Wanted by the Warrant Officer

My question was met with silence, making me frown. I rolled off the mattress and snagged a tank top and pajama shorts from my dresser. After tugging them on, I padded into the living room but found no sign of Deacon. Flinging the door open to see if his truck was still at the curb, I spotted something colorful at my feet. I bent low to pick up the bouquet and lifted them to my face, breathing in their fragrant scent. “Aw, my man is so sweet.”

I headed into the kitchen to put the flowers in water, grumbling a little to myself when I couldn’t find a note tucked into the stems. But my frustration disappeared when I saw a white note card with dark masculine lettering scrawled on it leaning against the coffee machine. Deacon had quickly discovered that coffee was my favorite way to get my caffeine fix, so it was smart of him to leave the note where he could be sure that I’d find it. After setting the flowers in the sink, I went over to read what he’d written.

Ran out to grab provisions. Be back soon.

- Deacon

The note was simple and to the point, but that didn’t stop me from tucking it into a drawer as a keepsake. Then I trimmed the stems from the flowers, put them in a vase, and set them in the center of my small dining table. When that was all done, I heard the rumble of the engine from Deacon’s truck out front. I headed outside, planning to thank him for the flowers and help bring in the groceries. But I came to an abrupt stop on my doorstep when he strode over to shake hands with a guy climbing out of the driver’s seat of a four-door sedan parked behind his truck instead of walking toward me.

The guy handed him something before jogging toward another car idling in the street. When they pulled away, Deacon finally turned in my direction and flashed me a big grin. “Hey, baby.”

I returned his smile before asking, “How do you know that guy?”

“Never met him before today.” Deacon tossed a set of keys toward me, and I instinctively reached out to catch them. “He was here to drop off your car.”

I glanced at the shiny, brand spanking new car parked at the curb, my brow wrinkling in confusion. “Um, have you had any traumatic brain injuries during your time in the Navy?”

“Nope.” Deacon rubbed his palm over the top of his head. “I’ve done a damn good job at protecting my noggin. Why?”

“I’m a little worried that after driving Betsy from the hospital all the way here and then to your friends’ place, you think that car”—I pointed at the luxury vehicle that cost more than my rent for an entire year—“evenly remotely resembles mine beyond having four tires and a steering wheel.”

“Yeah, about that. I have some bad news.” I moved closer as he dropped the tailgate on the back of his truck. “When I stopped over at Merrick and Audrey’s place to grab my stuff, Betsy wasn’t there.”

My eyes widened. “Someone stole Betsy?”

“I’m not sure what happened to her.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “But I couldn’t leave you without a vehicle, so I called a friend whose brother owns some dealerships, and he had him send a car over for you.”

I held up my hand—the one that wasn’t holding the keys to a brand-new car—while I tried to wrap my head around what he was telling me. It took me a moment since it was a lot to take in. “Your friend’s brother sent over a Lexus for me to drive? No questions asked? Just here’s a forty-thousand-dollar car to replace the one you lost?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that model costs more than that, but there’s no way to know for sure since we’ll never see the invoice.”

The hint of color that spread across his cheeks as he grabbed his duffel and a couple of bags of groceries from the back of his truck piqued my curiosity. “Your friend’s brother sent over a car for me to use, and he’s not expecting any money for it?”

“All Cory would say was that the ES 350 model is popular with women and is one of the safest cars on the road. That was enough to sell me.” He jerked his thumb toward the sedan as he walked toward me. “And he didn’t just send it over for you to use.”

I gripped the keys so hard that they dug into my palm. “It isn’t a loaner?”

He shifted the bags so he could fling his arm over my shoulder and lead me back into my apartment. “Nope, the temporary documents are in the glove compartment, and he’s having someone handle the paperwork to transfer the title over to you.”