Serving Trouble (Second Shot 1)

She didn’t need Noah’s help. And pity? If he tried to “poor baby” her, she’d either burst into tears or jump out of the moving truck. Probably the latter. Because the thought of crying in front of the man who walked into her daydreams and declared, Josephine Fairmore, I’ve loved you for years—­she would rather take her chances on the side of the road.

She stole another glance at Noah. He’d cut his blond hair short as if he wanted to show up ready to be one of The Few . . . The Brave . . . or whatever the marine motto was, the minute he arrived for basic training. And judging by the size of his look-­at-­me biceps, he’d also been lifting more than pint glasses behind his dad’s bar.

She pressed her lips together, hating the visual reminder that he was leaving and might never come back. But Noah would be the perfect soldier. He’d carry honor, courage, and that too-­perfect body onto the battlefield. As long as he survived, he’d come home a hero.

A man like Noah would never declare his undying love for his best friend’s troublesome sister. No, he would run to her rescue in an alley and end their practically nonexistent relationship on the perfect note. On the bright and sunny side, he hadn’t said the dreaded words—­

“Josie, I have to ask.” He slowed the truck as they approached her driveway. “Is this the first time?”

Hello, Mr. Rain Cloud.

They drove over the gravel in silence. But when they reached the parking area in front of her home, he threw the truck in park and turned to face her. “Please, Josie. Not knowing . . . it’s killing me.”

Killing him? As soon as she gave him an answer—­truth or fiction—­it would color the way he saw her. But after today that ship had probably set sail. She would always be someone who needed rescuing in his eyes. The victim. And wasn’t that a great label to wear in front of the man of your dreams.

They’re called dreams for a reason, aren’t they? They’re not supposed to come true.

“Once. And I dealt with it.” She reached for the door.

He shook his head. “Travis didn’t get the message.”

“He’s played football practically since he could walk. After all those hits, it sometimes takes him a while to understand things.” Her fingers froze on the door handle. “Not that all football players are stupid. I mean, you’re not stupid.”

And now the chances that you’ll profess your undying love and steal a kiss before leaving are solidly lodged in never-­going-­to-­happen land.

“I can be,” he said, offering a half smile that quickly faded. “But I’d never hit a girl—­or woman.”

“And which one am I?” she challenged.

The corners of his lips turned up. It was amazing how easily his expression slipped into warm and welcoming mode. He’d been all doom and gloom when he’d rushed into the alley, but that wasn’t Noah’s default.

He upped the smile-­wattage and gave her a full-­blown grin. Was he aware of how inviting he appeared? His smile said come closer and I’ll show you . . .

“How about we get you back into your bedroom so I can have a chat with Travis before work tonight?” He turned away from her and slid his superman-­sized muscles out of the truck.

“I don’t need your help,” she said sharply as she slipped out of the passenger seat and slammed the truck door behind her. “I’m not your problem. Go home and work on your biceps.”

His eyes widened as if referencing any part of his body crossed an imaginary line drawn in her dad’s gravel driveway. Then he laughed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Is that what you think I do in my spare time?”

“Long days away from the bar at some mystery location . . .” She turned and headed for the back of the house. Her dad had taken her keys—­house and car—­when he’d grounded her, as if having a way back in and a vehicle were the only things keeping her from sneaking out. In a few weeks, she was heading to a school she’d fought her way into, one perfect grade at a time. She could find a way into town. And she knew how to phone a friend.

Of course, calling Travis for a ride and “conversation” didn’t exactly highlight her intelligence.

“My brother thinks you’re seeing someone,” she added as they reached the back door.

“I’m not. Not that it’s Dominic’s business, or yours, but I’ve been taking my grandmother to the coast,” he said, raising his right arm and placing his hand against the back of his neck. “She likes to see the ocean.”

Wow. Could he stand any taller on the pedestal of perfection? He spent his downtime taking his eighty-­something-­year-­old grandmother, who’d raised him alongside his dad, to the beach.

Perfect and single. She filed that fact away. Not that it mattered. They were both leaving soon. And she didn’t plan on coming back to this town that seemed determined to ruin her.

“So how are you getting back in?” He lowered his arm and nodded to the house. “Need a boost in through a window?”

“Nah, I was using you for a ride. I left the back door to the kitchen unlocked and the dogs on guard.” She climbed the steps to the wooden deck her father had built ten or so years ago with her big brother’s help. Noah followed, avoiding the loose board no one had gotten around to fixing. He’d spent half his childhood and the years since his graduation at her house. Two guys, both raised by single dads who’d lost their wives suddenly—­Noah’s to a car crash, and hers and Dominic’s to a sudden heart attack spurred by an underlying condition.

She’d been five when her mom died. And it had taken her a while to realize she wasn’t going to follow a similar path. Her father had tried to explain it wasn’t a genetic condition, but she’d been too young to comprehend how the person who’d cared for her around the clock just wasn’t there anymore. By high school, she’d had a better understanding of genetics.

His brow furrowed. “Sure you’re OK?”