Serving Trouble (Second Shot 1)

“Hang on a sec,” a deep voice called from the other side. She remembered that sound and could hear the echo of his words from five long years ago, before he’d joined the marines and before she’d gone to college hoping for a brighter future—­and found more heartache.

Call, email, or send a letter. Hell, send a carrier pigeon. I don’t care how you get in touch, or where I am. If you need me, I’ll find a way to help.

He’d meant every word. But ­people changed. They hardened. They took hits and got back up, leaving their heart beaten and wrecked on the ground.

She glanced down as if the bloody pieces of her broken heart would appear at her feet. Nope. Nothing but cement and her boots. She’d left her heart behind in Portland, dead and buried, thank you very much.

The door opened. She looked up and . . .

Oh my . . . Wow. . .

She’d gained five pounds—­well, more than that, but she’d lost the rest. She’d cried for weeks, tears running down her cheeks while she slept, and flooding her eyes when she woke. And it had aged her. There were lines on her face that made her look a lot older than twenty-­three.

But Noah . . .

He’d gained five pounds of pure muscle. His tight black T-­shirt clung to his biceps. Dark green cargo pants hung low on his hips. And his face . . .

On the drive, she’d tried to trick herself into believing he was just a friend she’d slept with one wild night. She’d made a fool of herself, losing her heart to him then.

Never again.

She’d made a promise to her broken, battered heart and she planned to keep it. She would not fall for Noah this time.

But oh, the temptation . . .

His short blond hair still looked as if he’d just run his hands through it. Stubble, the same color as his hair, covered his jaw. He’d forgotten to shave, or just didn’t give a damn. But his familiar blue eyes left her ready to pass out at his feet from lack of oxygen.

He stared at her, wariness radiating from those blue depths. Five years ago, he’d smiled at her and it had touched his eyes. Not now.

“Josie?” His brow knitted as if he’d had to search his memory for her name. His grip tightened on the door. Was he debating whether to slam it in her face and pretend his mind had been playing tricks on him?

“Hi, Noah.” She placed her right boot in the doorway, determined to follow him inside if he tried to shut her out.

“You’re back,” he said as if putting together the pieces of a puzzle. But still no hint of the warm, welcoming smile he’d worn with an easy-­going grace five years ago.

“I guess you didn’t get the carrier pigeon,” she said, forcing a smile. Please let him remember. “But I need your help.”

NOAH STARED AT the dark-­haired beauty. Her white T-­shirt hugged her curves, and her cutoff jean shorts sent him on a trip down memory lane. And those boots . . .

The memory of Josephine Fairmore had followed him to hell and back. He’d tried to escape the feel of her full lips, the taste of her mouth, her body pressed up against his . . . and he’d failed. He’d carried every detail of that night in the barn with him to basic training. Right down to her cowgirl boots. He’d dreamed about Josie in a bikini, Josie on the mechanical bull, Josie damn near anywhere, while hiking through the Afghan desert. He’d spent years lying in makeshift barracks wanting and wishing for a chance to talk to her while staring into her large green eyes.

And yeah, who was he kidding? His gaze would head south and he’d let himself drink in the sight of her breasts.

He closed his eyes. He’d spent two long deployments hoping for an email, a letter—­something from her. He’d wanted confirmation that she was all right. But she never wrote. Not once. She’d reduced him to begging for tidbits from Dominic. Not that her brother had volunteered much more than a She’s fine. Stay the hell away from her.

But she wasn’t fine.

He opened his eyes.

“You needed help and you sent a pigeon?” He released his grip on the door and rested his forearm against it. “You could have called.”

“I thought it would be better to apply for a job in person,” she said, her voice low and so damn sultry that his dick was on the verge of responding.

Not going to happen.

There were a helluva lot of things beyond his control. His dad’s health. His grandmother’s heart failure while he was stationed in Bumblefuck, Afghanistan, fighting two enemies—­and one of them should have been on his side. And the fact that the only time he felt calm, in control, and something bordering on happiness, was at the damn shooting range.

Still, he could control his own dick.