot bundle of envy settled low in his stomach. Jesus, he was tired.

“Carl?”

Jason snapped his head up, up, up to the sergeant’s concerned expression.

“I heard screaming. You all right?”

Jason swiped a hand through his hair. “It was, ah . . .” On the heels of a long day of airports, planes, and a winding taxi ride, his brain was past its best, but not so far past that he lost his self-respect. “Ah . . . kangaroo.”

The sergeant looked over his shoulder at the glass mess down the hall. “A kangaroo?”

“Yeah. Big one. Tried to take me out.”

The sergeant passed one of those large hands over his mouth and rubbed. The light caught his eyes, making them shine as brightly as his blond hair. “Looks like you made a lucky escape.”

“Oh, yeah. It bounced right out the, ah, back door.”

“Of course.”

Jason leaned against the doorframe and suppressed a yawn. “Got to love back doors.”

A raised brow.

“Makes life interesting.” He smiled with adventurous spirit. A glimmer of the old Jason making a return. “Never know what’ll come in next.”

The sergeant blinked slowly and glanced away. That hand was back, scrubbing his jaw. “Well. You seem to have survived. I should . . .” He hitched a thumb toward the dividing fence.

Jason got it. “Bedtime, yeah. Thank you for checking in. Just in case, you know, I needed help with my backdoor.”

A startled peal of laughter and the shake of a golden head. “Night, then.”

“Night, Sergeant Stirling. Sir.”

“Owen is fine. I’m off the clock.”

Off the clock or not, it really wasn’t hard, imagining him in uniform. First impressions said he was the protective type. The kind who could be hard-arsed when he needed to be, and also good-humoured when the occasion called for it. Not to mention half naked when required. Something in his smile suggested he was perfectly proportioned in all aspects of life.

In fact, he was remarkably like Caroline’s boy—fiancé. The kind of guy women preferred. The kind of guy who never ended up alone in their house playing Mozart to disguise a lack of company.

Probably he had a wife. A wife who was eagerly awaiting his return, proud of her husband’s heroic jump into action at the sound of Jason screaming bloody murder.

He gazed at Owen and let out a longing, envious sigh. “Guess I’ll be seeing more of you soon.”

Owen paused, one foot on the stairs behind him, moonlight swathed over all that goosebump-pebbled skin. Then, with a short nod, he strode back across the boundary—to his wife, two dogs, and child on the way—and Jason slouched into his new (empty) house.

It was cool inside, clean-ish. As Carl had promised, an old upright piano sat nestled against the wall in the lounge, covered in stacks of paper. It wasn’t his grand, but it would do well enough.

He cleared the paper and the dust off it and sat on the cushioned stool, hoping it wasn’t too out of tune. Stopped before pressing the ivory.

Instead of hiding in music, he should be embracing the chance . . . to have family again. To make a million memories before the summer was over.

To come away with all the answers of his heart.

His fingers flew over the keys.

Chapter Three

The top of the piano sat open, as he’d left it last night, his tuning kit spread out on the stool. It was a trusty old beast, the likes of the one he’d had in high school, but it hadn’t been played in a long time; some tender loving care was definitely required. A mission to complete later.